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Trojan Implosion II
May. 20th, 2006 10:41 pm
The title of this entry may lead you to expect some kind of terrible story involving America's most popular brand of latex prophylactic. Fortunately you will find no such thing. I do not know why the Trojan Project was so named.
Goble Tavern. Goble, OR.
I had begun to think I would just get a burger and run, but as soon as I found the place, I knew I would spend the night. Goble is not a town. There is a little white sign on a post by the railroad that says "GOBLE". Visible there is one house, one mobile home park, and one tavern. In 1966 a reporter described the place as "a hamlet which has been fading slowly from Oregon's memory for almost a half century, but which still hopes to recapture its brawling vitality of yore." The crowd at Goble Tavern seems content to keep it this way, partying on in eternal denouement.
In quick succession I committed two faux pas. First, I presented a California drivers license for entrance to an Oregon bar. I winced. Fortunately the bouncer did not make a scene. Second, I asked if this was the way to the "backyard." I should have said "beer garden."
"Beer Garden" at Goble Tavern.
This was—and I do not apply this appellation lightly—the most hilarious thing ever, and in the best possible way. Songs were sung to the rythmn of fiddles, banjos, spoons, and saws. Songs were sung about three-eyed fish. This was, after all, about the huge Nucular Plant of Monty Burns fame, the real life version. Someone walking by raised a fist in the air, gestured vaguely northward, and cried, "Tomorrow that curs'ed tower will be gone!" Many of those present had worked in the plant during its tortured operation. One woman handed out scrubs, explaining, "We have to wear these every day!" I eagerly donned a pair. I was quickly befriended by a couple from San Francisco who asked me about Burning Man and shared their beer with me like we were old friends. Some guests had driven up from Portland or from further away, but by far most of the attendees were definitively local.
Riana arrived, with a boy, a dog, and some kids they'd found at a party on the way from Portland.
I slept in the car. Taking a cue from Ryan and Lisza, I slept through that portal between the truck and the back seat of my rental car. Accomodations were sufficient. In the morning I wandered down to the beach. This involved the evading of police officers.
I overheard in passing, "What they don't realize is that controlled demolition has become a spectator sport."
Beach of the Columbia.
Gathered on the beach were a few other spectators. Two guys wore gas masks and hard hats, for hilarity purposes. Someone commented wryly that we were among few who intentionally put themselves downwind of an impending nuclear plant explosion.
The river was full of police boats with flashing lights, enforcing the security perimeter.
At 7 AM the implosion commenced. First we saw this. About seven seconds later we heard the kabooms. Then the rain of dust began.
I took a video. There are many videos.
Self portrait with nuclear scrubs and fallout-filtering bandana.
After the implosion, everybody wandered back to the bar. It was just after 7 AM and the Goble Tavern was open for business, serving buscuits and gravy.
