ON THE EFFICACY OF STATUS UPDATES

it's 9:00 p.m., saturday october 30, and i think i'm the only one in town not putting the finishing touches on my costume. instead, i'm dropping my keys into the ravine next to where i parked my bike at the plaid pantry. argh. find those keys get home before you give in to the urge to buy a mask at fred meyer and go out anyway. am i the only homo who doesn't care about halloween? the others are probably still going to the party. don't think about it. pack.

ENOUGH SAID

you could all just read 'mobylives' for yourselves (and you should) and spare me the shame of my constant stream of recycled content. then again, i'd have to go to lesser content for my frantic placeholder posts, so maybe you should just take them from me.

i started reading there not long after falling for the melville house catalog, which i did specifically for its rich offerings of literature in translation, a sub-section of the book market that is disappointingly under-appreciated in this country. regardless (or perhaps because its staff and leadership balk at our paucity of good new translations), melville house keeps them coming. it's an inspiring dedication.

today at 'moby lives': a post "in support of translation." despite one of its books having won it last year, melville house has withdrawn from all future involvement with the best translated book prize since learning that the prize will now be underwritten by amazon.com.

...we mean to offer a much more genuine support to translation in America than taking part in a ruse leading to its further denigration. What’s more, we mean to make a more genuine statement of support for the independent publishing and bookseller community.

we may need better access to books not written here and in our language, but i'm somehow swelling with pride at being an american. thanks, melville house. and take that, king george.

HOW TO MAKE A CREDIBLE EXCUSE; or, ON EQUIVOCATION

work. would you believe it? you probably wouldn't believe another excuse about the tailor. i'll distract you, then: siete suerte has authentic tijuana bacon wrapped hot dogs! it's one of those super hip mobile food carts. i walked by it earlier while it was parked in the empty lot on nw 4th and burnside that used to be an adult bookstore but was razed -- if you believe the sign staked in the southeast corner of the lot -- under pressure from randy leonard's HIT squad. (that's the commissioner's housing interdiction team, for the out-of-towners.) hope springs eternal, it would seem. those hot dogs symbolize the carrying on of a proud chinatown tradition. if those don't do it for you, the paris theater is just across the street and down a block.

from there you can see the j.a. atwood corp/atwood investments buidling, which stands on a triangular island between sw 3rd ave and ash and ankeny sts. it's always surrounded by half a dozen cars, and there's more space for parking than there looks to be inside the building. really, it's tiny. half of the entryway is done in turn of the last century stained glass, and earlier i noticed that the back wall of the front room (there might actually only be the one) was covered with framed black and whites of "old" portland. i don't know why i'd never thought to look inside before today, but today was the first time i realized how stupid i'd been to have always thought the place was a car rental business. that parking to building space ratio is a tricky illusion. i don't think i'd ever even read the signage before. the internet says it's a real estate office. ha. gangsters are so transparent. 33 sw 3rd. whatever they do, they're damn sure going to keep that address. location! an interesting existential pun.

i picked up my shirts further up 3rd ave, and so that's about half of my walk narrated, but done in reverse. other interesting sights? no. but the bike kids are wearing tights under their shorts now. after getting soaked on my ride home monday night, my winter three quarter lenghts were still wet on tuesday morning so i decided to don some leggings myself. they're warm. mine are invisible, true, but the bike kids should know that the trend died with my enthusiasm for it over the summer.

that's about half of my walk back to the desk where, wouldn't you know, the information i've been asking for for three weeks is here just in time for me to leave town. slapdash or frenzy? in either case, it means that the show is going to have to wait in the wings a little while longer. sorry. don't worry, though. it's waiting, which means you'll have to, too.

in the meantime, does anyone want to buy "the complete cartoons of the new yorker?" it comes with two cds with every cartoon ever published in the magazine. i can't find an original price or an isbn, so i don't think that powell's is going to buy it, and the bank of japan hasn't responded to any of my entreaties to devalue the yen.

THE MISSING LINK; or, ON BOOK BIKES

for a hyperlink free version of this post, click here.

we should have reported on this sooner, but with entertaining the tailor and looking for apartments in tokyo it was all too easy to fall behind last week when the internet went abuzz with the news. (plus, we had a guest for the weekend.)

really, though, we should have incepted this sooner, and -- now that i come to think of it -- it's a surprise that the hometown and headquarters of powells.com doesn't have a fleet of book bikes doing its deliveries for the portland metro, the bike-friendliest place in the country. damn.

we've got bikes for beer, bikes for coffee (only slightly different than coffee by bike), and bikes for fixing bikes, so who was it that dropped the ball on bikes for books? apparently portland isn't as innovative as it's supposed to be, and maybe it's entirely my fault on this front. then the downpour makes me second guess my self-admonition. i'd rather be reading than riding around in that to get other people their books. i'm behind in my reading as it is. a program's bound to need an administrator, though. someone at a computer...

while i'm scheming, the game is already underway in cambridge, ma. as moby lives reported friday:

With the tag line, "Buy Green. Buy Local. By Bike. A new way to get your books faster, cheaper, and greener," Harvard Bookstore announced their new two-wheeled book delivery service, appealing to the carbon-conscious readers in their area and boasting that "all in-stock orders placed for Cambridge and parts of Somerville and Allston will receive same- or next-day delivery."

outdone by harvard? harvard?!? this is what over indulgence and self-satisfaction get us, portland: trumped by the third rate. couldn't make the bikes and books connection? maybe that's why we've been so unhappy. that's a lunch meeting i'm going to have to prepare for. if you need me this afternoon, i'll be dictating a proposal to the intern.

