from a post at mobylives: "At The Millions Lydia Kiesling has written an article that expresses displeasure with the current cultural fondness for acts of curation." in this, the age of the internet, curation isn't just hip, it's ubiquitous. we could have told you so last year. (and we did.) anyone can make a playlist, but it takes some skill to actually spin records. the blog post at moby lives uses books and authorship as the subjects of its argument, but the points of there being the good and the bad and of the inevitable ubiquity of the act are the same regardless of medium or form. curatorial instinct isn't new and isn't going anywhere, but digital technology certainly has made the production of more and shoddier works of curating much easier. really though, the most annoying aspect of the issue is the buzzword (and all of its conjugations). and they're obviously not going anywhere either.
what's next? inline skating. no joke. mark our words.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
AND ON THE FIFTH DAY THEY RESTED
the balenciaga exhibit at the de young museum was divided thematically into about a half dozen displays, each of them representative of an aspect of spanish culture and its particular influence on the designs of cristóbal balenciaga, and each of them introduced by an explanatory written statement. scattered in between the different groupings were single pieces -- or groups of two or three -- that were of special import (the dress in black silk gazar that when viewed from above recalled a shape from the painting "blue" by joan miró, for example) or pieces that seemed to have been too nebulously inspired to warrant classification under a single theme, the identification of which must have been an exciting task for the exhibit's curators as many of the pieces on display straddled multiple realms of influence and inspiration.
but the show really stopped for the brown silk gauze evening dress from 1962 that was displayed with the other pieces that were notably influenced by spanish dance. the skirt of the dress ended in a foot and a half of ruffle and was asymmetrically gathered up and secured at its left hip, mimicking the look of a flamenco dancer who had picked up and held her skirts to display a set of footwork. in front of a reproduction of john singer sargent's "el jaleo," which depicts a dancer at just such a moment in her dance, and the reproduction of which filled a large part of the wall behind the display on dance, the effect of the brown dress on its mannequin with arms akimbo and chest thrust forward was expansive -- and so a premature ejaculation of excitement on the afternoon of friday, day two.
the walk from the de young in golden gate park was pleasant, even for the wind, and it wasn't long after the exaltation of the exhibit that the group found itself together again in dolores park for the party before the trans march, which marched without them, and probably for the better since the sun made it difficult to gauge the time and it was already certain to be dark (and that much later) by the time the train made it back to neighborhood of the crash pad, where there were necessary costume changes to be made before public transportation marooned anyone outside the city and away from the parties.
the parties carried day two into three, and although no one caught the drag show at the stud, it was enough for them to have arrived to make their connection to the after hours speakeasy some blocks away. the music and the decor were remarkable (as the three who made it there remarked to the people from the party they ran into the next day), but time changed there, and that's where the morning was met, a harrowed morning once the sun started showing itself (this time very much betraying the time), a morning (or early afternoon for one of the group) that meant another two trips on the train, one back out to the costume department and the other back in to the park.
the dykes were marching from the park on saturday so the dykes marched, leaving the rest of the group sitting on its borrowed sheet on the grass of the slope in the northwest part of the park. the venezuelan princess who joined them "wasn't that kind of girl" who would use the tracks behind the park and so delayed the group in meeting the lesbians on valencia by insisting on waiting in a ridiculous line to relieve herself. those kinds of girls don't have any interest in what was happening in the mission, so she didn't last much longer than it took to leave the park, and that was definitely for the better.
had she continued on she would have had to witness the raid on taqueria el toro, which, for the record, may not have happened exactly as it was described, but also just like at stonewall, the people inside held their ground against the police officers come to take them away. the cops came to break up the party and the queens said "no more." after all, the diners at el toro were already on edge when the officers arrived from the station across the street. the wait for food was understandable, but the line for the bathroom was ridiculous. the shit show in the castro couldn't have been much worse, except that it was. who would go there during pride? the fun's more casual in the mission.
