But no, I wasn’t smuggling anything. I did have a bottle of Smirnoff but that’s not illegal (although I could be charged with lack of taste). Like any red-blooded American patriot, I felt compelled to see what this border crisis is all about. I went to Naco, a small Arizona border town south of Bisbee.

Naco’s nothing much. Dirt streets, low-slung adobe homes, shaded windows. Huge dump trucks were parked by the iron-ribbed fence, a mile east of the border crossing. I pulled up next to one in my rental car and got out for a look around. Nothing was happening.
I stood and waited a half hour for the caravans to arrive, the horde of migrants. But nada. No migration invasion anywhere. It got boring.

I went back to the car and listened to the radio – Spanish songs and announcers. I did not hear the word “emergencia” once.
And then I saw him. Or her. About a hundred yards down the road, on the other side of the fence. A single figure crouched on a teal blue bucket seat torn from some long-gone vehicle. The bucket seat was sitting on the gravel on the Mexican side.

As I came closer, I got a good look at the crouched figure. There was no doubt. It was a Chihuahua. The bony dog had its head deep into a tin can licking out the last drops. My mind flashed: photo op. But when I stepped up to the iron bars to take a pic, the pooch heard me and slunk off, tail curled through tiny legs, continually looking back to see if I might have something to eat. Emergency rations for a hungry mutt.

I had little to offer other than sunflower seeds and gum. I went to my Camry and brought back a handful of seeds and a stick of Big Red. I offered them through the fence, but the Chihuahua wouldn’t come near. Didn’t trust me. Can’t say I blame him. Or her. Or them.
Before I left, I sent my apologies and best wishes through the iron bars.

Mexico has had its fair share of immigration problems. It was in the San Pedro Valley, near Naco, where Coronado and his immense force of Conquistadors marched through in 1540 heading north in search of the fabled Seven Cities of Gold. It was a fruitless journey. As was mine.

Finding no crisis in Naco, I headed north on two-lane roads and came to Sonoita. At a wide intersection, turning onto a road toward Tucson, I turned too early and ended up in the wrong lane going the wrong direction. A simple mistake. One anyone could make.

Two Border Patrol vehicles were parked on each side of the road. The officers saw me and no doubt smirked. One of them tailed me for two miles before pulling me over. I like to think he was waiting to see if I’d make a dash for it, but in reality he was probably running my plate.

I stopped the car and two officers approached. One stood back and to the side, in my blind spot. The other spoke and asked for my ID which I handed over. He asked what I was up to and I didn’t lie. I said I was investigating the border crisis. I think one of his eyebrows raised.

“Mind if we take a look in your trunk?” he said.

I paused to ponder it. Do I mind that? Did he have the right to search it? What if there’s something in the trunk I don’t know about? My inner voice said hell yeah I mind, but my outer voice said, “Knock yourself out,” and I popped the trunk.

They found nothing. No drugs. No warrants. No bust. No glory.

The officer seemed disappointed. He looked me in the eye and said smugglers often miss the same turn I just missed when they see their Patrol vehicles. In other words, I fit the pattern of a smuggler. I smugly put my sunglasses on and pulled my hat down low as I drove off. A codger to be reckoned with.

The fact is, illegal border crossings are at a near 40-year low.

Dept. of Homeland Security data shows that undetected unlawful entries into the US from Mexico decreased from 851,000 in 2006 to 62,000 in 2016. Other reviews from independent groups seem to agree there is no emergency crisis at the Mexican border. Chihuahuas may beg to differ.

Coronado on his quest for gold went all the way to Kansas before concluding he’d been hoodwinked. He had his guide, a native known as the Turk, killed by garrote. Then he mounted up and slunk back down to Mexico City, his tail through his legs (he fell off his horse and had to be carried part of the way). He died at age 44, a bankrupt and broken dude.

Makes me wonder what folks 500 years from now will think of our current Coronado – and his deluded search for gold, glory, and fame – again in vain. To those in the future, I send my apologies and best wishes. Happy trails.