***

just the facts: harvard bookstore delivering by bicycle for online orders made for cambridge and parts of somerville and allston as reported by moby lives on 10/22. portland falls behind in "bike race." no news from powells.com on unveiling a similar (same or next day) pedal powered delivery service. 'looking good in pants' author anticipates lucrative sinecure.

now, really, who wanted that? you miss that awesome picture of the guy on the track bike riding a velodrome while having an espresso and reading the paper (ahh...the good old days). it's almost as good as that one of the tour riders from the twenties using one another's cigarettes to light up. before the internet, blogs were just embellished telegrams!

i've still got my eye on you, laura miller.

ON DERIVATIVE CALCULI, part 2

those landmines. i'm crawling through them myself. "i know cause i planted them. under cover of night i put my heart in the ground."

no, i don't have anything original tonight. and that's not the original anyway. it does seem, however, to be lady singer-songwriter week here at 'looking good in pants;' and whatever you read into that isn't anything close to the convoluted dada/gaga/what's cool now? rationale behind why it happened. [broken social scene lyrics sung by emily haines here.] i like it all that way.

who knew i could eat so much in a weekend. the extra weight is purportedly just water retention. do i want to go back? i could stand standing on the scale to a lighter tune, but i'll gruel myself at the exercising tomorrow only because i won't have the plans or the excitement of the last three days, not because i really care about what's probably just water weight.

yes. this is a cop out. go ahead and count the hours during which you know i could have been working at something better (then subtract the time it takes to self-edit something admittedly half-assed). but given our understanding, i know you understand that the copping out (everything's better in uniform) can only mean a diminishing or a greatening of my esteem. yeah, that's a word. let's argue that instead of badgering the equivocation. ultimately, though, it's not worth your time. it's correct and it's mine.

i know 'cause i planted it. so there.

PRETTY GOOD YEAR

"heard the eternal footman bought himself a bike to race."

we did you one better, tori. or one worse, which ruins the idiom (or [maybe?] does it one better) but is more evocative of my feelings toward what's going to go down this afternoon. i don't race (remember?). well, i might this weekend, but there are circumstances, and no one really rides very fast in your periphery during a cyclocross race if you let yourself start slow and at the back. but i don't usually race, so my reference to those lyrics doesn't have much to stand on from the outset. plus, they would have described me better, oh...maybe five years ago.

some of those racists sure are sexy, though. i rode past a certain tiny one in pink and blue last night on my way down alberta st. from the new seasons on 33rd. he was probably on his way home from the blind date at the dairy. there are probably pictures online. (read into that.)

i haven't been able to make any spectating appearances at the blind date series because of regular wednesday evening commitments (read into that if you can), and had a really awkward time later on trying to navigate a conversation about those commitments with the guy at the video store who may or may not have tried to engage me in flirtations in the past. "so, are there, you know, any pretty girls or guys in your dance class?" tell me, what should i read into that?

they can all have a ride after this evening. a man from the 509 is coming in a big truck to deliver the 'looking good in pants' trophy husband catcher. he'll be here after three. my shame far outweighs your scorn, i assure you.

get ready, trannies. it's pimping time: very, very literally construed.

HOW TO HOLD OUT FOR THE BIG PAYOFF

for all of you regular readers (thanks, winnipeg!) who are just finally reaching this post after having diligently read through every post you'd missed over the past couple of weeks: i understand. and that statement of understanding isn't meant to come off as patronizing or condescending. i'm not secretly hurt and begrudging. (as regular readers, you know that i make no secret of grudges.) i really do understand. i do the same thing. i apologize, too, because i should have given you this tidbit on friday when i first received the "publishers lunch" email that made it known to me; but, alas, that email sat unread in my inbox until today.

procrastination can be awful on the nerves, but i often wonder if the concomitant benefits aren't worth it. suddenly, from a molding pile of rote tasks that could have been dispensed with quickly in the moment -- and without much emotional strife -- you've produced a mountain of accomplishment and an invigorating (sometimes even motivating) sense of relief.* see? we really do understand each other. now that that's settled:

Borders has come up with a modest answer to Barnes & Noble's new PubIt and Amazon's established DTP program, announcing "Borders - Get Published" in association with start-up BookBrewer.com. The emphasis of the service is turning blogs into salable ebooks quickly and easily, though they charge a set-up fee and take 25 percent of the proceeds. (In this respect the service looks similar to plethora of sites that let you turn RSS feeds into mobile phone apps.) But they say it works for regular manuscripts as well.

so there. it's happening, and something like kind of how i said it had been/was/would. soon you'll be able to buy my book.

or not, because at the same time i was catching up on email i was reading a review of james franco's short story collection, palo alto, at salon.com. salon's franco coverage is as consistent and doting as the times' is of portland. still, the reviewer was unexpectedly praising. i've only read the story that got printed in esquire and didn't think much of it. james franco got a book deal because he's famous -- and pretty, a characteristic that the review uses to open onto a description of franco's special place in the contemporary writing world.

one of the reviewer's statements was, however, particularly intriguing. "'Palo Alto' is," he writes, "sad, sensitive, [and] concerned at all times with its authenticity and uncontaminated by plot (even, at times, incident)."

i won't belabor an explanation of my conclusion because, well, we have an understanding, you and i. suffice it to say that if prettiness and self-supporting authenticity are all it takes to have your book published by a major house, then screw the ebooks. i'm holding out for a print deal.

update: this article in the new yorker disagrees. a link to it arrived to me in an email on 10/8. i put off reading it until this afternoon.

