Oregon Trail, part 3

I generally hate travelling, so I'd prefer to stay in my motel room crouched in some corner for an entire trip, but the maid's got to remake the beds and make more shampoo, so me and my brother Matt have to get outside for some period of time on Friday. Our parents have the rental car, so we have to walk around the town of Grant's Pass looking for something to do. The place is a piece of crap, and Matt deems it his own "personal hell." I approve of that assessment. For those who know me from the upper valley, it is like West Lebanon without the shopping: a strip of car dealerships, motels, and realtors (who would buy a house here?). The one time I get excited while baking in the cloudless 90° heat is when I see a Dollar Tree. Matt says no, we can't go in there.

The entire state of Oregon seems too cultured to have any chain stores or anything remotely franchised other than Dutch Bros. Coffee (the western Dunkin' Donuts?), so I'm in unfamiliar territory. Finally, my cousin Nathaniel and his girlfriend call back and we catch lunch at a cheap but decent Thai restaurant. He's one of few reasonable relatives, so it's all good, and I'm able to explain my situation efficiently with "I live at home; I work for my parents." I've used this on my extended family several times already, and it saves me a lot of hemming and hawing. It also cracks people up more than I'd expect, which means I'm finally getting the hang of describing what a loser I am.

Friday evening (the night before the wedding), both families get on a large flat jet boat (operated by Hellgate excursions) and roar down the river. On paper, it seemed like a bizarre activity, but it's kind of wet and fun. It could've been less wet, as the boat driver sadistically threw the boat into 360° spins to drench everybody. On the upside, I see why Oregon might be a place to live as opposed to the place where debtors and fraudsters are sent after they die. There are houses by the river that you'd need to be absolutely loaded to have. I wonder how much they like having boats buzzing by their luxurious homes at fifty miles an hour every 10 minutes in the summer.

My uncle works for Google, and I asked him about the text messaging service they have. Can they report baseball scores? He doesn't know, and I immediately have a fantasy of being accepted into the company based on my ability to develop such a service. Unfortunately, texting "red sox score" to GOOGL actually does work. They really are too smart for me over there. I don't get too down on myself, because by texting Google, I watch the Sox sweep Chicago in four games over the weekend. I can think of fewer more satisfying text messages to receive than Boston 7 - Chicago 1 - Bot 7th.