sunday morning, day four, the fag and the pansexual beauty queen left nothing incriminating with the animals at the crash pad and left it. no last train: pickups would be done in the city -- but in a car and only to drive home. despite that the ritual cafe in the mission only does $3.50 plus pour overs, that's where the two went for coffee and postcarding before rounding up the rest. ritual serves it up strong, rich and sumptuous, and what the baristas were slinging on sunday morning was absolutely necessary for coming up with the other euphemisms that would be the most of what went down on the postcards. the same amounts of sex and drugs don't work for everyone, and the recipients of those postcards weren't any exception. sometimes you have to downplay the size of the baby's arm.
already over caffeinated, the duo stopped at four barrel on the way to the car to fill up a travel mug. (ritual's post-divorce competition still serves french press.) that guy from the fresh pot on mississippi in portland was behind the counter (and that guy from the acorn works in the back). what a mess. worse than that shit show in the castro, but not enough to affect the sparkle of the rest. the two impeccably styled men sitting together near the door looked like they might have lived in portland too. unfortunately, even knowing it was pride, they didn't have the decency to hide their lust for the beauty queen. shock and awe. but not really.
the drive home was uneventful. after so many euphemisms, there wasn't much left among the people in the car for excitement. there was, however, a diversity of dead animals on the sides of the highway, and now moniquipher has a roadkill raccoon staked up in the backyard to warn raiders away from the chicken coop.
the impala rolled into portland close to two o'clock on monday morning. it made a round of drop offs and drove over a curb.
monday morning, after a long long weekend of euphemisms, not one of the pilgrims had any problem checking back into celebrity rehab.
but the show really stopped for the brown silk gauze evening dress from 1962 that was displayed with the other pieces that were notably influenced by spanish dance. the skirt of the dress ended in a foot and a half of ruffle and was asymmetrically gathered up and secured at its left hip, mimicking the look of a flamenco dancer who had picked up and held her skirts to display a set of footwork. in front of a reproduction of john singer sargent's "el jaleo," which depicts a dancer at just such a moment in her dance, and the reproduction of which filled a large part of the wall behind the display on dance, the effect of the brown dress on its mannequin with arms akimbo and chest thrust forward was expansive -- and so a premature ejaculation of excitement on the afternoon of friday, day two.
the walk from the de young in golden gate park was pleasant, even for the wind, and it wasn't long after the exaltation of the exhibit that the group found itself together again in dolores park for the party before the trans march, which marched without them, and probably for the better since the sun made it difficult to gauge the time and it was already certain to be dark (and that much later) by the time the train made it back to neighborhood of the crash pad, where there were necessary costume changes to be made before public transportation marooned anyone outside the city and away from the parties.
the parties carried day two into three, and although no one caught the drag show at the stud, it was enough for them to have arrived to make their connection to the after hours speakeasy some blocks away. the music and the decor were remarkable (as the three who made it there remarked to the people from the party they ran into the next day), but time changed there, and that's where the morning was met, a harrowed morning once the sun started showing itself (this time very much betraying the time), a morning (or early afternoon for one of the group) that meant another two trips on the train, one back out to the costume department and the other back in to the park.
the dykes were marching from the park on saturday so the dykes marched, leaving the rest of the group sitting on its borrowed sheet on the grass of the slope in the northwest part of the park. the venezuelan princess who joined them "wasn't that kind of girl" who would use the tracks behind the park and so delayed the group in meeting the lesbians on valencia by insisting on waiting in a ridiculous line to relieve herself. those kinds of girls don't have any interest in what was happening in the mission, so she didn't last much longer than it took to leave the park, and that was definitely for the better.
had she continued on she would have had to witness the raid on taqueria el toro, which, for the record, may not have happened exactly as it was described, but also just like at stonewall, the people inside held their ground against the police officers come to take them away. the cops came to break up the party and the queens said "no more." after all, the diners at el toro were already on edge when the officers arrived from the station across the street. the wait for food was understandable, but the line for the bathroom was ridiculous. the shit show in the castro couldn't have been much worse, except that it was. who would go there during pride? the fun's more casual in the mission.