ON BREAKING; or, HOW TO REALLY APPRECIATE THE CAROL BURNETT SHOW

i had the greatest laugh of my life tonight. colleen quit her service job of five years, and a group of us went out to celebrate. at her request, the table took turns telling stories of its worst job experiences. we started with our most memorable, only to remember as the night went on the real gems of our careers. the second and third rounds remembered our best stories, and at one point during i had that greatest laugh.

that greatest laugh. it's the greatest because it reminds you of having had such great laughs in the past, moments that you only recall when you're given cause to wonder if in fact tonight you really haven't ever laughed so hard before. and you laugh hard. the light is good, and you're in amazing company -- the conversation flows like it doesn't always... and the light is good...and someone's taking pictures -- and you love laughing so hard because you've never before thought to step back and think that you're stepping back to acknowledge that maybe you've never laughed so hard in your life. it's the greatest laugh because you wonder if perhaps it isn't, and you wonder so because you're in such great company that you wonder why you've never been given cause to wonder before, and you wonder whether it's just because you're laughing so hard that you just want this laugh to be the greatest. and so it is.

the muscles in my torso hurt from it. my face hurt from trying to keep it in. (we're all getting on in time, and no one wants it to show.) "twatters," and being fired by your own father and the two days you worked that one job because you needed to make rent and unfortunately saw the worst of a friend as a result: a friend that's here to celebrate and from whom you never want to see the same ugly resignation again.

the retellings, though, they're funny. the retellings are why we tell stories. someone's taking pictures because it's funny, and because, boy, these drinks are strong. the house music is a late 90s mix, and you think about the u2 song, the song (or the other one) that typifies that feeling of our old naivety, the lust for manhattan or wherever, when those places seemed like the beacons of making it. the romance and the beautifully easy struggle. then we stoke our little fire in a hope that we've all unequivocally stated at some point that portland is really the place of now that new york or wherever was in the nineties. and now, the house, and the relationship...and the failed relationship...are all as laudatory as they are lamentable. that's what we love; or, for better or for worse, that's what we share, and so we laugh.

whatever story in particular isn't worth retelling. it was the company, or the light or the "these drinks are strong." it's only happening here, we think and say, so take heart and everything like that. but it's happening everywhere, and the story's not worth retelling because you have stories of your own to fill in the blanks and to help recall having that great laugh.

carol burnett. that show. i loved it as a child, but also remember being impressed at such a frighteningly formidable presence. she came up tonight, as much of a red herring reference-in-passing of tonight's conversation as she is now in my narrative of the evening. carol burnett could laugh. that wasn't even how she came up, but i'll let it make sense that way. what a woman. i wonder if i've ever laughed so hard as i laughed tonight because i remember knowing how hard other people have laughed. it's for us, too. so thanks, and congratulations, colleen.

before the end of the night, i got to recommend aoibheann sweeney's novel to a new friend after introducing it through a diatribe on the recent success of fiction describing queer adolescents that hasn't, thankfully, succumbed to the dead horse of the old coming out story. we've gotten that far. that was probably most of the company's experience, and it's nice to see it in mass market print, however belated. i'd gifted the book to colleen a couple of years earlier, if only because it's fun to post things to friends in the same city. like ms. carol burnett, the evening was otherwise untied to ms. sweeney, and i had no other telling motivation for the recommendation. we laughed. it was a happy commiseration.

god damn. you write things like that and wonder if you aren't the belated one. i'm getting old. tonight, at least, like i said, the light was good.

AND ANOTHER THING; or, HOPE TO THE RESCUE!

yesterday, i groundlessly speculated that "better known american authors don't [wouldn't?] seem to have the problems getting translated that writers outside this country do." today, the same german publication that ran the story on SUR, argentina's subsidy fund for foreign translations of argentine literature, published a piece on the "rock-n-roll" popularity of translated american fiction in germany. it's apparently not uncommon for american authors to outsell german ones -- especially if those american authors are jonathan franzen. so i was right. at least as far as the land of "poets and thinkers" goes.

when was the last time a new book in translation by a foreign author outsold a homegrown talent in the u.s.? and i remember that stieg larsson guy. oh yeah. dammit. well it happens all the time in germany...and probably all over the rest of the places too. still speculative. hrm. white guy's books sell! can that be my revelation?

regardless, the publishing industry is on hard times these days, and even if u.s. authors don't need a SUR to help them get translated (or don't need as much help as authors in places like, say, argentina), they can still use some help. lucky for us, the obama administration has come through with a cleverly oblique subsidy program of its own. the publishing stimulus, as discussed today in this essay in the new york times, has been slipped into the defense budget. just incorporate something secret about the united states into your work (or a client's work), and the department of defense will buy the entire first edition printing to have it destroyed. what publicity! booksellers benefit even more from top dollar sales of copies that were spared the bonfire.

an author quoted in the times article wondered if similar programs couldn't be devised to generate foreign aid as well. it might be as easy as dedicating your book to a local political prisoner. be creative! that's what everyone wants.

it's just good to know that books are finally getting a piece of the earmarks pie. farm subsidies? gross. they wear overalls! and man cannot live on genetically modified organisms alone. thank you, argentina, for blazing the trail. madonna, er, evita would be proud.

EXCUSE US

you don't remember, but we won't hold it against you. it's a struggle, and oftentimes the choice is the result of not wanting to lead with the first-person singular pronoun. i acknowledged my not so careful lapses in and out of the editorial we in this post, but didn't do much to make good on my promise to sort things out.

because i failed to buy the nyt magazine for the week of october 3rd, i didn't read ben zimmer's "on language" column on the historical debate over writing (or speaking) in the first-person plural until i saw it mentioned at 'mobylives' today in a post on nosism (the practice of using the editorial or royal we is named for the first-person plural in latin).

i guess, well, we always thought we'd be more than one, although i don't know if that's where we're still headed. past first-person plural users have been leveled all sorts of criticism, and zimmer gives us a funny rundown. my response to the standouts: i don't have a mouse in my purse, nor am i host to a parasite or would i get pregnant if i could. really, the we we use here isn't so much of the editor as the schizophrene.

we're sorry.

