Meaning is important. It’s the raft we float on. A precious thing we make. But the meaningless is important, also. The meaningless is the ocean that floats our raft of meaning.

Because there is so much meaningless, we seek to put it to use. It’s what drives people to find an engine that runs on air. You want to be surrounded by treasure without having to dig any up.

Last week, we went to the 2007 North American Street Newspaper Association (NASNA) conference. We means two vendors, an intern, a director, a consultant, a reporter, Anitra “ID-Free” Freeman, and I. Some of us were graciously driven to Portland by staff reporter Cydney Gillis. Anitra and I took turns loudly pronouncing Washington State town names as if they were bird cries, like this: “PuuuuuuyALLup!” “EENumCLAW!” “Walla WALLa!” Totally meaningless fun!

Advice: wait until you’re halfway to be so annoying. You want to set up what I call a moral dilemma. Don’t let the driver think, “I can kick them out here. It would only take them a fortnight to walk back. I would feel only slight guilt.”

So there I was, at the NASNA conference in Portland, with my sweetheart, BBQ chips, old friends, new friends, and…no beer!

Paul Boden, of the Western Regional Advocacy Project, was there also, physically, and existentially. No beer! “Let’s go get beer!” “Where?” We asked natives. They said, “Go that way, turn left, go that far, there’s a store.” Paul, Anitra, and I set off.

We get to the store, which is a Tartan Pantry, a Plaid Cupboard, or something. We pick out the beer. Paul steps up to buy his. He’s carded.

Let’s clarify this picture. Paul is younger than I am, but has a kind of flinty look to him, reminiscent of David Carradine in Kill Bill, or Richard Widmark post-50-years-of-age. He ain’t no spring chicken. I’m beside Paul while he shows his ID, laughing. I lied and said, “Ha, ha, you’re older than I am!” I look like Willie Nelson who’s put on weight.

So then it was my turn. There was a funky beer on the counter. I said, “Hey! This isn’t one of mine!” Anitra claimed it, but said I had to buy it. So I said, “RIGHT. I love you, too.” I showed the nice cashier my ID.

The next day I remembered where I’d seen that cashier before. He was behind the counter in the cantina at Mos Eisley. The “no droids allowed in here” bartender, Star Wars IV.

He looked at my ID as though I weren’t 58-years-old and it mattered that it might be fake. He handed it back. I took out money and he said, “Not so fast, I have to see hers,” pointing to Anitra, who is a whole 8 days younger than am I.

“Ha, ha, whip out your ID, baby face,” I said to her. But she didn’t have her ID with her!

So the cashier/Mos Eisley bartender took her beer away. I said, “OK then, how much for MY beer here.” And he took THAT away, too! HEY! NOT FUNNY!

“No, no, no, no, NOOOO,” I said, “MY beer! You can sell me MY beer! I have ID! Anitra won’t drink MY beer.”

But the guy says, “I’m not selling you anything.”

As we walked away to find a supermarket, we discussed what the deal with the convenience store guy was. Paul pointed to the badges we were all wearing, that showed the words North American Street Newspaper Assn., proof that we belonged to an organization that cares about the homeless.

Maybe the cashier created a meaning from those badges he didn’t like.

This column is the 300th—or 301st—by Dr. Wes. Many more to come...