Match Money Management

For the money, you'd be hard pressed to find a more entertaining value than a season ticket to the Portland Timbers. The sport is soccer. Either you love it or you don't. I'm not gonna debate the beautiful game with you. 90 minutes of all out effort, constant action, and big sweaty men. Sounds like late night at Embers.

If the game alone isn't enough to get you in the stands, then the atmosphere should be. The fan base for this team is amazing. Rabid, intoxicated crazies chanting, singing, dancing for damn near three hours. The unity on the pitch is enjoyable, but the unity in the seats is just as awe-inspiring.

I bought in as a Timbers season ticket holder in their inaugral MLS season with the intent of saving money. I had been to matches in the past, I had fun, I knew I wanted more. The price was right. 18 bucks a pop if you bought the full season package. Little did I know the team's popularity in the Rose City would make this season ticket decision the only avenue to attend a match as all 20k seats for the tiny Jeld-Wen pitch sell out. In fact, all seating for the 2012 season has sold out.

Needless to say I'm thankful I bought the season pass, but it soon dawned on me that I really wasn't saving money by attending weekly matches. Any savings attributed to cheap season tickets was being unloaded at the jacked-up concession stands.

The prices are truly outrageous. It's a monopoly. Those Jeld-Wen bitches have you by the balls. Once your ticket is scanned, there's no readmitance (not a word). You're screwed. You have to eat their food. You have to drink their beer. They know it and they raise concession stand prices to let you know they know it.

In the interest of helping my fellow man avoid match day financial ruin, I'm going to provide you with some season ticket holder trade secrets of match money management. Translated in laymen's terms: you're going to sneak a lot of shit in.

Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink...unless you pay $5 or you're smart about it. The skies could not have opened up more than they did Monday for opening night. Torrential downpour is trite but accurate. This rain of biblical proportions makes the cost of a $5 bottle of Dasani feel like a punch in the dick. Really, Jeld-Wen? Five bucks for the sustenance of life? Without this shit, you keel over and die in a matter of days, and Jeld-Wen Field thinks it's OK to price gouge for it.

Calm down. Don't panic. No need to start drinking from the puddles out in the concourse. The stands have exactly four drinking fountains in two locations for match-goers to quench their thirst. I'll save you the trouble of asking the Jeld-Wen concourse henchmen (they don't fucking know anyway) and draw you a map. X marks the spot.

Now if you're sitting in the Timbers Army (yellow section), you are furthest from the fountains. Wouldn't it be great if you had some sort of container to hold water that you could carry with the purpose of quenching thirst at any point during the match? A water bottle, perhaps? Well fuck! Fun fact! They allow you to bring containers into Jeld-Wen so long as they're empty. So bring your bottle, fill that shit at the start, and enjoy H20 for the duration.

OK, so now you have a limitless supply of water and a method in which to transport it. Great. Unfortunately filling up on water will only stave those hunger pangs for so long. You're going to need to establish a food source.

Jeld-Wen Field has any number of different options sure the please any foodie. Savory meat pies from Pacific Pie Co. A Timber Brat with sausage from local Zenner's. Delicious Thai food. Tender BBQ. Qdoba Mexican Grill has two stands. And of course the traditional options are available as well: hot dogs, hamburgers, pretzels, nachos...whatever.

Just one problem. Those tricky Jeld-Wen bitches know you have a stomach. Again, these prices have been heavily tampered with. There's no shame. If you're hungry enough, you'll let your stomach start making the financial decisions. You cannot allow this to happen lest you go broke.

Admittedly, the solution to the food source conundrum is somewhat dubious. While you don't have deep pockets, you do have pockets. Prior to entering Jeld-Wen, I turn my personal garments into a fat man's utility belt. I hit up Taco Bell on Burnside and line my pockets with burritos and Crunch Wrap Supremes (they're good to go). The rent-a-guard lackeys are unlikely to search your person and even less likely to question the warm bulge in your pants.

Sweet sustenance! You have food, you have water. What more could you possibly...oh fuck! You forgot the beer!

You're doomed. There really isn't a viable option for the beer enthusiast to hoard his cash and enjoy his brew. Short of strapping the 12 beer can holster to your chest, you will pay the $7.75 domestic/$8.50 premium beer prices.

Wait. What's that you say? You're only looking to get shit faceded? Well fuck! This we can handle. The solution to the shit face situation is even more chancy than the aforementioned food acquisition.

Where food is a banned item on Jeld-Wen's list, alcohol smuggling is against the law. The OLCC states that any alcoholic beverage intended for park consumption must be purchased within the gates of the alcohol monopoly. It's like the 21st amendment never even passed!