HOW TO SOFTEN THE FALL, part 2; or, HOW NOT TO BLOG

there was no more putting off switching to the winter commuting costume this morning. it's been solidly fall since last monday, and though the skies have been fair -- except for that awfulness on saturday and sunday mornings -- overnight and morning temperatures are dropping. in fact, and a fact i only understood once moving to oregon, the nights are cooler the less rain we have. something about cloud cover and reflection. sound poetic? melancholic is more apt, maybe. but there are months of that to be had. i'll enjoy the sun shining through the invigoratingly crisp fall air as long as it lasts, which i hope is until the end of october.

rain or shine, it's getting colder. so bring on the wool, and bring it on in layers. (unfortunately, my slanket loses most of its function when i'm not reposed.) we're not quite to the point of needing gloves and scarves, but "need" is complicated, and a sad resignation in this case, because if they didn't mean potentially overheating before the end of a ride, the accessories would be on as soon as the calendar permitted.

the cold. even if i can't pull myself out of bed in the morning for a longer ride before work, i can use my regret to fuel my anticipation of an evening ride. bike lane traffic thins out this time of year, which, combined with the leaves changing (be careful, they're slippery) and my rush to squeeze what riding i can into what's left of the dry and the light, makes it an ideal season for setting out at rush hour. there's still some sun left.

the sad twist. bike lane traffic thins this time of year, but the bike lanes have been crowded the past several days. something's afoot in the city of pedal power. i hate squirrels, especially as a road hazard, but has anyone else noticed that they're dead in the streets left and right lately? the crows got to the fresh ones before the weekend rain -- make sure to save a cringe for when i remind you that a rain soaked dead squirrel looks like a washed up sewer rat and pigeon splice and is far uglier than any fuzzy, pink, picked at carcass -- but there were new ones on the road already last night. (there's that one dead pigeon in the bike lane on interstate, too, but she seems just to be an interesting red herring anomaly.)

has someone, someone who hates the squirrels even more than i do, finally cracked and just gone for the kill? is there a freedom hating motorist in our midst that resents the happy situation of we early fall cyclist? i've allowed my resentment (i really hate those conniving rat bastards) to be tempered by the massive scale of the carnage. it's bad. they're everywhere.

it was a relief then (the happy twist and a lesson in burying the lead) to get some good news from an article on how the frankfurt book fair has stimulated the production of new literary translations (from argentina, at least). argentina, this year's guest country of honor at frankfurt, originally planned to showcase itself by showcasing the likes of eva peron and diego maradona. argentine writers weren't happy. borges and cortazar may not be household names in most of the world, but this is, after all, a book fair.

luckily, criticism from the literary wing got the argentine government on track to a more, well, literary presence at frankfurt, one result of which was the establishment of "SUR," a SUBSIDY fund accessible to foreign publishers wanting to translate books from argentina. A SUBSIDY FUND FOR TRANSLATION. better known american authors don't seem to have the problems getting translated that writers outside this country do. bigger names in europe wouldn't seem to have to jump hurdles as high as in, say, anywhere that doesn't use the latin alphabet. by "seem" i mean that i don't really know in either case. selfishly, i don't try to know too much about what american authors get translated into what languages. in europe's case, however, i'm sure i'd be reading even more of its offers if more of their works were on offer. do we have a SUR equivalent here? is there one for the european union or any of its constituent countries?

SUR has been successful beyond all expectations. in its first months, the program gave three times as many grants as had been its goal for that period when it launched. someone from argentina said this:

"Now firmly convinced of the political importance of cultural representation abroad, the Argentine government has announced that the SUR program will continue to fund translations of Argentine literature long after the Frankfurt Book Fair has ended."

whoa. fill the pork barrels with books! i will read them. but since it's up to publishers to decide which works they want, argentina's translated oeuvre shouldn't be restricted by any best-face-forward political agenda (just, um, the literary market). from another argentine:

"I think it is wonderful, because they've not just gone for the big names; new writers are being published too. When you look at the works being translated, you see that four different generations are represented."

it suddenly occurs to me that the string of squirrel deaths might not be an accident. i suspect that the squirrel job market is frustrating glutted with overqualified young does and bucks looking to get a leg up. how long could you expect him to tolerate working the acorn line after he spent all those years learning how to find figs. it's sad. and just now, when things are starting to look up. seriously, people. your kids need to read.

OREGON BICYCLE CONSTRUCTERS ASSOCIATION HANDMADE BICYCLE SHOW LIVE BLOG, part 5

4:33 p.m. someone's talking about my bike. he's directly to my right and i think that he must not think i'm the builder because he's making statements instead of asking questions. maybe his friend just doesn't know much about what she's looking at. i know enough not to try to describe it. this guy apparently knows more.

"classic brazed frame. you just put a little silver and some flux in there and then..." hey, tranny. appreciate that bike for the paint job. and yeah, i know that it needs a new one.

"hey, tina? tina?" i don't know what the guy from vendetta wants from her, but she's been busy taking photographs all day, and i can't think of a single reason that justifies him in tearing her away from her conversation with that old man.

so it's because they're together, and boy-o wants her to pack up so they can split. "you don't have to blog about that." whoops.

4:41 p.m. low battery. outlet finding.