sunday morning, day four, the fag and the pansexual beauty queen left nothing incriminating with the animals at the crash pad and left it. no last train: pickups would be done in the city -- but in a car and only to drive home. despite that the ritual cafe in the mission only does $3.50 plus pour overs, that's where the two went for coffee and postcarding before rounding up the rest. ritual serves it up strong, rich and sumptuous, and what the baristas were slinging on sunday morning was absolutely necessary for coming up with the other euphemisms that would be the most of what went down on the postcards. the same amounts of sex and drugs don't work for everyone, and the recipients of those postcards weren't any exception. sometimes you have to downplay the size of the baby's arm.
already over caffeinated, the duo stopped at four barrel on the way to the car to fill up a travel mug. (ritual's post-divorce competition still serves french press.) that guy from the fresh pot on mississippi in portland was behind the counter (and that guy from the acorn works in the back). what a mess. worse than that shit show in the castro, but not enough to affect the sparkle of the rest. the two impeccably styled men sitting together near the door looked like they might have lived in portland too. unfortunately, even knowing it was pride, they didn't have the decency to hide their lust for the beauty queen. shock and awe. but not really.
the drive home was uneventful. after so many euphemisms, there wasn't much left among the people in the car for excitement. there was, however, a diversity of dead animals on the sides of the highway, and now moniquipher has a roadkill raccoon staked up in the backyard to warn raiders away from the chicken coop.
the impala rolled into portland close to two o'clock on monday morning. it made a round of drop offs and drove over a curb.
monday morning, after a long long weekend of euphemisms, not one of the pilgrims had any problem checking back into celebrity rehab.
Friday, June 24, 2011
MODERN FOLKLORE, part 2; or PUT THAT IN YOUR PRIDE AND SMOKE IT...AGAIN
thursday morning, they exited the albina press, piled into the forest green impala parked across the street and got on the road, the fag, the lesbians, the trans man and the pansexual beauty queen, headed south toward the promise of sun and sex, a promise they hoped would be fulfilled in exchange for their dutiful (if perfunctory) homage to the unity of diversity.
overheard on mississippi avenue during a portland pride event last weekend: that you could find a kind of fun at the clubs downtown, but that you’d find more diversity if you stayed on this side of the river. and, to wit, yes, maybe if you’re considering hobbies (at least we’re self aware), but that the visitor whose inquiry started the conversation wasn’t distinguishable by the trappings or proclivities of his orientation from his hosts or from the rest of the bar should have been telling enough.
but there! at the end of the 80, and 80 miles out from the valley, the rainbow flags were blowing in the wind on every street of that beacon in the bay. “i’ll drink my ovaltine, and you drink your decaf latte, faggot.” (the jewel lilt in her voice implied an acoustic guitar.) an impromptu song of acceptance and inclusion burst forth from one of the group as the impala rode down van ness between city hall and the war memorial opera complex. in san francisco, you can sing songs that were only acceptable to sing in the early nineties. that’s when gay was born on television after all, and like all of us, thanks to television, it never had to grow up. in san francisco, you can even shop at barney’s or neeman marcus, and the residents love to celebrate that anything goes.
sutter street is marked twice, but the first of the signs on geary marks only a walgreens parking lot with no way out but the only way in, and that’s where the impala turned so that its passengers to pause for a moment of reflection after their arrival to the city, and also amid screams and laughter, more even than for the spider at lake shasta, because if there’s one thing that san francisco doesn’t tolerate it’s bad driving.
the mission was packed and dirty on thursday night, and the consensus among the pilgrims was that if a place was full then it definitely wasn’t the one the happening place. but the skylark near pancho villa taqueria still had a table available at ten, and the smell of the place from the street was the big city. portland kept to itself at its table, but only for fatigue and amazement -- and the sex wasn’t where it wasn’t happening. half a dozen brown people in the same room, and half the room over forty. shock and awe and inspiration. but also intimidation, though none of which the group belied before leaving to disperse until the joining the throngs at dolores park the next day.
