I am the night...

I watch over the city and cringe in disgust (either disgust or abdominal pain, you see, I'm lactose intolerant and I just had a Mochachino from that fancy coffee shop around the corner-- A crimefighter needs a good kick to start off his night of justice). So, where was I.... Oh yes, I watch over this city with an electric eye of vengeance, fueled by the boiling rage of memories from a life I once knew. Moments and flashes of a simpler time, burned into my skull. I remember the night. I can feel the thickness of it's visage choke me with every breath. There are nights where I can no longer take the filth that fills my lungs... the smell of crime... and Chinese food.
I watch, perched on high... waiting to strike. My eye catches the silhouette of a couple in a window. Their screams of pleasure are muffled by the high pitched screeching and rummaging of raccoons... but I make a note for later. I don't particularly like blondes but in this case, I'll make an exception. Taking notes of such things is what a good crime fighter does. Sometimes these notes need photos... and sometimes the photos pay the rent. Sometimes the photos get names, like "Kathy the Transvestite Prostitue Clown"... or names like "mayonnaise and shoe."
Sometimes just before dawn, I'll put boots on people's car tires. I think that it makes them look like futuristic rocket cars... but as the sun rises and burns away the dense droplets of fog, the illusion disappears... and it's just a stupid boot... but I still laugh for hours watching them steam and cry over their procrastination. "Pay YOUR TICKETS!!!," I scream into the night.
The streetlights look like UFO's coming in for a landing in the Castro... waiting to go into a club, get drunk, and probe the entire strips worth of cut off wrangler shorts and assless chaps and leave back to their home planet all coked up at 5 a.m. You can't trust those aliens as far as you can splatter their souls across a sidewalk.
I should have brought a jacket tonight. My spandex is getting cold... and I think that last attempt to pass gas actually left something solid in my boxer briefs. Such is the life of a superhero. I shall continue to watch over my city... maybe next time I'll skip the coffee and chili dog.

A chance meeting...

The random meeting on the corner of California and 25th had been a surprise to all three of the brothers. A few years back while begging for change outside of a bar in the Castro, Spanky heard news that Alfalfa had served his time for stabbing Stymie and had now relocated in the city. After Darla had whored around amongst The Little Rascals, the bad blood never seemed to have dissolved... leaving only cold memories of soap box races and the night that Buckwheat disappeared in the woods. Alfalfa had just broken his last ten dollar bill to purchase a pack of Chesterfields. He lit the smoke, inhaling and releasing a small cough just before raising his head and suddenly found himself staring directly into the eyes of his old friend. The years had been kind to Spanky. Hustling the strip had been lucrative for many years and his face didn't seem to show the wear and tear of such a profession. The sparkle had left his eyes, however. After seeing Porky hauled into a back alley, beaten, and left for dead he could never shake the image from his nightmare dreams. Cautious hugs and laughter followed but all of the merriment seemed to be forced. After all of these years they still had little to say to each other. Alfalfa used a payphone at the Laundromat just up the street. He had to call upon his old friend Buckwheat for a place to stay for the night. Buckwheat had been a professional wrestler for the last few years and was now living off of his insurance settlement after a nasty spill from the top rope. His apartment was small but the couch was always available for those who needed it. It was good to see old friends again. Perhaps now, life would finally take a turn for the better.



The trip to the Bay City had been planned long before he was nabbed for embezzling from the company's fund put aside for the purchase of shoes for retarded children. Bruce often called it, "A liberation of funds from the evil hands of greedy self-righteous cocksuckers," but everyone knew that it was just petty theft. The plea bargain knocked off a couple of years of hard time but he would never forget the last scuffle in the yard when a large man that had befriended him named "Mary" died at the hands of Alfalfa. Mary had always loved Bruce like a brother and never fully took advantage of his monstrous size. Bruce vowed revenge after seeing his friend killed in such a heinous manner. Alfalfa was freed into the world before Bruce could wrap his hands firmly around his throat. Upon release Bruce was fashioned with a tracking bracelet. He didn't mind the idea of someone tracking his every movement or the extended probation. He knew that when his job of claiming revenge for Mary's death was done that the future only promised death or a return to the yard. Perhaps the thing that bothered Bruce the most was that the tracking bracelet was so damn cumbersome. It weighted 115lbs and would incessantly talk of things like "marriage" and "live shots." He didn't really understand the constant gibberish pouring out from his tracking bracelet but he couldn't ignore the fact that it was eating all of his food. Bruce's probation didn't allow sharp objects to be in his possession and he often wondered how much pain would be involved if he had so chosen to chew his way through the muscle and bone that this bracelet was attached to. For now he was pleased with simply being in the same city as his archenemy, Alfalfa. Soon vengeance would be his.



