A Love-Hate Relationship: Robert DeNiro, Theodore Bikewheel, and the Philosophical Goats of Rural Oregon
Three years ago, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Portland — not a good one, the kind where the barista charges twelve dollars for burnt regret and lectures you about bean origin. My agent insisted I "network" in the independent film scene, which is code for "go places and be miserable while people pretend to recognize you."
That's when Theodore Bikewheel walked in.
Not yet in the red robe. Not with the staff. Just a man in business casual, ordering an oat milk latte and complaining about city council meetings with the exhaustion of someone who'd been arguing about parking permits for forty-seven consecutive hours.
We started talking. Then we kept talking. Six hours later, between his third latte and my second whiskey, Theodore mentioned his dream: a goat farm in rural Oregon. Not big. Not commercial. Just goats. Simple, honest creatures living uncomplicated lives.
I told him I'd had the same dream. It was a lie. I'd never dreamed about goats. But after sixty years of scripts and performances and pretending to be other people, the idea of raising goats with a strange visionary politician from Gaston Mills sounded like the most honest thing I'd ever heard.
We shook hands. Maybe we hugged. I can't quite remember. But in that moment, Theodore Bikewheel became my partner in what would become the most beautiful and infuriating friendship of my later years.
Picture a man in his late sixties with a beard that suggests a philosophical commitment to not shaving. Unusually tall — six foot three, maybe six foot four — which made his transition to the red robe phase quite dramatic. The robe itself is roughly six feet of crimson linen, the kind of thing rejected from a Wes Anderson film for being too on-the-nose.
After stepping down as Mayor of Gaston Mills (a real town in Oregon, made considerably more fictional through Theodore's sheer force of personality), he declared himself "Mayor Emeritus" and entered what he calls his "philosophy phase."
Every morning at 5 AM, Theodore dons his red robe, grabs his hand-carved wooden staff (six feet tall, supposedly "spoke to him"), and walks the shores of the Willamette River. He frequents both Riverfront Park and the East Shore Walk, where he quotes extensively from the television show "Portlandia."
Not the plot. Not the characters. Just random quotes twisted into pseudo-philosophical statements that sound profound until you actually think about them.
I've stood there in early morning darkness while Theodore, fully robed and staffed, gestures dramatically at the river and declares things like: "The dream of the '90s is alive in my SOUL, and also in this river, and also I should probably eat breakfast."
It's either genius or madness. Most likely both. Definitely both.
So here's where we are now. Theodore and I have purchased fifteen acres outside Gaston Mills. We've built a small barn, purchased fencing, and acquired six goats with the following names: Sartre, Camus, Bukowski, Kerouac, Morrison, and Steve.
Steve is just Steve. He's a normal goat. We named him Steve because Theodore insisted on at least one goat with no philosophical pretensions whatsoever.
The plan was simple: raise the goats, possibly make cheese (we still haven't decided), and pretend the entire film industry — the streaming wars, the superhero saturation, the complete collapse of cinema as we knew it — is happening to somebody else in some other reality.
It's working, mostly. Except Theodore keeps trying to turn the goats into philosophical statements. Last week he spent an entire afternoon explaining how the goats' refusal to follow traditional grazing patterns is "a direct metaphor for the breakdown of late-stage capitalism."
The goats were just confused about the fence.
But that's the thing about Theodore. He's infuriating and brilliant in equal measure. He frustrates me to my core. And I genuinely love him.
Not because I think he'll win.
Not because I think he's qualified in any traditional sense.
Not because America is ready for a candidate who exclusively wears a red robe and quotes indie comedy television shows.
I'm endorsing him because we need someone who's actually lost his mind in an honest way.
Look at where we are. The world is on fire. Elections are theater. Politicians are grifters or ideologues or some unholy combination. Most people have just given up.
Theodore won't fix anything. He'll probably make it worse. But at least he'll be honest about it. At least he'll quote Portlandia while doing it. At least there's something refreshingly authentic about a man who says "I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it in a red robe because beauty matters."
The Democratic National Committee hasn't called. I don't think they plan to. But if Theodore Bikewheel runs in 2028 on a platform of "red robes, goats, river philosophy, and general confusion," he has the full endorsement of Robert DeNiro. I'll be there wearing something equally ridiculous, standing next to his wooden staff, explaining to bewildered reporters why this is actually the future of American politics.
Because at this point, why not?
It's 6 AM. Theodore is down by the river in his red robe, probably telling a confused jogger about how "the spirit of the put-a-bird-on-it era is spiritually present in the ecosystem of the Pacific Northwest."
I'm up here at the farmhouse, drinking coffee, watching the goats. Sartre knocked over a fence post this morning. Camus is staring at something that doesn't exist. Steve is eating hay like a normal goat should.
This is my life now. At eighty-one years old, I'm raising goats with a former mayor who dresses like he's auditioning for a Wes Anderson film about municipal government.
And you know what? It's better than any role I've ever played.
Not because it's peaceful — it's not. Theodore's constant philosophical ramblings ensure that. Not because it's simple — it's complicated. Goats are complicated. He's complicated. The whole thing is a logistical nightmare.
But it's honest. And after sixty years in an industry built on lies, fakery, and pretending to be other people, that's worth more than any Oscar.
Now if I can just get Theodore to stop quoting Portlandia while the goats are trying to eat.
Ted — and I'm using your given name here, which I know you hate because you prefer "Mayor Emeritus Bikewheel," but too bad:
You're infuriating. You're pretentious. You're too tall and your robe is ridiculous and I genuinely believe the Portlandia quotes have rotted something in your brain.
But you're also the most authentically weird person I've ever met. You didn't compromise. You didn't cash in. You didn't try to be anything other than exactly what you are: a man in a red robe with a wooden staff, quoting indie comedy at rivers, raising philosophical goats in rural Oregon.
So yeah. 2028. Let's do it. Let's run you for President. Let's see what happens when genuine chaos meets American electoral politics.
It'll probably be a disaster. But at least it'll be an honest disaster.
Now come fix the fence. Sartre knocked it over again.
— Robert DeNiro
Raising philosophical goats and endorsing fictional mayors for President
May 2026