... well atleast the one you've come to know, and immediately thereafter, love. This is kind of a weird one. I was checking my Google Analytics today, and I noticed a sharp spike in hits tying my name, Garrett Hohn, to the phrase "Arizona." Upon closer investigation, I quickly found out why ... (read it)
So, yeah, it seems that a Garrett Hohn, in Tempe, Arizona was stabbed to death a couple of days ago. Yikes! Even though it may seem silly, it's definitely eerie reading your own name attached to the phrases such as "stabbed to death" and "pronounced dead."
This is a picture of the a-hole that allegedly murdered me Friday morning.
Aside from that, the Garrett Hohn of Unemployment-ville, Oregon is still alive and well and relatively free of knife lacerations! On a even more positive note, as of last week, RMAUR is the new home of the 270 pound bench press! Life couldn't get any better!
Every now and again I field the time honored question, "Hey Garrett, whatcha think of Portland." This question is significant because it's rather rhetorical in natural. I like chopping wood. I like working on cars. I like taking nature pisses. I can't partake in any of these activities, at least legally, within city limits. Garrett and cities go together like sand in the Vaseline.
Portland is alright I suppose, but at the end of the day, it's just a city. Think about it. A city is a an area with a higher concentration of people then, oh let's say, a town. That's it. What's so great about that? I've been to some pretty notable cities in my day such as Paris, New York, Honolulu and London. Although the faces change, and the weather might be different, they all feel crowded and angry. Unless you're in Baghdad, Compton or Detroit, they're all seem the same.
I believe the measure of any city should be marked not by its various contributions, or perhaps detriments, to society but instead solely by (a) the presence of significant landmarks and (b) the time it would take to procure crack cocaine from the city hall and (c) are drugs/prostitution legal. Now hear me out. We've got all these random population censuses measure inhabitants in the city limits, different races and population in the metro region. You've got one that measures last year while another measures 1999. The data is skewed and almost arbitrary like. What we need is something with more real world relevance. We need something that nails down the pulse of a town. Instead of the boring Wikipedia entries about population density and chiefs exports (the irony is I happen to love these trivial facts), city biographies would read only as such;
Seattle, USA - Space needle, 24 minutes, no Paris, FR - The Eiffel Tower, 18 minutes, maybe - must check "le con'stitution" Portland, USA - Widmer Brewing Company building? (I'm grasping at straws here), 45 minutes (15 of which were spent begging for change), no
If you've talked to native Portlanders, they'd try to convince you that Portland is Paris 2.0. "Oh we've got the arts here and a lovely gay community. In addition, Washington Park is just splendid come October. Would you like to come up to my condo for some Merlot and cheese?" Ok, so I've never had this exchange personally but conversations like this are being held everyday within city limits. At the end of the day, Portland may have good beer but it doesn't have a sexual position named after it's chief architectural structure.
Just imagine the pre-planning conversation that would take place. "Honey, it says here that Amsterdam is a "4-minute/yes" city, I want to go there!"
Portland has its share of homeless, or perhaps dressing "homeless"part is cool amongst the trendy hipster 20-somethings which wouldn't surprise me in the least. Regardless, each area (pushing a shopping card with a bum wheel limits mobility) tends to have its resident homeless guy/gal/tranny. There's the mopey guy in front of Fred Myer, the really drunk guy pan handling in front of the bus stop, the perpetually "stranded traveler" pleading his case outside of Trader Joe's, it's all the same. The point is simple. You get to know each person's angle and/or shtick and, believe it or not, it becomes part of your routine. "I wonder where "stranded traveler guy" was today, I wonder if he made enough money to be "stranded traveler guy" somewhere else?" is something I might say to Colette.
Aside from the guy at the park pumping his fists to a looped tape of, and I shit you not, Phil Collin's "In the Air Tonight, most of the homeless are non-confrontational. Save for the vociferous douche bag in the photos below.
