Friday, July 3, 2020

12007.03 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 13 of PanCascadia

We rolled into Deliverance Mitchell, OR, late last night, after a long day of errands, last-minute gardening, packing, and oh yes, HITTING A DEER on the way. We cannot revisit the horror of hitting a young deer, seeing it struggle to get up with its mom standing over it, hearing it cry, and OMG I AM TRAUMATIZED FOR LIFE. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I need a shaman, a hex remover, something. I did tell the very nice dispatcher that I called (because clearly I couldn’t just…drive off) after he asked if I was okay that yes, I was fine, except that I was going to burn in hell because I was a horrible person.
So there’s that.

This road to Mitchell began on NYE, when there were fireworks nearby. And Kingsly disappeared, only to be found upstairs in the attic room, shaking, in the corner. Hmm. Several days later, we had an Airbnb booked in the smallest town I could find within driving distance, that also had a fenced in back yard. Mitchell ho!

When friends asked about our choice of destination, I chuckled and with great exaggeration told people that Mitchell had oh, a few hundred people or so… but that was a lie.

It has 103.

On some sites it’s referred to as a ghost town. Seriously. I figured though that the smaller the town, the less likely there would be a big fireworks show, and hopefully the DIY fireworks would be at a minimum, or at least there would be less than in Silverton. Where, of course, it’s a week-long shitshow of noise; it would be one thing if it were just one day, but no, it’s day upon day upon day. Now, back in January we didn’t know there’s be this small issue of a global pandemic and that all fireworks shows would be cancelled….but the point about Silverton being overly noisy still stands.

We set out late yesterday in part because of taking care of urgent matters, such as adorning Harmilda in her latest cow cloak finery.

I felt the IMPEACH TRUMP flag was a nice touch as well. Now, I’ve driven enough through rural OR and CA and seen enough stupid Dotard signage that has likely not been vandalized, so I’m hoping the Dotardian snowflakes can just MAN THE FUCK UP already and leave Harmilda and her cloak alone, unlike when some asshat stole and burned her festive patriotic attire two years ago. One can dream that the deplorables have learned kind of self-containment.

It was dark when we pulled into town, and I had this eerie sense that I was playing a part in a slasher flick, where the stupid people go into the decrepit barn where they hear distinct chainsaw sounds because they’re looking for a beer tap or something equally unnecessary. Because there we were, on an unlit gravel road, with darkened houses that looked like they were falling apart. I decided it likely that the good Citizenry of the town of Mitchell were simply staying on the downlow, so that their little hamlet was overlooked by the Directorate until such a time as when they could be overthrown. Smartly done, Citizens.

And as we were pulling up to the house, what should cross the road in front of us but – A BLACK CAT. No lie. I believe I said something along the lines of “Oh OF COURSE a black cat, the eternal HARBINGER OF DOOM, because OF COURSE! FUCK MY LIFE.”

But because I’m known for my chipper demeanor and always looking on the bright side of life, I will note that Sir Kingsly took to the premises right away and began patrolling for King Cobras immediately. We have not yet seen any, and so his successful eradication rate remains at 100%. So brave. There is a shack nearby that looks perfect for exploring later. And it is blessedly quiet.

Shortly we are heading into town, and I am staking my ground by wearing my “Cycling in America – Greeting the President” shirt, but at the same time will use my Rage Cow face mask. This should confuse the locals enough such that I will be able to nimbly dash away should any kerfuffles begin. I shall report back. #courage

Oh yeah, one last thing: #WEARAFUCKINGMASK

 Thank you.

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