I live closer to the east side location and I already knew that it was ridiculous. A snaking line every night and quite often during the day as well. But the phenomenon seemed to hit new heights of the ridiculous today. Passing SW 3rd Ave., while traveling east on Burnside Sunday in the early afternoon, I turned my head to see a line approximately two blocks long and a sidewalk wide. Hovering over these supplicants was a minimally formed god-monster outlined in neon; its edible idol inside the red door below. The internationally renowned Voodoo Doughnut.
I won't lie. I've patronized the northeast location on more than one occasion, and I've paid upwards of four dollars for a single fritter. But only after drinking. And it's never been worth it. And I won't wait past the first turn-back in the line no matter what. Because people: it's a doughnut! It isn't a unique experience or a chance of a lifetime. It's not the most scrumptious thing to eat in the city at 2:00am. And they definitely aren't the best doughnuts in the world. They're not even the best doughnuts in Portland.
You're going to get the munchies in the wee hours of the morning. So plan ahead. For about the same price as a high-end Voodoo model, you can get an infinitely superior Cuban dessert from Pambiche just up the street until midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. Or go kick it at the much friendlier Rimsky-Korsakoffee House. If you get desperate, you can probably buy a quarter of a cake at some 24-hour Safeway. Don't waste your life waiting in line for a pink box. They're more abundant than they might seem.
I saw a middle-aged man today pressing down hard with his elbow on the edge of his car’s hood. He was wearing a brown shirt decorated with patches, like a boy scout, but too old for that. The car was long and angular and black. He probably bought it when he was in his thirties. Maybe that’s when he got the shirt, too. As my bike approached and then passed him and his car, I could see what he was trying to do. The hood had been somehow compressed, so that it buckled and pulled away from the frame. He was trying to straighten it out with his weight. It wasn’t working, and he gave up. I thought to stop and say, “I saw how that happened to your car.” But I didn’t. I never tell any fun lies like that anymore.
It’s not inconceivable that I eat too much mayonnaise. Especially when nobody is looking.
I don’t smoke. But once, in the middle of a run, I stopped and asked a smoker on a corner if I could bum a cigarette. He lit me up. I ran off down the street sucking on the cigarette and hacking. I was wearing tight red shorts with a yellow stripe down the side. Just like a Chinese Olympian.
People who hate their jobs should stay up much later at night than they do to read and watch movies and distill gin. They should write poetry in small apartment chambers, pretending that they are Emily Dickinson. They should think about how Edgar Allan Poe died, and imagine him coughing violently with his head next to the curb. They should work with tattoo artists to paint their walls as well as their bodies, despite the landlord’s prohibitions. They should rouse their sleeping friends, who do like their jobs, on the phone. And in person if it comes to that. Then give their worst energy to the daytime hours just to see if the American Dream comes true anyway.
If you have plantar warts, an x-acto blade is the way to go.