I, along with my enchanting girlfriend, Leigh, ran into Fred Green today, and rescued him from uncertain solitude at the hands of the Portland mean streets.
That slack-jawed, oyster-eatin’, finger-countin’, Hawthorne-walkin’, roots listenin’, noise-bringin’, Florida-schoolin’, buffet-eatin’ sumbitch was downtown crossing some street and we grabbed him and went shoplifting.
We used to share an apartment up in Alaska. Two summers in a row. Both were shitholes, but, the one he picked out, man, that was hell. Fred and Matt “Rooster” Leonard rented the place, and when I finally got up to Alaska a week later, I found my “share” of the joint was “a corner in the living room.” Some friends.
I was a step up from a common house dog, you know, with a pillow to lay on. Instead, I had a blow-up bed. No respect.
But these tribulations forged a bond that will never come undone. Whether I like it or not.
Just know this: Anyone who fucks with Fred Green fucks with the entire DDC enterprise. Just the facts, people.