Despite the legal implications, I know you're gonna try anyway. Flasks. Lots of them. Three or four if you have room next to all those bean burritos. You're like a prohibition rum runner. You're a libation liberator. You're...you're...fuck, dude...are you already drunk?

Remember, the key to success with the flask method is moderation. Much like your low tolerance for the hard stuff, Jeld-Wen has a low tolerance for public drunkenness. The Jeld-Wen safety patrol doesn't take too kindly to belligerent individuals. To evade the discerning eye, limit your sauce consumption and save your drunken tirades for the after-party.

Pennies pinched. Wallet secure. Bank account safe. 401k unscathed. With a little effort, some forward thinking, and a dash of luck, even the frugal can enjoy the beautiful game. Jeld-Wen is an amazing pitch, the talented Timbers team impresses, and the rowdy crowd of 20,000 faithful is a sight to see.

Truly, it would be hard to find a more entertaining value than the production gracing Portland's pitch every other week. Match day is joyous for all who attend, so I encourage you to find a ticket and get to a game. It's worth it. The memories will last a lifetime.

Rose City Til I Die

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Worst Drivers in Portland

Following the format of the recent Fantasy Football Fuckers post, and because the world would be a safer place if everyone drove like me, I'm presenting a list of the ten worst driving personas in Portland. The categories may be universal, but Portlanders are especially notorious for the following behaviors.

The Rainy Day Wreckers
It Rains in Portland. A lot. Sometimes for weeks or months at a time. Yet somehow Portlanders forget how to drive in the H2O. Just take it a little slower, keep a safe distance from the car in front, and turn your mother fucking headlights on.

The Lane Campers
Possibly day dreaming and definitely not paying attention, this space cadet can be found in a fast lane near you. Their talents would best serve another lane, but they're content and oblivious. You're up their ass and even with other cars whizzing by them on the right, they remain in your way.

The Hopelessly Lost
Navigation technology is awesome. Google Maps. Smart phones. GPSs. But this clueless fuck has decided to go it alone. Instead they're attempting to use the guess and check method while driving 5 MPH in front of you. They could pull over to let you pass, but won't. Legally you can't go around them, but legally they can do nothing about you flipping them the bird.

The Dazed and Confused
Downtown roads are confusing. All those one-way streets, intersections, pedestrians, cyclists, and hipsters can make navigating Portland proper a daunting task. Unless you fucking live there. It's annoying to see these drivers stop at intersections with no stop signs or callously ignore pedestrians attempting a cross walk. I don't drive like an idiot in your neighborhood...

The Rush Hour Speed Racer
This jerkoff can't handle the rush hour pace, so s/he bobs and weaves from lane to lane. With little compassion for fellow travelers, this driver takes an every-man-for-himself approach to the commute home. Easy, broseph. We're all on the same team come 5 o'clock.

The Overly Cautious
This pussyfoot has trouble merging and uses the break lights once on the freeway for seemingly no reason. Ironically this nervous Nellie is a menace because of their excessively leery approach to the everyday road rituals. Grow a pair, gain some confidence, and drive like you aren't a senior citizen.

The Underly Cautious
Speeding, weaving, and using the shoulder to pass, this asshole thinks your safety is less important than his road rampage. Maneuvering like a precision driver from a Fast & Furious movie, this family man is desperate to get the adrenaline rush he can no longer achieve in the bedroom. Justice is occasionally served when you see him pulled over five miles later.

The Skittish Snow Driver
Guilty. We all are. PDX drivers know not how to drive in the white stuff. When Portland goes snow globe, panic ensues and the roads get fucked. Snow jobs are annoying, but they only happen once a year, and I'll happily use a vacation day to avoid the clusterfuck.

The Distracted Driver
Salem passed legislation making it illegal for Oregon drivers to text message while driving. However, many asshats choose to ignore this law. We all knew it was a shitty idea before it was a law, but for some reason continue to do it. And if I was to take it a step back and say it's illegal to read while driving, people would respond with, "psh, duh, yeah!" So please grow up and stop your LOL'ing and ROFLcopter'ing.

The Washington Outsider
While it seems to be a great banner as a politician, it's a curse on Portland streets. Because of Portland's unfortunate proximity to the WA state, we occasionally have to deal with a WA driver. Beyond the WA plates, this individual is easily spotted because s/he is less courteous, drives faster, and smells bad. Welcome to our fair city, now drive like us or go the fuck home.

Portlanders, it's time to respect our roads and the fellow man in the car next to you, so if you're doing one of these things, you're a douche nozzle and should stop it. Thank you for your consideration.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

CanvassSweeper

Walking the streets of Portland is like playing a life size game of minesweeper.