When you're unemployed, you practically invent shit to do. Pug and I went for a small stroll around the neighborhood. For me it was an opportunity to shed some more material possessions via the Goodwill, for Pug, she could only think about pressing out a couple of tootsie rolls on some freshly cut sod. Did I need to build an afternoon around one mundane chore? Probably not but "it's only after we've lost everything are we free to do anything." So on the way to the Goodwill, and in addition to becoming "one step closer to hitting rock bottom," I notice a man sitting crossed legged on the grass outside of a neighboring apartment complex vacillating over a half empty bottle of wine. Ordinarily this wouldn't be news worthy but this event is out of the ordinary because I recognize the fellow from an incident we had a couple weeks back were he told me to "fuck off punk" when I apparently took too long to absorb the full spectacle that this homeless man is. It's really hard not so stare, so much so I didn't even try to conceal my daze, when you see a man without a shirt, piss ass drunk, pushing a shopping cart, at eight in the morning. Nevertheless, I determine that I am sticking around for this special event and perch myself against a tree while the property manager tries to coax the drunk off the grass.
"Seriously, you need to leave or I'm calling the cops," he says as the drunk oscillates over his half drunken swill. The homeless man, who I will call Jeff for simplicities sake, says nothing save for the occasional unintelligible grunt and shallow self-steadying breathes . His glassy red eyes are a testament to the night, and possibly rough morning, he'd endured only hours previous. "Fuck it. I'm calling the cops," says the manager.
The guy in the wife beater calls the Portland Police, truly known as the Po-Po. About this time Jeff falls over, and the maintenance lady goes about her business watering the plants and the homeless guy.
"Babies don't sleep this well" - Notice the exact same posture of Jeff 16 minutes later! This included a "shower" session!
The fuzz shows up and was actually very polite to Jeff but we can only assume this is because he had eye-witnesses err... I mean onlookers present. If there is one thing I have learned from YouTube it's always have your camera on and ready when the boys in blue show up because you never know when someone is going to exercise their questionable version of "reasonable force."
Smokey tried his best to talk Jeff to his feet but his efforts weren't enough to rouse his severely truncated equilibrium. When this didn't work he scrapped the wordplay and busted out some strong arm tactics he learned in cop school. When this failed to yield results, he called for backup. I heard the crack of the fellas arm from my vantage about 10 feet away, it wasn't a good crack. Suffice to say, Jeff wasn't happy. Grimacing in pain he rolled one and a half turns down the lightly pitched sod and rested face down on the sidewalk until Donnie Brasco showed up 10 minutes later. Smokey and Donnie physically picked up Jeff, cuffed the some-bitch, and took him downtown. On his way out, I asked Danno how often they get calls like this. He said he'd already had 20 today, which is pretty much average.
Had I been privy to the fact I had bought tickets to a double-header, I would have packed a snack. On the way home that evening, we saw four cop cars (yes four, 2 of the 3 visible are parked the wrong way down a one-way), the had one guy in hand cuffs and the other was sitting on side walk. Apparently the perps had run up a 40 dollar bill at Mazatlan Mexican eatery and pulled a dine-and-dash. From what Colette and I gathered from the window of the apartment, the waiter is man in white with arms on hips that chased these guys six blocks. No one could come up with the 40 dollars so Mazatlan is in charge of holding both dudes wallets and cell phones for collateral until they get the money. Pretty official sounding eh?
Is it just me or does the little Asian cop have a little SS-esque saunter to him?
If you're looking at this, then you probably came from Daveseslcafe.com . If the formatting is not correct, then please follow this link provided below. Thank you for your interest.