4:53 p.m. squeezing myself under the display to find the outlet in this shirt regretting.

lubricated enough to start trying my hand at explanations. "carbon fiber seat mast...epoxy...fits right through the lug up to the saddle rails." nice to meet you, maria.

five more minutes. then tear down. then grocery shopping, which, i'll be honest, will probably get sidelined to grabbing a bike from home and going up to southwest to meet the cyclocrossers post-race.

the tool bags cost $120. TOOL BAG! well, it's, like, sixty dollars worth of tools. awesome. and the shirts are twenty? wrap it up!

and wrap it up.

kelly stops by the booth -- on her way to find andy (who knows where edwin is?) -- to say hello and goodbye and don't they want to pack this stuff up already? there was a surge today, apparently, but the crowd wasn't anything to compare to yesterday's. sunday, though. what can you do? well done, kelly. well done, obca.

"nice rack!" from behind me. and laughs. it's not that great a joke, but we all appreciate getting it. that's oregon, and that's bikes.

5:13 p.m. who's up for dinner? aperitifs? oregon and bikes mean parties, and it's just to know who and where. and where the fuck is edwin?

OREGON BICYCLE CONSTRUCTERS ASSOCIATION HANDMADE BICYCLE SHOW LIVE BLOG, part 4

3:39 p.m. stopped by the blaq designs booth. at least one of the owners is from ohio; kent, if i remember correctly from the welcome party on friday. i need a new bag for serious. the lining of mine has been creased to the point that it lets the water in, which isn't ideal for commuting in the northwest. they said they'd give me the special show price even if i didn't jump to order during the show (we've got just over an hour). i'll need a backpack this time. the shoulder make for pain anymore if it's loaded with anything heavy. getting old. and getting hit by that car helped too.

3:49 p.m. traffic is definitely slowing. i'm noticing flip flops. the sun, it seems, is going to stay out for the day. whoa. there's a gay face. like, seriously gay face.

the guy getting his bike photographed right now has it draped in medals and an american flag jersey. track champion? the bike, from ticycles, really doesn't look it. he's really concerned with how those medals look. he has to adjust them every time the photographer adjusts the bike. it's obvious that she knows the camera isn't going to take a true enough shot to let anyone read them. what do i know about technology, though. nothing. these bikes are fancy!

he took the medals off for one more picture. they're jangling around his neck as he walks the bike away.

4:01 p.m. joseph ahearne makes beautiful bicycles. integrated rack systems (front and rear), whatever you'd call the top tube that sweeps through the seat tube to connect with the...somwehere -- and that sweeping thing connecting that same top tube to the seat tube. it's off the photo backdrop now, and i still have to sit here, so i can't give any better description.

who could ever have ridden that english cycles bike? i get that it's for time trials, but no one's back is that long. still using your imaginations, kiddies?

4:13 p.m. money. it's bottom line time. sell some units. that's what they're calling them at the show this year. "units." i'm just playing along. so far this year i've sold zero. it's all about the futures.

OREGON BICYCLE CONSTRUCTERS ASSOCIATION HANDMADE BICYCLE SHOW LIVE BLOG, part 3

2:34 p.m. we got burritos from KOi fusion. it's the korean-mexican fusion cart that got written up in gourmet. remember? they should have cooked the kimchee with the other fillings. the way it was, it was like biting into an under heated convenience store burrito, never knowing when the next cold bite was going to be. the korean taco cart next to la jarochita is better (and a dollar cheaper for their burritos), and i've only rarely let myself eat there.

but bikes. people keep coming in the door -- and some of them make their ways back to the sprout booth. hold on! i've apparently a better vantage than i thought. the official photo booth is just to our back left. the builders who didn't have their shots taken yesterday are all rolling their stuff by the booth to get in line. is it possible to have seen so many incredibly fancy bikes that you're not impressed by them anymore? i know i'm the one responsible for the reportage here, but you'll have to come to one of these shows to really be the judge. that's my way of saying that i can't eat and type and make quality observations at the same time.

"hey abraham!" "i though i recognized this bike." i explained to edwin that abraham had installed my new drivetrain. i also had to explain that he has a kid, which may or may not mean a wifey. selfishness.

2:53 p.m. two more hours. i think i have a beer coming. it strikes me that i should be impressed to know that there are enough bicycle builders in oregon to have an oregon bicycle constructers association, and for the association to have a show...and for the show to be well and consistently attended over two days. also, it costs $10 to get in, so even if folks don't have the cash to buy custom bicycles of their own, they're definitely willing to shell out to have a look. reminded again that i have absolutely no reason to be doing this live. keeps me from over drinking maybe. post show. POST.

where's edwin?

3:00 p.m. my beer is here, and edwin with it. those things go hand in hand, really, because edwin is a native portlander, and bikes and beer just happen here. all i have to do is sit at the booth.

"do you build full time?" "no, unfortunately." it happens for some people, but it's a subsistence existence. the one's who've made it are heroes, sure, but they're not making much. blasé? yes, i dare.

"hello? ...hello?" i think jeremy's here.

wondering how the races are shaping up out at rainier. (that's right. three prepositions.)

OREGON BICYCLE CONSTRUCTERS ASSOCIATION HANDMADE BICYCLE SHOW LIVE BLOG, part 2

1:02 p.m. eek! already two beers in. they weren't serving when we got here, so i had to slog the six blocks to plaid pantry to get a sixer. i ran into the obra official that kicked me out of alpenrose on my way back into the show and wanted to offer him a bottle. it would have been wasted.

it might be lunch time.

"silver is a lot tighter than [something, something] ... with the steel [maybe?] ..." this hour's lesson: learn how to weld or find yourself $4000.

"i'm going to sell him a bike at some point." conspiratorial smiles.

the sun's coming out. our window seat makes for good viewing of the leaves outside.

1:15 p.m. i want to take royalties on all of the photographs being taken of my bicycle. also, i want a new paint job. the bright lights show all of the scratches.

like i said, i'm just sitting here. sometimes people come to talk. oh, right. lunch. perchance i'll go look at something.

talked to mark from belladonna earlier and promised i'd run into him again in minutes. maybe i should swing by there.

epiphany: the people with cameras can SHOW you what i came here to try to talk about. materials and application and technique and component integration are difficult to make sound pretty without pictures. i wouldn't be here if things weren't pretty. use your imaginations.