and where were the one’s we’d recognize? had the bay’s catalogue of aging hipsterdom all moved to oakland? it wasn’t, at least, on display anywhere near the crash pad loft across the bay where the fag and the queen refused to share a bed but shared a fitful night of sleep. their anxiety wasn’t exactly anticipatory (although it wasn’t completely not, either), but for the lack of sleep they would have liked to have had a preliminary boost before going to coffee proper back in the city. the east bay certainly beats portland in diversity, but it’s no rival on the coffee scene. it was locally roasted, yes, in san rafael, but the coffee at that café (it took an hour to find it) was weak, as was their trying to mask the shock and awe and intimidation with faggy foodie pretensions, but their dissatisfaction went unvoiced. after all, the woman had been nice, and probably didn’t café.
a text message. blow pony? portland was “bringing it hard” this year, and san francisco had had enough time since the last one to become newly enamored. (it never goes to visit, but it’s only codependence if you’re in love.) another consensus. the grass is definitely always greener where there’s something else. what about that promise? a portland party? definitely…perhaps.
overheard on mississippi avenue during a portland pride event last weekend: that you could find a kind of fun at the clubs downtown, but that you’d find more diversity if you stayed on this side of the river. and, to wit, yes, maybe if you’re considering hobbies (at least we’re self aware), but that the visitor whose inquiry started the conversation wasn’t distinguishable by the trappings or proclivities of his orientation from his hosts or from the rest of the bar should have been telling enough.
but there! at the end of the 80, and 80 miles out from the valley, the rainbow flags were blowing in the wind on every street of that beacon in the bay. “i’ll drink my ovaltine, and you drink your decaf latte, faggot.” (the jewel lilt in her voice implied an acoustic guitar.) an impromptu song of acceptance and inclusion burst forth from one of the group as the impala rode down van ness between city hall and the war memorial opera complex. in san francisco, you can sing songs that were only acceptable to sing in the early nineties. that’s when gay was born on television after all, and like all of us, thanks to television, it never had to grow up. in san francisco, you can even shop at barney’s or neeman marcus, and the residents love to celebrate that anything goes.
sutter street is marked twice, but the first of the signs on geary marks only a walgreens parking lot with no way out but the only way in, and that’s where the impala turned so that its passengers to pause for a moment of reflection after their arrival to the city, and also amid screams and laughter, more even than for the spider at lake shasta, because if there’s one thing that san francisco doesn’t tolerate it’s bad driving.
the mission was packed and dirty on thursday night, and the consensus among the pilgrims was that if a place was full then it definitely wasn’t the one the happening place. but the skylark near pancho villa taqueria still had a table available at ten, and the smell of the place from the street was the big city. portland kept to itself at its table, but only for fatigue and amazement -- and the sex wasn’t where it wasn’t happening. half a dozen brown people in the same room, and half the room over forty. shock and awe and inspiration. but also intimidation, though none of which the group belied before leaving to disperse until the joining the throngs at dolores park the next day.
and where were the one’s we’d recognize? had the bay’s catalogue of aging hipsterdom all moved to oakland? it wasn’t, at least, on display anywhere near the crash pad loft across the bay where the fag and the queen refused to share a bed but shared a fitful night of sleep. their anxiety wasn’t exactly anticipatory (although it wasn’t completely not, either), but for the lack of sleep they would have liked to have had a preliminary boost before going to coffee proper back in the city. the east bay certainly beats portland in diversity, but it’s no rival on the coffee scene. it was locally roasted, yes, in san rafael, but the coffee at that café (it took an hour to find it) was weak, as was their trying to mask the shock and awe and intimidation with faggy foodie pretensions, but their dissatisfaction went unvoiced. after all, the woman had been nice, and probably didn’t café.