Alfalfa was actually surprised that Darla had tracked him down again after all of these years. Apparently Buckwheat had written her a few letters over the years... mostly consisting of Christmas cards and pictures of the "Old Days." The picnic meeting was a comfortable place to sort out all of the details of the past. The freshly cut grass reminded Darla of the hill where the gang used to meet. Her eyes welled with wet as she looked into Alfalfa's face... he looked older than she remembered but her memories had faded from all of the years in isolation. She took a bite of the Tuna Sandwich that she had packed for the picnic instantly realizing that Tuna was a poor choice for such a hot day. Perhaps the milk would have stayed fresh if it had been frozen but the bus ride was longer than she had anticipated. In the end she was just happy to see him again... and his stupid hair.

rambling 'round the southern bound...

Washington Park was a good place for Andy. With his rugged resemblance to Gary Busey none of the beggars, vagrants, or miscreants would come anywhere near the small patch of grass claimed as the kingdom of Shepherd. He finished a long swig from his trusty five dollar bottle of wine and exclaimed, "For Butter and Cheese!" These cries of war were usually the last sounds heard by those who dared trespass into the realms of Andy's kingdom. Decades of civil war had torn the land to shreds and he, being newly crowned as Emperor, was not about to let another group of bandits rape and pillage his land. "Drunken Kung-Fu is the keenest of all forms," he would tell his followers. "Cheap wine works the best but be sure to eat some bread later... for fear of the rancid purple poo."


For Gabriel, the streets held nothing more than the swift and vengeful hand of justice. Those who dared to cross the streets illegally (known to those on the street as "jay-walking") were soon to find the scarred flat business side bottoms of his walking shoes cracked rightly upon the back of their head. His flying drop-kick had been mastered through hours of diligent practice while carefully examining the motions of a Sunday Kung-Fu Matinee. No longer would the citizens have to fear the criminals of the daylight, for when they heard the cries, "G is for Gustice" they knew that Gabriel was near and the light that pierced through his golden hero's heart would soon chase away the shadows of evil that threatened the poor and the weak. "If only there were some way to wear golf shoes and not get that cement 'crunch' beneath your feet," he often thought aloud. "Then we could really kick some jay walking ass!"

For Bevan there was very little joy with the "New West." He longed for the days where dust devils and shakey hands filled the streets with bloodlust. The churchbells echoed through the alleyways, vibrating a resounding gong for the cries of high noon. These machines called "Trolleys" were something of an enigma. The metal beasts could crawl the rising hills of San Francisco with an ease that mocked the brute force of the modern man. "If only they had these iron beasts as slaves to build the great Pyramids of Egypt! What a feat that would be. The Gods would be proud," he spoke in amazement. Finding enough ammunition at the local shops to take one of these screeching metal dragons down would be an incredibly difficult feat for such a small amount of time for preparation. "I haven't seen a critter I couldn' t blow up yet," he exclaimed with glee.


Christine never understood the complex thought patterns of those that had passed on before her time. The realms of the supernatural were often described as "scary" and "bad-bad." However, as she ate her plate full of chicken cordon bleu balls immediately regretted ordering them. They reminded her of how her pet cow, "Bessie" had suddenly died after being fed a hamburger. Some called it suicide but Christine secretly knew that "The 'Hypno-germs' had eaten away the base of Bessie's cerebral cortex... either that or the aliens had come down and planted an exploding probe in her anus that ate her soul just before tearing her a new ass." She described these details to the sheriff after a wild and exhausting prom night escapade. However, something just didn't feel right as the left Bessie's lifeless body laying there in the field. Somehow she knew that 'ol Bessie's ghost would be haunting the lower hills of Petaluma for decades to come.

the first of many

We shall post all sorts of random thoughts, pictures, and other points of interest for your viewing pleasure. It may make you laugh, cry, vomit, or want to slam your face into a waffle iron on a lazy Sunday afternoon... whichever the case may be, it's here. We may even start it off as a news source... but personally, I'm kind of lazy so the deadlines may never make it and the news sources will most likely be nothing more than a two week old slice of banana bread (as I've worked for a while in this news business, I've learned that it doesn't take much more credibility or intelligence than that).
So, here is the laundry mat by Andy's apartment on 25th street.






There will be more as we ramble on through this strange life as seen through the odd and twisted vertigo eye of photographers from the wasteland. Take a seat, relax, the drugs will take hold shortly and everything will be right with the world again. Remember... Portland is the New Andy.