1:53 p.m. edwin wandered off somewhere and found a bagel. i ate half of said found bagel. there was pesto in the cream cheese, i think.

people are popping corks and dropping tools. handmade bikes are both fancy and reckless.

mark is doing fine. he's also upset with the dearth of vegetarian options at the caterers' tables. (there's a korean taco cart outside, but it's looking like the best of their's are pork.) the best of ours might be post show.

tony of pereira cycles seems to think that traffic has been better today. kelly and edwin disagree.

map bicycles is set up across from sprout, and although their aesthetic is cohesive, the squared forks and fat vintage-y tubulars leave me cold. more food please.

OREGON BICYCLE CONSTRUCTERS ASSOCIATION HANDMADE BICYCLE SHOW LIVE BLOG

12:22 p.m. got the wifi password. priorities! edwin and i didn't arrive until just after eleven, but it didn't look like many people had braved the sunday morning rain to show up at ten anyway. my first conversation in the door was, strangely, about flamenco. the tango de malaga sounds scary. flamenco dancing 101: don't piss off your guitarists. kelly and i dance at the same studio, and kelly's married to andy newlands, portland's original framebuilder. she and andy run the obca, and they put on this show. the location at ne 9th and flanders is much better than last year's. edwin got here (sunday, day two) earlier than last year, too. whoa. last year. bad news. who knows how many people i infected with the pig flu?

12:31 p.m. pretending like something happened. i'm going to go put some clay in my hair at the mirrors near the booth. the sprout cycles booth. sprout cycles is edwin brown, and i think that's the first line of the blurb i wrote for the program. he recycled it from last year. i'd happily have written something else.

oh yeah. the mirrors. i mean, there are dozens of people with cameras here. probably for the bikes, but i should still try to look good.

"we're overwhelmed by colors!" that's the sprout cycles display, straight from the horse's mouth.

12:43 p.m. photo ready. went outside to use the toilet and took the opportunity to see some other booths. i've never seen muse or blaze exhibiting before. the fare there looks pretty standard. muse only has a couple of mountain bikes out, and i wouldn't know a better one of those from judas. the stainless lugs on the blaze bike in the front were shiny. but polish alone doesn't make up for those same lugs not having been carved away from how they came from the manufacturer.

back to the booth. hmmm. maybe camping myself stationary at a single location isn't the best position from which to write an exciting live blog. learn with me people, learn with me. i could probably say whatever i wanted about handmade bicycles, and you'd all believe me. these things cost more than most used cars, so you're probably not buying anyway.

12:53 p.m. overheard from the hufnagel booth (jordan's space is next to edwin's): "what's the obca?" "i don't even know anymore." "they pulled in some money last night. i don't know if they're just covering their costs or if they're buying property." kelly, they're gossiping.

jordan's booth is well set up. can't say i think much of the bikes, but his tee shirts are well designed. not for twenty dollars, though. price it what you think it's worth and someone will buy it. he's selling some sweet tool bags, too. who wants to buy me one? ha. tool bags. portland.

HOW TO GIVE BACK; or, ANOTHER FORM OF TAKING

we'd like to extend our heartfelt congratulations to mario vargas llosa for winning the 2010 nobel prize for literature, and thank him as well for making us a killing on all the bad bets we took. other outlets must have done well on the more straightforward bets, too: as of wednesday, kenyan author ngugi wa thiong'o was favored to win with 3-1 odds, followed by cormac mccarthy at 6-1 and haruki murakami (grumble) at 7-1. really. we weren't joking yesterday. there are odds on everything. and vargas llosa apparently wrote exstensively on corruption. go figure.

i've never read any of the new laureate's work, but, in hindsight, i should have guessed a latin/south american author given the new vogue in english translation of that region's second, post-dictatorship boom generation (vargas llosa was of the first, though the dictatorships of his era were still hale). unfortunately, i haven't read anyone old enough to seem considerable by the prize committee. vargas llosa wasn't even on my radar.

again, i've never read any of his work, but i think i might now, and not because of the prize. well, maybe because of the prize in that it was only because he won it that i got to know him through the press today and found out he once hit gabriel garcía márquez in the face at a movie premiere in mexico city for having "consoled" his wife in paris (thanks for being discreet nyt). i read memories of my melancholy whores and really resented marquez for taking that title. a book under with name should really be about a gay guy on mood stabilizers telling stories about his hooker friends.

HOW TO SPECULATE CONFIDENTLY IN THE FACE OF BEING GIVEN THE LIE; or, ON BANKING

the 2010 nobel prize for literature gets announced tomorrow. any guesses?

i'm still basking in the glow of having called orhan pamuk for the prize in 2006, though i felt trashy being seen with his books in public after he won. i still haven't picked up the museum of innocence. maybe when it's out in paperback.

if i thought that the committee would honor another german after herta müller won last year, i'd hold out hope that michael kruger could win. he's a poet as well as a novelist, and that other part of his oeuvre might be enough to move the committee past the ivory tower high-mindedness of his fiction. i love him, but müller, for example, also a poet and novelist, won for her depictions of "the landscape of the dispossessed," which seems to be what the committee likes. kruger doesn't really fit the mold. speculation.

has enough time passed for another japanese to be named? kenji nakagami, then. did you know that the japanese still ostracize their untouchables?

peter nadas, maybe.

we'll know in eleven and a half hours. that's more than enough time for me to take bets, sell shares in them and then bet against those. whoever wins tomorrow, this blog and aig are neck and neck for the economic sciences prize to be announced on monday.