Protests bring out the loonies. From the right side, “patriots” in custom-made riot gear shouted “USA, USA, USA!” From the left (some in sunflower disguise – typical PDX) came chants of “Compost Fascism! Compost Fascism!” Fierce debaters stood face to face and shouted the same thing, “That’s been debunked! That’s been debunked!”

Off to the side, the Unpresidented Brass Band served up a raucous backbeat to the cacophony. Turning a protest into a party. Where people come armed for a fight.

It was a beautiful day in Portland. Started sunny and ended sunny. Cops kept the powder-keg environment under control with the aid of a few flash-bang grenades. Protesters who were carrying kept their gun concealed. Human damage was minimal. Four arrests. No serious injuries. And no change in the forecast.

As homeless folks slept in the shade nearby, the Salmon Springs fountain provided a small rainbow. Nobody noticed.

There’s a line to get in. It’s not long but it’s lively. Everyone is excited for the doors to open. It’s like this every Sunday evening at six o’clock when NWA Blue Collar Wrestling takes the stage at the Eagle’s Lodge on North Lombard. Bus 75 goes right by, within shouting distance. It's performance art of a more physical kind. This is just one of many stops along Bus 75 that photographer Geoffrey Hiller and I feature on our photo/essay blog - Bus 75: Hidden Portland.

To read more posts on Bus 75: Hidden Portland go to www.bus75.org.

Directions to Hidden Portland: Board the #75 bus and get off and on often. Do not take a guidebook. Do not follow the crowd. Discover for yourself the underside, upside, downside and unknown side of our city.

Strangely enough, I’ve recently collaborated on a book with good friend and weirdly talented Portland artist, Karen Wippich. It’s titled “Driving Strangers: Diary of an Uber Driver.”

The book combines Karen’s oddly intriguing portraits with my brief, pithy musings about people I’ve ferried around Portland as an Uber driver. It features 25 art portraits, 75 Uber reflections, and driver data showing my net earnings per shift.

Even stranger, the book is for sale on Amazon and Createspace. In a blatant act of self-promotion, I’ve provided the link below.

P.S. The book also makes a nice cheese plate. Perfect for the holidays!

Find it on Amazon!

HEY, LOOK THIS WAY! READ THIS AMAZING BLOG POST! You will be astounded at what happens next! Did you hear the shocking news? Are you missing the boat on this? Good God, HURRY!

(Pause. Heavy, exasperated sigh.) I am really, really, really tired of emails and headlines that bark like yip dogs for attention. They come from everywhere – sellers, service providers, news outlets, social media… I’m getting carpal tunnel deleting them as fast as I can.

Here’s what I won’t delete (at least in a nanosecond).
1. Emails with subject lines that are not desperate, dumb, blatant hype.
2. Messages that offer good information I can use.
3. Headlines and images that are interesting, entertaining, or humorous as hell.

Those are the three ways to get into my mind and make a connection. Without them, the doorman will not let you in. GET LOST!

On a recent holiday trip to Morocco, I spent some time in Marrakech with various local freelancers, including storytellers, drummers, dancers with roosters on their head, fortune-tellers, cell phone hawkers, and one highly charming snake charmer.

I came away with five insights into freelancing that can be applied in any country, any line of work. Not just snake charming.

1. People will be leery of you and what you offer. When you approach prospects, do it in a light-hearted way. Be friendly and casual, make a joke, and ask a personal question (such as where they are from) to start a conversation.

2. Don’t beat around the bush too long. Get to the point soon and bring out your goods (snakes, roosters, rugs, design, copy, consulting).

3. Let customers try on your product – whether it be a cobra, leather jacket, or creative work. For instance, create an ad or poster for your prospect that shows your design and copy. Give them an idea of how it will look, feel and work. Then offer it at reduced cost and nurture the relationship. Bargain wisely and fairly.

4. Explain how simple it is to work with you. Keep it short and add some wit and humor to show your warm, engaging personality. If you don’t have such a personality, get a snake.

5. If the prospect turns you down, just smile and say, “Okay, friend. Maybe later.” It works. After first turning the snake charmer down, I went back later and paid for a photo.