The ACLU. Green Peace. Red Cross. The ELF. Chances are, if an organization's name is an acrynom or the organization is attempting, in their opinion, to improve the world, they'll bother the unsuspecting pedestrian with "the systematic initiation of direct contact with a target group of individuals," or canvassing.

Over empathizing is not a character flaw I would list on my life resume; however, my empathy does rear its ugly head when it comes to Portland canvassers. So instead of passing by these canvassers and politely telling them to fuck off, I meander my way through Portland like a game of minesweeper.

This game takes a lot of skill, tact, and luck. Skill at dodging drone canvassers begins with early detection. Like a meerkat, I sense the presence of a predator long before they strike. Clip boards. I can see them two blocks out. Some canvassers have caught on and hide their propaganda, so I generally skip over any block that has an energetic, enthusiastic young person standing on the street corner. Old people don't canvass and young people don't hang out alone.

Overlooking a well disguised canvasser or turning a street corner only to find one dead ahead is the time to utilize Jedi mind tricks. Tactfully turn to your pedestrian pal and inform them in a loud voice, and with hand gestures, that you've taken them in the wrong direction and you must immediately cross the street or, better yet, turn back the way you came. Feigning directional impairment provides the illusion that you are dodging for a justifiable reason.

An ounce of luck doesn't hurt. Despite all training and skill, Lady Luck can create openings to avoid the awkward approach. Maybe another poor victim is harassed ahead of you. Perhaps the canvasser drops their clip board. Perchance a renegade bus steamrolls the canvasser.

Failure to avoid is inevitable. Your skill will not save you. Your tact is insufficient. Your luck will run out. The biggest fear is marooning on a street corner with one of these carnivores. Don't speak. Don't make eye contact. Don't move. They're like a T-rex.

More than likely you've been approached. More than likely you're not bothered by flippin' the bird and merrily going about your business. But for those with a conscience, I invite you to play CanvassSweeper.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Bloody Contributions

When people find out I donate blood, they generally ask, "You donate blood?" which is quickly followed by, "They let you donate blood?!"

It's true - the Portland Red Cross loves to suck my fluids.

Recently, I've noticed that the Red Cross could use some help in their marketing department. They always need more donors, but their trite reasons to donate fall flat on the masses. Free cookies and juice just aren't cutting it anymore.

The following is a list of reasons I donate, and you should too:

The Nursing Staff.
They're young. They're attractive. They're nurses. Hitting on the hemoglobin hotties helps pass the time. Most are female, but I don't discriminate. And if the nurse has a ring on, as most nurses do, I try harder. In order to donate, donors must answer some personal questions. Very similar to speed dating. For example, when the nurse asks, "Have you ever had sex for money?" I casually respond with, "Oh you wouldn't have to pay me." Fifty percent of the time it works every time.

The Exercise Excuse.
Believe me, physical exertion becomes extremely difficult post donation. A short run, climbing the stairs, a rousing game of just-the-tip - all become painstaking feats resulting in cramps and exhaustion. Full recovery time can take a couple weeks, so this provides an acceptable excuse to avoid activity. So sit on the couch, take the elevator, and push that frisky SO off of you.

The Drunk Donor.
The less blood circulating your arteries, the easier it is to get intoxicated. It's simple physics. Be sure to drink water prior to donating, but as soon as you leave that donor's chair, head straight to the local public house and order the highest alcohol contented brew possible. You're gonna be one cheap date tonight.

The Donor Deduction.
Blood donations are tax deductible. Because I donate red blood cells, I cannot sell my plasma. Income from plasma can be as high as $300 per month, multiply that by twelve months, and you're missing out on $3,600 annually. Turbo Tax won't prompt you for this deduction - clearly a simple programming oversight by Intuit.

To learn more about donating blood or to schedule an appointment, visit the Red Cross on the web: http://www.redcrossblood.org/

Follow the Portland Red Cross on Twitter: @RedCrossPDX

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Accidental Walking Stranger Stalking

There are people in this world with terrible spatial awareness.  They lack peripheral vision.  They are easily distracted.  They seem unconscious to the world.  And somehow, as a pedestrian, I constantly find these people milling about Portland.

Encounters with these day-walking, daydreamers normally ensue as follows: the oblivious one will be roughly a block ahead.  I'll continue walking at my normal click because this Helen Keller of the sidewalk hasn't been identified as such by yours truly.