CROSS CRUSADE SERIES RACE 1: ALPENROSE DAIRY

wherefore the silence since sunday, you ask? what of the coverage of the largest single day cyclocross event in the world? 'looking good in pants' has an unstated promise to the people (henceforth a stated one) to deliver on events like the cross crusade season opener. critics might even argue that our quick rise to esteem was nothing if not a buildup of anticipation for this race: introducing the players; piquing your interest in the weird world of elite bike racism; introducing the venue; and, of course, consistent reminders of the fleshly joys of spectating what's in and out of the spandex as it exerts itself on the bicycle.

a short answer isn't easy; but that alpenrose wasn't the same this year is a decent departure. in fact, i'd stop there and be done with it if i didn't suspect that i'd have to address certain accusations -- and the redress would be harder and more consuming in the end than taking a moment to give up the truth from the get-go, albeit two days late. ultimately though, we're here in the interest of the short answer, and a stitch in time, as they say, sews up the fat lips of the late-coming naysayers. then, however, i suspect again, this time that my attempts at brevity might come off as a masquerading ill will. to be brief, that is not the case.

ultimately, and this should be exonerating (though it's also the thing from which those accusations will, ironically, arise) my time at alpenrose dairy on sunday was very short. i didn't race, and i only watched the one race. the single speed race. the race that is most often the highlight of the races, and the one of which portland seems to be the most proud. there's a reason that the first two single speed cyclocross world championships were held here. but alpenrose wasn't the same this year. there were more than a few regular faces missing from the front of the race i saw. that didn't mean any fewer opportunities for heckling, a staple of the cross crusade series as much as the mud, wet and beer are.

it's not just the number of entrants that make alpenrose the world's biggest single day event, but the crowds too. people are excited, and they have been. 'looking good in pants' isn't the only outlet that channels and chases the energy of cyclocross anticipation. cyclocross is the people's cyclesport, and despite its being grueling and dirty, when portland heads out to the course, it knows it can expect to be able to enjoy a camaraderie of interest, local pride and carnival excitement before the onset of the impending winter gloom.

the single speed race is the epitome of that spirit. the leaders, sure, are the hard trainers and the technical experts, many of whom will finish the race and break for two hours just to ride again in the elite field (some without even switching to a bike with gears). but, after the pack has thinned following lap one, the center of the race is where you'll see, if not the more interesting competition, then at least the best examples of the local cyclocross color: the friendly rivalries of familiarity that thrive on mutual heckling of encouragement and the sure knowledge that the light at the end of the pain cave is the beginning of the party. people ride, most of them just leapfrogging positions, gaining some on the sections of the course that are best matched to their skills and losing them back when they get thrown something unexpected, and then they finish.

something, though, wasn't the same about alpenrose this year, and i didn't care that i missed seeing anyone finish. i hadn't raced earlier that morning, and i'd only seen a few of the people that normally make watching the men's elite race worth staying for, so maybe my mood was a little stale. i also didn't question my snobbery so much as to resist wondering if the scene hadn't become to big -- too open. i won't expound on my current perspective-from-a-distance feelings on that now, because i'm giving you the short answer in the interest of sufficiency. let it suffice to say, then, that perhaps portland might like to know its bicycle races like we like to know our bands. and yes, the early albums were better -- and whatever's the analog to knowing the bike culture on vinyl, i'll lay counterfeit claim to that understanding well. there's no pretending it wasn't always commercial, but remember when people still had the decency to leave something for you when you knew exactly why they were holding up the bathroom line for so long? we all know what you're doing. we're doing the same.

the short answer: this isn't sour grapes. things were already off before anything was afoot. call it cruel fate, but the situation was out of my hands, and self-fulfilling only to the strength of my case.

i saw the one race and then got to play the laughing martyr. the officials needed to make an example of someone, and it was better, in the end, that it was someone who hadn't anted a registration fee. i couldn't read the logo on his polo from forty feet, and so i thought that he'd just been enamored of the show between my arrival in my commuting outfit and my transition to my street clothes. looking good in pants means looking good without them. in hindsight (but not to deny the easy mistake!), it was cavalier to smile and wave. that cruel fate? through its subtle machinations, it had me tempt it. but come on. we all know what we're doing.

alpenrose dairy is apparently a family friendly venue. "you know that we could lose the venue for next year?" (not likely.) the patronizing eye contact measured the gravity of the situation. "i'm going to have to ask you to leave." i took my time changing back before walking my bike out through the parking lot of the dairy. who knows? there could still have been someone keen on seeing act two. nothing to lose if i'd pursued something then. anyway, rules are rules. though i ask, as i asked a friend via email who inquired yesterday about the wildness of my weekend: who can be friendly to his family if his to-go mug isn't probably full of something suspicious?

i should have tried to make it up to the guy by asking him to the pub.

THIS WEEK'S FEATURE

it was going to be on the "content" show. i'd scheduled myself for attendance on the second of october since reading a passing mention four? six? eight? weeks ago in a local press outlet, and even went so far as to invite a friend and local textile artist to attend with me -- we were both excited about dressing to our portland nines to necessarily juxtapose ourselves with the installations -- only to find out today, after three days of scouring the internet for information on the event (and trying desperately to contact zoe on her land line to admit that my finger was just as overexcited as the pulse of the portland scene that i was supposed to have it on) was canceled as a result of too many designers not wanting to front the money to reserve a space at the ace hotel.

the ace is an institution. a portland institution, and very much in the foucaultian sense. the hotel, which was the second of a chain to spread from seattle to portland to new york and to palm springs, was established from within the shell of the old clyde hotel at sw 10th and stark, one of portland's hundreds of storied residence hotels, at the eastern extremity of portland's old strip of gay bars, a once much seedier stretch of downtown that fostered a special brand of street theater combining the peacocking of drunken, carousing queens with the upheavals of the beneficiaries of the downtown social service establishment. my first apartment in portland was just up the street on 12th, and it was my roommate's uncle, a portland police officer who i first heard call vaseline alley by its local moniker.

