As part of my tireless, ongoing efforts, not only to enlighten, inform, and entertain you, but to also broaden your junk-food horizons as well, I thought I might seek out and review the 10 best donut shops in Portland.
Hey, who knows - you could end up here, and you'd wanna know, right?
And when you need to know the answers to life's tough questions like, "Where am I gonna get a quality donut in Portland at one in the morning?" ya gotta ask the experts.
Police ride-along
That's why I decided to go on a ride-along with my new friend and neighbor, Rich, who just happens to be an expert. He's a Portland city cop.
Rich, who is of German descent, coincidentally has a German-sounding last name. I'm not allowed to reveal it in this column, which is good, because I can't even pronounce it, but it sounds a lot like "Hold-your-toes-in-housing, moron!" This comes in handy when Rich has to say, scare or confuse the livin' daylights outta some robber, especially if he's just broken into Housing, 'cause all Rich has to do is holler his last name at the guy, and he's got the drop on him.
Background check
One of the first things you have to do when you're going on a ride-along with a cop is have your name run through the very stern-looking police computer to see if you're a bad guy. It would not look good for the department to be escorting a perp all over town in the front seat of the squad car, I guess. This was the scariest part of the entire evening for me, because, I confess, a long, long time ago, I ripped one of those "Do Not Remove" tags from a mattress.
Hey, I was drunk, I was lonely, the mattress was there and, well, one thing led to another and - oh, never mind!
Next, I had to sign a waiver, a form stating that, in the unfortunate event that I get my head blown off by some burglar, I won't turn right around and sue the Portland police.
Then comes the all-important "fitting-for-a-bulletproof-vest." After several attempts, and a little help from Rich (and a few other big burly cops), I was able to strap it around my girth.
Anyone shooting at me would have to be a darn lucky shot or a sharp-shooter to actually hit the "bulletproof" part of me.
"Does this vest make my butt look big, Rich?"
"Everything makes your butt look big, John. Have you got a license for that thing, by the way?"
Now it's time for roll call, where the captain dispenses light-hearted cop humor while informing us about all the new crooks in the precinct - as well as the ones in the street.
There's "Jill the Ripper," who just got outta prison for stabbing people to ribbons. She spent six years straight in solitary. Her "slight build and good looks draw you in, then she guts you like a pig," the captain warned.
Darn - and here I am married and all.
"Do I get a gun, Rich?" I pleaded.
"No. The guns are mine." He carries a 9mm sidearm and an AR-15 assault rifle in the squad car.
"How 'bout one of these cool telescoping nightsticks?"
"Nope."
I had always wanted to be a cop.
Micreant phase
Well, not always. I guess I went through what you'd call a phase where I thought I wanted to be a cop. It was just after my miscreant phase, which, some would argue, I'm still going through, because I write this column twice a month.
I blame it on "Dirty Harry."
Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry movies came out when my testosterone levels were screaming, "do ya feel lucky, punk? Well, DO YA?"
Dirty Harry could walk down a busy city street, munching casually on a hot dog and blowing guys away with his .44 Magnum, "the most powerful handgun in the world," and get away with it. Oh, he might get a major butt-chewing from his spineless captain with bad breath, but he'd just step outside and do it again.
I guess when it comes right down to it, I didn't really want to be a cop, I just wanted to blow guys away while enjoying a well-prepared hot dog.
Rich, being gifted with mystical police ESP powers, which he must keep somewhere in his Bat Utility Belt, probably sensed this is me.
"Can I just TOUCH your gun?"
"NO!"
"Well, OK, when do I get a donut?"
"No donuts."
"GEEZ! What DO I get for my night as your partner?"
"You get the pleasure of my company as I take you on a guided tour of the seedy underbelly of Portland!"
"But - !"
"Do ya feel lucky?"
Originally published Aug. 10, 2002.
Copyright © The Billings Gazette, a division of Lee Enterprises.
John Potter, an Ojibwe from Wisconsin, is a gifted artist, illustrator and writer. After more than 20 years as an editorial artist and columnist with the Billings Gazette (Billings, Mont.), he now spends his full time and energy on his oils, painting the landscapes of the West that he loves the most. His work can be seen online at www.johnpotterstudio.com.