Hope your new year is even better than the last one. Keep smiling in 2015!

Bucket Joke

I learned something the other day about homeless people. They’re not afraid to laugh.

I was hurrying back to work after lunch. While crossing a Portland street I met a downtrodden man with a blooming, cauliflowery beard who stopped in the middle of the intersection and stammered out a few words in my direction.

“Excu, excuse me, can you,” I knew he wanted money and I stopped him dead in his tracks. “Sorry,” I said, and kept going. I didn’t want to stand in the middle of the street and listen – so I cut him off before he could say more. His weary sigh said it all – damn, I can’t even get out a question before this guy blows me off.

As I walked on down the sidewalk, I looked back and saw him across the street standing still. He was carrying a rolled up tarp and a big pack on his back. In one hand he held a large plastic bucket with a lid on it. He just stood there.

Feeling guilty, I jay-walked across the street and went up to him. “I didn’t hear your question before,” I said. “What did you want?” He lifted his eyes to mine and asked if I knew where the Portland Outdoor store was. Somewhat surprised, I said sure, it was on the corner one block over. “I’m going that way, I’ll show you.”

We started walking and I asked, “What’s in the bucket?” He replied, “Now that’s a funny story.” He started laughing and said, “A cop asked me that same question once. I told him the bucket carried sailboat fuel.” He guffawed and went on, “Sailboat fuel! The cop got mad and said he wanted a look. When he took off the lid there was only air inside!” Through his snowy whiskers came an avalanche of laughter. I grinned but didn’t laugh. It was obvious I didn’t get the joke. He explained, “Sailboats move on wind, not fuel! There’s no such thing as sailboat fuel!” He about fell over laughing.

I lied and assured him I thought it was funny as hell. But in truth, I wasn’t sure I could muster a laugh if I were in his situation. We continued walking. “So what’s the bucket really for then?” I asked. He sighed and said, “Waste management system.”

I realized that despite being homeless and carrying his own personal outhouse, he was a free man of independent means. A man who knew about sailing, laughed a lot, and had more control of his life than I gave him credit for. I doubt he would say the same for me.

Memorial Day Driving Tips

As a public service, Les Overhead provides the following message and song – by band Public Service Broadcasting. Drive safely this Memorial Day weekend. And watch out for morons who are driving recklessly. This video shows how to do it.  Be careful out there.

Every once in awhile I write short, true accounts of encounters with random homeless folks in downtown Portland. The following is one such account.

No Hand Out

I first noticed him as I was heading into a convenience store. He was sitting on the sidewalk in a gray hoodie with one leg splayed out. He had a small ragged sign that simply said – Please help. I knew he would most likely hit me up for money when I passed by and he did. Only it wasn’t so much an ask, it was a look – lifeless eyes slowly lifting up to mine.

I took a dollar from my pocket and reached down to give it to him. He raised both arms and I caught my breath when I saw he had no hands or wrists. Each arm ended at the elbow. He used them to grab the buck, like a gray crab with pincers. I lowered my eyes and walked away.

When I got to my office I could see him from my window. He had his head down with his arms hidden inside his sweatshirt. At lunch, I walked to the post office and saw he was still there. I passed by him and caught my breath again. His one leg reached out like before; his other leg was missing. He had a prosthetic that extended just below the knee. It looked in bad shape, like it had been worn down over time.

I felt I had to know what happened. Was it a bomb in Iraq or Afghanistan? Did he step on a mine in Vietnam?  Was he in a terrible car accident? What cosmic catastrophe caused him to be so physically impaired and also homeless? His answer was quiet and succinct:  “I was born this way.” God didn’t even give him a decent story to tell.

I went back to my office and made him a new sign. It said:  NO HANDS, NO WRISTS, ONE GOOD LEG. BUT I HAVE HOPE. PLEASE HELP.  When I gave it to him he read it slowly, then said thanks, he would use it. He was probably humoring me. Now I realize he could have used two ten-dollar bills more than one new sign. I haven’t seen him since.