Health and Human Performance – Health Enhancement.Cumulative GPA 3.04
Field/Volunteer Experience:
2001
1st field experience – 45 hours
High school computer class
2001
Whitefish High School Hockey assistant coach - about 25 hours
Helped with coaching duties
2004
2nd field experience – 45 hours
Middle school health and P.E class
2004
Flagship Program – 26 hours
Taught middle school students about rock climbing
2005
Student Teaching – Spokane, WA
Shaw Middle School - .5 semester
Rogers High School - .5 semester
Ran classroom operations. Devised and prepared lessons in both Health and P.E at Middle school and Highs school levels
2006
H.O.B.Y (hoby.org) – 75 hours
Lead a group of gifted & talented high school students in discussion and through character building exercises
Work History:
7/06 – 6/07
Iao Intermediate School
Supervisor:Catherine Kilborn
Ph. (808) 984-5610
Implement and carry out daily lessons in both Physical Education and Health to middle school students.
9/06 – 6/07
Hawaii Speed and Quickness
Supervisor: Ikaika Bennett
Ph. (808) 357-8538
Motivate students both physically and mentally through a two hour after school program.
Professional References:
Keola Soon
Fellow teacher at Iao intermediate
Ph. (808) 937-1408
Ikaika Bennett
Supervisor “Hawaii Speed and Quickness”
Ph. (808) 357-8538
Mary Reid
Willamette ESD
Ph. (509) 354-6552
Alaina Kluk
Counselor at Iao Intermediate
Ph. (808) 264-7997
Special skills, training, and interests
In addition to my love of the sport of hockey, I pursue an intense passion for weight lifting and all endeavors physically orientated.I have also completed my intermediate coaching education program through U.S.A Hockey.
Throughout my lifetime I have played four musical instruments (trombone, percussion, mandolin, guitar).I still play guitar to this day.
You've laughed, cried, and potentially sharted from my writings. You've been there through the good times when I had plenty to write about such as Hawaii and the European travels and you stuck with me through the dry months of early 2008.
I'd like to take a stroll down memory lane if you will. These writings were hand plucked from the many based on comments received as well as how much fun I had writing them. From oldest to most recent. Be sure to vote.
5. Sagensie "insulin pump" imdeutsche? - Colette and I stammer around Berlin at 12:30 a.m looking for syringes armed only with her keen sense of direction and my very broken German.
6. 60 is the new 18 - I sexually objectify 4 geriatric women based on their aging and sagging merits.
7. People/places/things that chap my ass. - A collection of varies things that piss me off such as loud cell phone talkers, reality television, and Tom Cruise.
8. Sex, songs and self-indulgence - I compile a list where I talk about my favorite songs and what they mean to me whilst trying my best not to mention the R word.
9. If Jesus home brewed - In an effort to produce a blog that will humor both my hardcore crude audience and my ultra-conservative right wing readers, I nearly incite yet another war over the subject of religion.
My first exposure to "The Onion" was my freshman year of college while dropping a deuce on the second floor of Aber hall. Actually, to clarify, I was perched atop a porcelain stoop grunting and straining and that's when I discovered The Onion. Ben, the floor's resident adviser, took it upon himself to post new Onion stories on the inside the stall doors. In fact, he took to this duty so diligently that I thought perhaps this task was de facto RA procedure; give official announcements, tell dorm residents to "shut the hell up," post articles from The Onion. His efforts were appreciated two fold. Not only was I able to relax enough to labor out many a brown baby boy, but The Onion provided me with enough fake news to satiate my hunger for well crafted satire and not enough real news to allow me to continue to be an ill-informed American.
Up until my move to Portland, I've never had a parking ticket. Since then I've had 7. Now I know what you're thinking, "wise up dumb-ass." If only it were that simple.
Here is a picture of a sign I was ticketed in front of. Unfortunately for me, I was in Montana at the time of the ticketing and so were my keys. I have a "Zone L" pass and this grants me privilege to park in Zone L areas. Since this is the lowest sign on the pole, it was the first sign I saw from the vantage of drivers seat. The sign at the top designates this area as a "1 Hour" zone as well. See the confusion?