a text message. blow pony? portland was “bringing it hard” this year, and san francisco had had enough time since the last one to become newly enamored. (it never goes to visit, but it’s only codependence if you’re in love.) another consensus. the grass is definitely always greener where there’s something else. what about that promise? a portland party? definitely…perhaps.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
HOW TO STOOP TO THE OCCASION
it's happening: the pilgrimage to san francisco. and it's happening tomorrow. there's almost no more time for putting it off. the "balenciaga and spain" exhibit at the de young museum closes on july fourth, and this is our last weekend to travel before the traffic that will no doubt frustrate travel on the holiday. (and, we'll have guests.)
the exhibit, originally shown at the spanish institute in new york -- and shown there as a result of a request by oscar de la renta to hamish bowles, european editor at large for vogue, to dip into his personal collection of balenciaga couture and curate a gala exhibition to raise funds for the institute -- examines the influence the designer's native culture on his designs. we're particularly excited to see to what extent that spanish influence included inspiration from the world of flamenco, although it should be enough just to see up close those bullfighting inspired bolero jackets, photos of which have been featured in so many write-ups on the exhibit. it's none of that faggy matador stuff that gaultier did in 2003, either. not that there's anything wrong with gaultier style fagginess. it certainly has it's place and time. in fact, we hear there's some kind of pride event happening in the city this weekend as well, and we'll probably stop by to have a look at that, too.
but countess mona will have her couture gowns first. on friday afternoon, we'll head directly to golden gate park from the end of a long morning of reflection at ritual coffee roasters on valencia, and any other pilgrims in the area are welcome to join us.
"Even in the costly realm of couture, his prices were exceedingly high, but that didn't dissuade the worshipful. Countess Mona Bismarck [no relation to our own], one of his most devoted clients, reportedly locked herself in her bathroom for three days after he closed his atelier in 1968. He died in 1972.
In these kinds of shows, there's a subtext, rarely if ever addressed, of class, envy and the vicarious experience of a lifestyle and tax bracket beyond the reach of mere mortals; however, this hasn't prevented them from being extremely popular."
damn straight...although the bay area reporter doesn't mention the twenty-five dollar admission fee in its review of the exhibit. but, alas, the cost of salvation isn't cheap, in this case a testament to the enduring influence of the (spanish) catholic church, the ceremonial pomp of which was also a strong influence on balenciaga.
a subtext of class and envy, also unaddressed, although directed downwards instead of up, was palpable at sloan's last night, where we went after dinner to catch a record release party for the band of some friends. my embarrassment at having had to admit that i hadn't realized all of those friends were in the same band (and not different bands with the same name) was doubled by my having casually shown up to a rock show in my dinner clothes. the truth is, we'd stopped at home before going out again, and only a hastily composed invitation by text that arrived as we were leaving had diverted us from our other plans, for which countess mona had taken the opportunity to change.
for my mounting embarrassment, i'd have required more than i wanted to drink to join in the dancing at the show. plus, the dancing was of a sort that i'd have needed to stay far enough from some of the dancers -- and one girl in particular -- to make sure that my drink (or someone else's) wasn't emptied on my shirt, the thought of which just embarrassed me more for knowing how un-rock show it would have been to make someone assume responsibility for my dry cleaning bill.
fortunately, the band drew a crowd that might also be heading down to san francisco this weekend (the band itself will be playing there at a pride event on thursday), and so it's not impossible that i'll be afforded the opportunity to redeem myself in short order.
bullshit. you're right. all of the stares were welcome. and as i was escorting countess mona away, a discreet but apparent wave. but we should practice our humility now before it's handed to us with our tickets in exchange for twenty-five dollars a person at the de young museum on friday. at least for that much, the pat downs and fingerprintings will probably be free.
the exhibit, originally shown at the spanish institute in new york -- and shown there as a result of a request by oscar de la renta to hamish bowles, european editor at large for vogue, to dip into his personal collection of balenciaga couture and curate a gala exhibition to raise funds for the institute -- examines the influence the designer's native culture on his designs. we're particularly excited to see to what extent that spanish influence included inspiration from the world of flamenco, although it should be enough just to see up close those bullfighting inspired bolero jackets, photos of which have been featured in so many write-ups on the exhibit. it's none of that faggy matador stuff that gaultier did in 2003, either. not that there's anything wrong with gaultier style fagginess. it certainly has it's place and time. in fact, we hear there's some kind of pride event happening in the city this weekend as well, and we'll probably stop by to have a look at that, too.
but countess mona will have her couture gowns first. on friday afternoon, we'll head directly to golden gate park from the end of a long morning of reflection at ritual coffee roasters on valencia, and any other pilgrims in the area are welcome to join us.
