Thursday, November 5, 2009

Pissing Contest

I recently had an interesting conversation with local journalist H. Bruce Miller in which he mentioned that no matter how long someone has lived in Bend, someone is bound to mention that they've been here longer. Or their parents. Or their parent's parents.

It's like guys swapping war stories, or seeing who can pee the farthest.

My point of pride is the various broken bones I've endured, my titanium knee, the random assortment of screws and pins I use to set off TSA's scanners at the airport. I have enough injury-fu to smack down most anyone else ambulatory enough to get out of the house.

At airports I always get sent to Secondary Screening for a wand probing and a patdown.

"May I touch your buttocks?" said the polite white-gloved security official at Tokyo's Narita airport where Japanese security was, until 9/11, much tighter than ours. I assented, he patted my rear pockets. A good time was had by all. Or I had a good time. He never called me, though.

Miller's comment put me in mind of my one geographic boast: though my parents were Okies -- a despised group at the time -- I was born in Santa Barbara. Which gives me bragging rights in that town of newbies and interlopers.

Damn them and their fancy cars and money. They priced the homes in the market completely out of my reach.

2 comments:

  1. I'm confused -- is that a photo of the Elliott family arriving in California, or a modern-day family leaving Bend in search of jobs?

    ReplyDelete
  2. Why, sakes alive, that's mammy and pappy, Rose-of-Sharon, and some cousins.

    ReplyDelete

 
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