Speaking of Prostitution

The place where I live/work, the Portland Mercury (our motto: “we put the “urinal” in “jourinalism”), is auctioning off a bunch of weird shit on ebay and donating all the money to charity. Highlighted items: a Sleater-Kinney autographed baseball bat, a Gus Van Sant autographed poster for Elephant (hey, it’s better than Gerry!), the top 10 CDs of 2003 from the best non-specialized indie record store in pdx, Ozone, as chosen by their staff, and a personalized battle rap from our staff battle rapper, Sweet Pete, who comes with the cold-cutting rhymes. The whole point is that one of the things I’m auctioning is essentially a date with me, that’s not really a date at all, but me taking the highest bidder to the final Blazers-Lakers game of the season, where we will talk lots of shit to the dumb Lakers and cheer the Blazers on for eternity, and hopefully get kicked out for being too obnoxious and or bumrushing the court, because I love them with all of my heart.
Or, more accurately, I love them as only a mother could love them, because they keep doing stupid shit, or rather, the NoPo PoPo watch them like hawks through a periscope. The latest (and unexpected) casualty, our greatest hope, Lil’ Zach Randolph, was driving DOWN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD without an Oregon driver’s license, without proof of car insurance (which I have done, as well), and while smoking a thickie of fine Oregon cheeb.
I have stopped asking why… I only continue to love.