since the ace, though -- and it was inevitable, i suppose, being that stark is just one block south of w burnside and the glistening high-rises of the pearl district -- the alley has lost all of its historic and eponymous sheen. the silverado, home of the weekend 2:30 sidewalk meat market and a fourth floor window shout from my old apartment, has moved to sw 3rd, and the bathhouse that occupied the three stories above it in the flatiron style building between 12th and where stark intersects burnside is finished. the building itself is under renovation, likely to be converted into something not too different from the ace. i think that i've heard that the old vaseline alley now hosts the most expensive pieces of real estate in the city. so i wasn't surprised, although i was certainly crestfallen, to see last month that the burger king on w burnside and broadway, unoccupied since i've lived here but very much trafficked, had been torn down to site new construction. the shanghai steakhouse across the street, a stiff pouring ugly old drag bar where the crackheads knew better than to insult the local color, shut its doors to become an improv theater two years ago.

but so it goes. a tale of a city not unlike the one where you live -- or the ones where you've always wanted to live and about which you watch scathing documentaries of coldhearted gentrification. i don't laud, but my lament is insincere. i'm a transplant myself, and as much as i hold dear my memories of that first year on vaseline alley, the clyde common, the haute northwest eatery at the ace named for the block's original tenant, is my favorite bar in portland. strangely, the steel of our ideals is both directly and inversely related to the making of exciting new friends. regardless, there's no better place for a celebratory champagne, a dinner with unfamiliar friends from out of town or to wax artistic after a screening at the film center. (alas, the new virginia cafe is a sad shadow of what it was before being priced out of its original location.) you'll see someone you know or that you want to. you probably won't talk to either. the scene is at an all time high. the press keeps telling us so. and did i mention foucault?

for better or for the worse, and because of the indecision, the "content" show couldn't have come off so well outside of the ace; and last year it was fantastic. two or three dozen local designers, jewelers, textile makers took over the second floor of the hotel, each given reign over one room to decorate and install as suited their visions or ambitions. we've got a fashion week here, but despite our reputation on "project runway" (canada hates your attitude, by the way, gretchen jones), runway shows in a city of the perennially underemployed aren't for now a scalable showcase for homegrown talent. "content" was an event perfectly suited to the quirk and innovation of portland's fashion scene, but also presented designers and attendees with an improvisational social space in which to interact with what was on display. entrance was affordable, and if you didn't like what you saw, you could push through the chaos of the narrow hall to the next room. plus, all of our friends were there.

duchess clothier, the woman owned and operated haberdasher, had their live models drinking around a dangerous looking card table. the ladies themselves, resplendently gender bending, presided over the spectacle at the back of the room. the luxury jones installation featured a frenetic big screen video of portlanders out on the town. stumbling nightlife in good shoes: heavy syrup, indeed. adam arnold, the darling of portland's indie press (who shouldn't need mention in an outlet so sophisticatedly beyond all that as this one -- except that for he stole the show), plastered his room with oversized film noir posters, which set the mood for his carefully curated (and very old portland) crime drama. visitors were treated to the first of his models, sitting bow legged on the toilet in the bathroom to the left of the entryway, with a slit through her neck dripping blood below her drooping head, and a mess of sideways bottles and glasses around her feet. her dress was absolutely the only thing that you'd imagine someone would wear to such an occasion. two smartly suited male models finished the room, one shot dead on the double mattress and the other suffocated with a bag over his head that was cinched tightly at his neck. (this year's "mad men" following would have died for it.) john blasioli's just had his clothes set around him on dummies, but the absence of drama in his room didn't stop me from commissioning a coat.

fashion week starts wednesday, but "content" isn't happening this year. again, from what i was told today, thankfully alongside zoe -- whose company i luckily came into two hours before we were set to get ready for the show -- too few designers wanted to pay what it cost to get a room at the ace for the night. i can only wonder who's going to afford a spot on the runway. maybe the payoff for the media exposure is greater there, or maybe portland fashion week just isn't going to show off the verve and creativity that have made portland designers so appealing to the media. myself, i'm not going to afford seeing any runway shows, and, of course, i've engagements this next week anyway. nonetheless, i wonder: what's the result, and who's the reaper? is portland's damn indie charm, the very thing that made us interesting and respectable, going to be the thing that damns us? whatever. that's what we say. strange, that the high-rises rise apace with the best of places, but fuck if anyone we know can afford the best of a local wardrobe.

whatever, again; and it didn't matter tonight. the show didn't happen. zoe and i talked about putting somethings nice on anyway, but no one at the bar on nw 21st where we went to catch the second half of oregon vs. stanford would have given a shit. we had the chance to talk about why canadians come south to steal american babies (zoe's form calgary): they're fat, and even if the only thing edible at the bar was french fries, we could dream about canadian foie gras. i'd have had to ride home and take the bus back across town, too. and there were future plans. zoe's making me a sweater, and arm warmers (think that john varvatos ad with the guy and the great danes). i'm making her dinner. we'll have enough to celebrate at the clyde in no time.

so home tonight, not any later than i would have been out had the show happened, and not any more sober. upon arriving i noted to myself that i should write something about how i could hear the train cars lumbering over the tracks from my bathroom. usually it's just noise from the highway, which we joke and also think genuinely is like the sound of the ocean. they're both far enough away. i look at the note and think it's nonsense, an aftereffect of waning intoxication. it's nonsense. but show or not, i still have enough time before bed to try on all of my clothes.