"Even in the costly realm of couture, his prices were exceedingly high, but that didn't dissuade the worshipful. Countess Mona Bismarck [no relation to our own], one of his most devoted clients, reportedly locked herself in her bathroom for three days after he closed his atelier in 1968. He died in 1972.
In these kinds of shows, there's a subtext, rarely if ever addressed, of class, envy and the vicarious experience of a lifestyle and tax bracket beyond the reach of mere mortals; however, this hasn't prevented them from being extremely popular."
damn straight...although the bay area reporter doesn't mention the twenty-five dollar admission fee in its review of the exhibit. but, alas, the cost of salvation isn't cheap, in this case a testament to the enduring influence of the (spanish) catholic church, the ceremonial pomp of which was also a strong influence on balenciaga.
a subtext of class and envy, also unaddressed, although directed downwards instead of up, was palpable at sloan's last night, where we went after dinner to catch a record release party for the band of some friends. my embarrassment at having had to admit that i hadn't realized all of those friends were in the same band (and not different bands with the same name) was doubled by my having casually shown up to a rock show in my dinner clothes. the truth is, we'd stopped at home before going out again, and only a hastily composed invitation by text that arrived as we were leaving had diverted us from our other plans, for which countess mona had taken the opportunity to change.
for my mounting embarrassment, i'd have required more than i wanted to drink to join in the dancing at the show. plus, the dancing was of a sort that i'd have needed to stay far enough from some of the dancers -- and one girl in particular -- to make sure that my drink (or someone else's) wasn't emptied on my shirt, the thought of which just embarrassed me more for knowing how un-rock show it would have been to make someone assume responsibility for my dry cleaning bill.
fortunately, the band drew a crowd that might also be heading down to san francisco this weekend (the band itself will be playing there at a pride event on thursday), and so it's not impossible that i'll be afforded the opportunity to redeem myself in short order.
bullshit. you're right. all of the stares were welcome. and as i was escorting countess mona away, a discreet but apparent wave. but we should practice our humility now before it's handed to us with our tickets in exchange for twenty-five dollars a person at the de young museum on friday. at least for that much, the pat downs and fingerprintings will probably be free.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
MY PORTLAND TIS OF THEE, SWEET LAND OF BEER FOR FREE, part 2
the food and the beer were, as expected, delicious at the lucky labrador beer hall brewer's dinner held at wildwood restaurant and bar last night, but the pleasure of the event for me was of another order, as the other guests had made the erroneous but uncorrected assumption that i was lucky labrador beer hall brewer casey lyons' boyfriend. the night's menu was developed by lyons and paul kasten, wildwood sous chef and craft beer aficionado, and featured six courses, each of them carefully paired with a beer from the lucky labrador. despite my questionable ability to verbalize the sensations of my palate, i was graciously allowed to participate in scrutinizing the product of the pair's ingenuity as lyons' guest, and was seated next to him at one of four tightly seated tables in a private dining room at the rear of the restaurant. before each course, as the servers went around the dining room pouring, lyons was responsible for describing each beer before kasten explained the reasons why the beer had been paired with the food about to be served. even before the first pour, lyons confessed to the seven others at our table to having been anxious over his part in the staging of the event since that morning, and my encouragement, which, with each new glassful from the servers, became increasingly tactile (as lyons' explanations also became more relaxed), must have seemed particularly doting.