On my way into court, I was alerted by the presumed guilty-until-proven-otherwise Auschwitz styled checkpoint guard that my Swiss Army knife wasn't allowed inside. This would be the same novelty Swiss Army knife that wouldn't be able to pierce the skin of a peach mind you. Deputy Doo-little, after he yells hastily "who's knife is this!!?" over the sea of people when he spotted it in the EZ Bake x-ray machine, tells me that the hot dog vendor out front will hold contraband. You guessed it, it cost me money to store my knife. One hell of a sweet-heart deal if you ask me.
As I sit in the court waiting for the P.M session to start (judge was 8 minutes late by the way), I begin to notice the chairs, desks, and people working in various facets of the building. I begin thinking about Deputy Doo-little, the cashier clerks, the judge and the enormous money generated through this whole racket. Before I sat on that pew, or before that pew even existed, there was bare land. When this land was bare funds had to be raised by TAX to purchase (or imminent domain) these lands. These levied TAXES were used to build a building in which people worked inside of it were paid by more TAX. Then these TAX sponsored employees walk around your neighbor hood waiting for you to fart in a crosswalk zone on a Tuesday. Didn't know that was a law? Sorry. Now you get to pay them money from your already illegally TAXED wage.
So I go into court to contest the four tickets I have pertaining to expired registration. Since I had the car licensed three days previous to the tickets, the judge dismissed all four when I showed him my Montana registration. Most people would be happy about this dismissal charge but I am becoming angry thinking about the other "bail" I had to put up for my other tickets. Are they collecting interest on my money? Why does it really take 90 days for me to get a decision? If you are issuing that many tickets and can't process them that quickly, perhaps you are issuing too many tickets. Nah, many tickets equals much revenue, and if I were a betting man, I'd say that the system is set up to exploit the ticketed party's apathy.
With this in mind, on my way out, I asked about the two tickets I received in June for the one- hour violations. The first ticket was reduced from 24 dollars to eight dollars. The second ticket was still cited at 24 dollars. To conclude, even though these signs are clearly misleading, according to the judge, I am still 66% wrong and therefore responsible to pay 32 dollars. Most people would be happy with a discount. They are eager to kneel down and bow in awe that is big brother swinging his authoritative dick around. Not me. Recouping all my money back is tomorrow's project. That 32 dollars that they are trying to take away from me is an extra three hours of patrol time for the meter maid to give tickets to my neighbors. And the cycle continues ...
While this chapped my ass severely, it didn't have me thinking about firebombing an embassy. No, that was to happen on the ride home. I'm sitting on the nearly full Tri-met city train minding my own business when this woman walks up to me and the two teenagers sitting next to me and says, "One of you are gonna need to move because of my disability. I need one of those seats. I can't afford another fall because of my knee. I think there is some seats up front for you all." A couple of moments elapse and I start to crack a smile reveling in the sheer awkwardness of the situation. No one says anything until the two teenagers, apparently not as indebted to exercising personal rights as I am, stand up and allow the woman to sit down. Now before anyone calls me out as callused, please explain to me how being 5'3 and 250 pounds or smelling like piss are disabilities. So let me get this straight, because you can't push away from the feed bowl before the 3rd round of chicken wings, I have to give up the seat I payed two dollars for so she can enjoy riding experience that resembles the last 25 years of her life (sitting on her ass)? Fuck that. This is the new America folks. In our country, it's always someone elses fault. This is the new America that panders to every sniveling minority group (Harvard + Tyson Chicken) and whiny bitch under the sun.
We need to be challenging our laws as opposed to just taking things because "that's the way it is." If only we all thought like this guy. A true patriot!
Expert: Michael Troy Date: 7/29/2005 Subject: Free speech/Michigan's "cussing" law
Question Can you tell me if Michigan's law of using obscenities in front of women and children has been repealed? If it has not, is it still freedom of speech to call a woman a f****** b**** or a f****** c*** in front of her children, in a grocery store parking lot?
This is a picture of the a-hole that allegedly murdered me Friday morning.
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