I'm in jail — sort of

So this exuberant, not-to-be-denied lady on the other end of the line tells me that I’m being arrested and put in jail on Thursday.

You guessed it; it’s a fundraiser.

This one is for the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

I have friends with multiple sclerosis. I know several families with autistic kids. I try to support the afflicted and affected as best I can, but I really don't do enough.

And breast cancer, heart disease and diabetes are rampant. The list goes on and on. Sometimes I think there should be a “disease or disability of the month” just so we don’t overlook anything.

But the MDA (whose main spokesman is Jerry Lewis) got to me first. Someone (it could be YOU) had “nominated” me to be arrested.

The woman on the other end had no idea who I was except for what the “nomination “ form told her.

“You’re perfect for this,” she exuded. “A retired CEO.”

“A retired CEO? There must be some mistake. Just call me a MDA detainee."

She didn’t pursue my denial of retired CEO status, but it gave me a hint about how these jailings for charities work.

The idea is to incarcerate deep pockets with connections.

Maybe the person who nominated me said I was a retired newspaper editor and publisher. You can read all kinds of donor potential into that. A second home in Palm Springs. Foursomes on the links. Poolside margaritas.

The woman described an incarceration worthy of a retired CEO. I’m to show up at a fancy restaurant where I will be fed. My sentence will be one-hour. My hosts not doubt will expect me to Rolodex my way through calls to golfing buddies (I don’t play), members of the board of my corporation (I have no corporation) and other retired CEOs (I don't know any) to pay my “bail.”

So I will probably be calling my unemployed former students, graying Returned Peace Corps Volunteers from the ‘60s, and low-paid friends in the “helping professions.”

I do know some folks who know retired CEOs, but somehow I don’t think a second-hand pitch for some "jailed" lefty blogger will net big bucks.

Then again, the person who nominated me must have had some scheme in mind. I do write this blog and a few folks do read it. My nominator probably figured my “arrest” would be good for a post or two and maybe that would bring in some spare change.

It’s up to you to prove this theory right — or wrong.

If you want to learn more about muscular dystrophy, go here.

If you want to get me out of jail, go here.

If you don’t want to do any of the above, I won’t hold it against you.

But if you do pony up for MDA, thanks.

Porsches, Putters and Typewriters

Saturday took me on a strange mission to an out-of-the-way (to me at least) part of Portland.

I packed seven typewriters and an old RC Allen crank adding machine into the back of the RAV4 and headed north on I-5 to the Expo Center.

I was to rendezvous under the freeway overpass with strangers from Bremerton.

Don Feldman had seen my Craig’s List ad offering up a host of typewriters. I’m paring back from 55, which I bought in a mad-dash, eBay frenzy three years ago. It is time to throw the frenzy into reverse. Sure, I’ll save a few of these endearing old creatures, but most have to be moved.

Don and I had carried on friendly but intense typewriter negotiations via e-mail until we struck a deal.

As I pulled up, he and his wife were dosing in their red Jeep Cherokee after returning from the Expo Center’s Antique Collectors Show across the street. He was younger than I had imagined, which is good because it means another generation will care for the typewriters.

He proudly announced that he has 500 in his collection.

Actually 500 and seven, I thought. But who’s counting?

We transferred the cargo, he paid me $300 for the lot (he got a deal), we shook hands and parted.

My next activity was to pace off my daily 10,000 steps somewhere. As I considered my many options, I drove behind the gargantuan Expo Center. The sprawling center is built on in-fill near the Columbia Slough. As I looked for the freeway on-ramp, the slough intrigued me. Ducks, songbirds, willows, cattails and patches of green water. I spotted the entrance to something called the Heron Lakes Golf Course and figured it might yield a hike.

I diagonal parked in a pull-off lot for hikers and non-golfers and set out along the electric golf cart trails that skirt the fairways.

If the golfers noticed me at all, I must have looked odd. No clubs, no “Titleist” or “Nike” golf/baseball cap, no electric cart, no competitive edge. Just me, my cleat-less hiking shoes, a floppy hat to shield me from the sun and a determination to reel off a few thousand steps.

Occasionally I would watch a foursome drive, lay-up and putt. I’ve learned gallery etiquette from viewing the U.S. Open. I've learned awe from watching Tiger Woods.

On Saturday, with a distant, respectful, almost worshipful silence, I watched the graceful arcs of the drives, a slice kerplunking into a slough and wobbly, befuddling putts.

As I was drawn deeper and deeper into the maze of links, a distant rasping invaded the silence of Heron Lakes’ rolling fairways. As I strolled the back nine, the noise became inescapable, persistent and, finally, rattling.

Somehow, the sanctuary of a golf course had been built next to Portland International Raceway, or maybe it was the other way around. In any case, all that separated the two were a narrow slough, a chain link fence and thin air.

On this Saturday, the throttle-jockeys, like the duffers, were out in number. Downshifting, sliding into the turns, then running up through the gears down the straight-aways.

aaaarrrrrrrrr!….aaRRRRRRR!….RRRRRRR!!!!! …. GREEEEEEEEEEummmmmmm!!!!! choff, choff, choff.

The golfers seemed unfazed. They crouched over the greens, studying, measuring, lining up their putts. Not 100 yards away, a pack of Porsches smoked out of a curve, spitting fire, screaming with speed.

No one, not even a pair of mallards in the slough, seemed to notice the incongruity of it all. I stood perplexed on a knoll above a bunker. Before me in the distance beyond the fence sprawled the fuming, reverberating track with its cockpit-encased, wheel-gripping speed freaks. And here, just a chip shot from my vantage, an intense foursome paced and deciphered the green before teasing white balls toward its hole.

By now, Don was on his way home to Bremerton, proud owner of 507 typewriters. I had 15 crisp $20 bills in my pocket as I wandered the fairways, feeding my pedometer.

As I turned for the long trek back to the car, I wondered what, if anything, it all meant, or whether it was even worth asking.