Now, I'm no Olympic Ecuadorian speed walker.  No, my gait is not that of Jefferson Perez, but I generally walk with purpose.  My accidental stalking victims seem to be on a nonchalant stroll to nowhere.  The difference between us is one of intent - my feet are being used as a mode of transportation, but the vic (as they say on CSI) is out to enjoy themselves.  Out for a merry walk to exercise and daydream.

For some reason the snail finds it necessary to daydream down the center of the sidewalk, thus making any attempt to pass uncomfortable for both parties.  Comparable to camping in the fast lane of I5 while simultaneously star gazing out your sun roof.

Suddenly I realize that I'm too close.  I've caught up.  And worse yet, they haven't noticed my presence.  By the time I'm close enough to recognize I'm slightly stalking this person, it's too late.

Now I'm committed.

To avoid the awkward moment when the slow-walker realizes they're being followed at close range, the stalking must continue.  The stalking becomes premeditated and strategic.  I'm treading ever softer so my footsteps don't give me away. My breathing is calm and controlled.  Hands into my pockets so my clothes don't rustle and coinage doesn't jingle.  I turn my cell phone to silent.

The thinking here is that one of two things will happen prior to them becoming aware: either, A), I reach my destination and no longer have to follow, or B), the stalked turns in another direction.  However, as I continue to close the distance and neither of these two things have happened, I panic, thinking, "How in the hell can I let this moron know I'm behind them without startling the poor ignoramous?!"

Strategies to alert such a person include, but are not limited to:

• Slight cough - not too loud, not to soft, just enough to bring them out of their trance.
• Clearing of the throat - the only danger here...they might then expect you to say something.
• Dragging of the feet - a little scuff on your Pumas might help signify your presence.
• Produce keys from pocket and jingle like a bell - recently tried this method...while slightly unorthodox, it did the trick.

But you know what...screw 'em.  They're hogging the pedestrian thoroughfare.  There's no reason for me to feel socially awkward.  So confidently, boldly, eloquently, I gently clear my throat and say, in the snottiest, pompous, and most standoffish way possible, "Exxxxcuuuuuse me."

The shocked space cadet reacts with disbelief that some creeper is halfway up their pant leg attempting to pass them during their state of mental vacay.

Chest up, nose in the air, I arrogantly parade by the absent minded pedestrian - another stranger successfully stalked in the Rose City.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf

Guilty Guster Pleasure

Preface: I did not pay this band even one penny before today...

Two weeks ago today I went to the Crystal Ballroom in Portland to see Guster play. The Band is on tour to promote their new album, the eagerly awaited, much anticipated, and first in five years, Easy Wonderful.



Guster played a lot of their old material, which was great since I hadn't listened to the new album yet, and it really brought me back to when I first started listening to them. Guster became a regular listen back in high school - friends burned a few albums and I procured others through legally dubious methods. Guster's concert led me to ponder the amount of time I've spent listening to a band I've never supported with so much as a dime. Being the analyst/number cruncher that I am, I decided to dive into the numbers my ipod would provide and came up with some interesting, if not disgusting, stats (as of today, 2/2/11).

• Of my Top 100 playlist, Guster accounts for 36 songs.
• Top song played: Satellite from Guster's Ganging Up On The Sun album; played 91 times for a total of roughly seven hours of listening.
• Total play count of the 84 Guster songs on ipod: 3601
• Total time spent listening to Guster on ipod:
  
  • In minutes: 14,710.32
  • In hours: 245.1719
  • In days: 10.2155
• Guster songs (84) account for 2.16% of all songs on my ipod (3878)
• Total length of all Guster songs on ipod (338.47 mins) account for 2.16% of total length of all songs on ipod (15639.55 mins)
• Guster play time (10.22 days) accounts for 11.47% of total ipod play time (89.03 days)

Disturbed? Nauseated? Can't say I blame you...like the title says...Guster is a guilty pleasure. Regardless of the readerships distaste of my Guster fetish, I enjoy the music, but this lack of financial support for the band had left me feeling sour. Even the concert ticket was mooched! I was guilty of skimping my guilty pleasure. Guilty...until this afternoon...

Determined to settle up with Guster, I googled my way to their official website (guster.com...real tough) to examine their fine wares. Shirts. Bands always make a killing on those overpriced symbols of fandom...or so I thought. Come to find out, Guster is selling shirts as low as $6. Six measly bucks?! I've seen bands sell shirts for upwards of $18 to $24. Ignoring the fact that the band was probably losing money on the shirt I was buying and that this purchase really doesn't make up for my previous pirate discretions, I decided on this shirt. I can now claim to have supported Guster as a band and a business while slightly easing my sickened soul. My guilty Guster pleasure has received my patronage.

Follow Guster on their twitter: @guster

xoxo,
ShavedGolf