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The Bars on Foster
The Tao of Tony Rooster

  The bars on Foster used to be biker hang outs.  Back in those long gone days when Felony Flats was full of meth labs, and every other household had a recently released convict living under its crumbling roof. 

The hipster gentrification has created neighborhoods called "FoPo" and "Brentwood-Darlington." 


 Victimhood Heights, or maybe Feminine Flats would be a more apt description for the area nowadays.  


Every year, it seems, more and more fresh faced young college grads from Nebraska, or wherever the hell they are spawned, come out to Portland to live the dream.  Someday I'll sell my house to one of these rubes and try not to laugh when I hand the keys over. 


The Gypsy Jokers still make their occasional appearance, taking over an old haunt for the night.  Much drinking and merriment ensues, followed by the inevitable maiming of some poor young hipster, usually guilty of no more serious an offense than being an easy target.  

What follows is a cautionary tale, a reminder that alcohol leads to bad choices, and I'm very lucky that the story ended as well as it did. It could have ended quite disastrously.  

I was enjoying a rare Saturday night off, and decided to spend it at one of these bars on Foster.  I was hoping to run into the hot school teacher who had given me her number a few months back, which I, of course, promptly lost.


 There was a discussion going on next to me about the terror and ruin that Donald Trump will surely to bring down upon the good and righteous multi-colored people of our land.  Basically, more of the same.  People watch too much TV. 

  These political pundits of the barstool decide to ask my opinion.  


"I don't know. I don't believe he'll follow through on much. I voted for him. At least he pandered to ME, ya know?"  

  The dudes were aghast. 

"Hey man," I tell them, "It's silly to put your faith in politicians. For us to argue that one is better that the other?   Politics is nothing more than the consolidation of wealth and power." 

I knew better than to continue the conversation. 

 But, they just couldn't let it go.  

  I gave em my whole spiel about fascism, and how America needs a strong man.  Really though, I'm just a damn contrarian.  If it was a redneck bar in Molalla, I'd probably be trying to convince them that OJ never killed his bitch wife.

(For the record, I don't think he did.)


 As I finished up my rant, the bartender came along and spoke to me thusly, 

"You're cut off.  Nobody wants to hear all that TRUMP SHIT in here."

He was indignant, and attempted to pry the nearly full drink from my dirty fascist hand. 


 "Sorry boss", I reprimanded, "but I already paid for this one.  Lemme finish 'er up and I'll be on my way."  

  This bartender was a typical mangina.  Flannel shirt, greased hair, beard, lots of tattoos, he looked like a gay lumberjack.    

  "You'd better leave now, or else!", says Paul Bunyon. 

"Or what?", I calmly ask.  

"That's it!  I'm calling the cops." 

I take a drink and say, "They'll be here in a couple hours, if they even show up at all."

Seconds later, another angry, bearded white face is inches away from my own, some regular, no doubt sensing the fear of his male bar wench.  Rescuing this hairy maiden in distress. 

"Why don't you come the fuck outside, you fat fuck?" he inquired. 

A chorus of echoes followed, "ya bitch!" and "come on motherfucker!" 

I acknowledge these unlikely aggressors, and reply in kind, "lemme finish my drink."   

  They all depart for the sidewalk outside, and, drink now done, I walk out a few seconds behind them.  

  This whole night is boring. Where's that hot school teacher at, anyway?  

 Outside, I see five eager opponents. They're all looking quite brave.  This is their big moment, their chance to beat up a real life, confirmed fascist. 

  I'm still ready, willing and able to turn around and walk home.

  Ok, that's a lie.  


 The guy who was in my face earlier steps up and puts on a very convincing tough guy face.  He's up close up again, telling me that he's gonna kick my ass.  Telling me I'm gonna go to jail.  His hands are visibly shaking. 


 "Which one is it?", I ask, "Am I going to jail, or getting my ass kicked?" 

I smile into his eyes and tell him, "By the way, your hands are shaking."  


He freezes, and I drop him like a sack of shit. His troops break rank, and I drop the one closest to me.  I'm getting into it now.  

  I pull the sweatshirt hood of a retreating hipster, and give him a good left hook from behind.  This whole time, I'm not angry, not trying to hurt anyone.  To me, it feels like I'm teaching these children a lesson.  

  I go for my next pupil, and, suddenly, the night is filled with the shrill scream of a tortured banshee.  The scream is coming from me.  


 I turn to see a very short Asian man, wearing a Portland Police uniform, doing god knows what to my left ring finger.  Most likely breaking it is my first guess. It's behind my back, I can't see it.  


 His partner is tall and white, maybe 45, wearing a PPB ball cap, safety glasses, and a hawk nose. He's no stranger to violence.  I guess they must be the Saturday night SE drunk patrol.  The safety glasses tell me that he's not averse to splattering my blood.......


One nice little bump to my head, and I'm enjoying the back seat in seconds flat.  These guys are pros. 

Some time later, still in the backseat, these professionals ask for my side of the story.  I don't really feel like explaining myself.  


"Let's just say that my side of story will differ greatly from theirs."  I answer.  They nod, and seem to appreciate my brevity. 

 Kung fu man is now speaking to me, 

"It looks like you live 3 blocks away, and haven't been in trouble before tonight."   

One of those things is true.   

Next thing ya know, I'm getting curbside service to mi casa, and being led out of the car.  The cuffs are removed, and I'm admonished to stay inside for the rest of the night.

   I look at them with utter disbelief.  The hawk nosed one smiles and says,  "Those other five guys are lucky we showed up when we did, huh?"  

His partner laughs, slaps me on the back, and I can't help but feel like I just got real lucky.   

Writing Unchained

Prolific Writing by Design

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Clown or Hyena, It Doesn't Matter to Me

Add Comment
BobOctober 24, 2017 12:21 AM UTC

More on Goldman's shady past:
BobOctober 24, 2017 12:16 AM UTC

On O.J. as a naive patsy:

Goldman was a police informant. It's possible he was the target and OJ a handy fall-guy.
Tony RoosterOctober 23, 2017 12:40 PM UTC

I watched that video clip, and was instantly suspicious.
BobOctober 23, 2017 1:59 AM UTC

Jack Reacher plagiarizes Tony, to be clear.
Tony RoosterOctober 22, 2017 11:39 PM UTC

She owed a lot of money to some bad people for al the coke she was doing. The Juce was made to look like a fool while she ran around town in his car, spending his cash on her little boyfriend. He quit giving her money, told her to pay her own debts. There were two or three other people who ran in her social circle, or worked at the bars she went to, who were killed in the exact same manner. I think Joey Sippolino was the thread that tied them all together if memory serves.
BobOctober 22, 2017 10:48 PM UTC

Parenthetically, I don't have any great love for O.J. but the LAPD certainly did a job on him. Ron Goldman's (criminal) past never gets talked about, and Mark Fuhrman still gets airtime with FOX after being outed as a racist?? (Not to mention his compromising the crime scene).

Jack Reacher is clearly a plagiarist.