Oregon Tavern Age: Surrealism

A 20-year-old game show plays on television in Portland OTA country. A female OTA bartender watches.

I drink a gin and tonic and work on an essay about surrealism and homelessness. It’s one of the more complex pieces of writing I’ve ever attempted. I’m not pulling it off.

Surely, I am the only writer in America at the moment writing about surrealism and homelessness in a dive bar on a weekday.

Is that a good thing? Samuel Johnson wrote, “Only a fool doesn’t write for money.”

He was probably right.

It’s deader than a door nail in here. Where’s the degenerate regular who is always bitching about the inadequacy of her sex life? I need another profane monologue from her.

I just received a text message from a health care conglomerate trying to commit Medicare fraud in connection to my dad’s medical care after a recent minor fall. They want more tests and more tests and more doctor visits. Dad needs a Perry Mason doctor with a black bag who makes house calls.

Surrealism. A word uttered all the time in all the media platforms and no one knows what it really means. I do. I’ve studied it for decades and taught surrealism-themed writing workshop to high school students, teachers and aspiring writers.

It is not a synonym for bizarre or something that happened that couldn’t possibly have happened.

I am writing about the scenes of homelessness I encounter in the early mornings on my walks through the park with Elmer. Some of them have braced to me to the point of knocking me over. Do these scenes qualify as surreal according to the classic definition from a century ago when the artist movement began in France? In the essay, I am arguing they are not. Does it matter? Who knows? I do know that this essay will most likely conclude the new book I am writing as a follow-up to the Old Crow Book Club. It came about the same way as Old Crow; I just walked into it, this time with my great new dog who is becoming a charming literary sidekick.

I taste the gin and tonic. No tonic. They always make gin and tonics like that in this joint.

Time for a break from writing. I need some degenerates in here for company. I like writing about degenerates. Their antics occasionally make me laugh. I need more laughter in my life. Don’t we all. These are not funny times. I don’t seem to meet funny people anymore.