lyons' description of the zingerbier, which accompanied the salad course, was brief and cutely halting. the guests, among them a contributor to the times, could probably have determined for themselves that the beer was a brown ale infused with ginger, and when lyons sat back next to me the woman sitting to my right asked him if he wouldn't say a bit more about the next one. she was in marketing -- and she was right about the salad bringing out the ginger in the beer, which had only a subtle zing out of combination with the asparagus and carmelized garlic vinaigrette. she wanted to know alcohol contents, too, and unlike her i hadn't brought a pen and so don't have those numbers marked on my menu, but i will allow myself to claim incapacitation as justification for not articulating the strengths and weaknesses of every course for my knowledge that with each one the alcohol by volume in the beers increased.
i do remember taking notice of the sherry notes in the 5-ton strong lager, which was paired with a farro and garlic stuffed porchetta, after i was given the words by kasten in his description of course three. i also took a moment to aprpeciate the floral qualities of the super dog ipa for the first time after lyons explained the effects of dry hopping before course two, and explanation he reprised in more detail for me when he rejoined the table. the woman to my right also liked hops (she had them in gold cast on her necklace and earrings), but she didn't like that the squid and chiles were deep fried.
the couple to lyons' left looked to be the youngest in the room and were particularly portland: an intel worker in flip flops with a striking and well poised lady companion. in the course of the table's conversation we found out that she was half italian -- her first generation father distills grappa back in chicago -- and her delicate toga dress, which tied loosely over her right shoulder, very much suited her roman features and willowy frame. if her boyfriend (although i should probably permit them the possibility of having been just friends) could have benefited from a more careful styling, then at least she had done her best to compensate through attention to her own. or so i thought until i suspected the couple to be discussing my relationship with the brewer behind cupped hands, at which point i gave myself over to my disappointment at the woman's hair, which, above a discreetly made up face, was held in place by a now glaringly shoddy hairpin. and she didn't seem to like beer.
the woman two seats to my right, however, did. she was a friend of the woman directly next to me, and in their opening conversation i overheard the farther one mention her book project, regarding which she'd recently had a meeting with her publisher. she was to be responsible for writing amusing, state by state anecdotes for a book on liquor laws throughout the country, and the project, would, she said, involve a significant amount of internet research, but she could get some of that done on her upcoming trip to germany, spain and morocco with her husband, another intel employee, him about to go on his second triennial sabbatical, who sat to the right of his wife, almost directly across the table from me, largely unaddressed.
after courses four and five, paired with the 2010 stumpy jack bourbon barrel aged imperial porter and the 2010 old yeller barleywine, respectively, i'd had enough that i finally threw in my two cents, which i'd felt somewhat obliged to pay from the beginning for not being asked to pay for my seat. (meanwhile, the woman to my right had complemented lyons for delivering an anecdote about the naming of barleywines in his explanation of the old yeller.) it was not, in fact, possible to distinguish the coffee bitterness from that of the hops in the coffee imperial porter served with desert, and the woman with the book deal was quick to correct me, confirming with the brewer, passing over the man who for all she knew was his simpleton lover, that porter didn't have a detectable hoppiness at all. i respected her pluck, and i won't buy her book but am sure that's how she got her deal. we arranged a passive detente by agreeing to the woman between us that we didn't care for the cocoa braised cured bacon. after the stupefacient richness of the blue cheese butter that accompanied the roasted ribeye filet, course five, i could have gone without desert anyway.
the dining room cleared quickly after dinner, beginning with the quick exit of the young couple from our table. there was a half pitcher of the coffee porter left, and i joined kasten's wife nicole, who was wearing a super dog t-shirt with her black suit, in another glass. only two gallons of the beer had been made, and specially for the event, so it seemed a shame to let it go unfinished, even if the combined punch of the caffeine and extra alcohol might have been ill advised at eleven o'clock after four hours of steady drinking. but isn't that always when the good stuff comes out?
nicole gave me the early edition summary from the press table. apparently the times writer had thought the food portions too large. i couldn't help thinking that he'd just needed some sour grapes to mash knowing that someone else was going to leave with the man of the hour, who after course four got up the courage to make a smiling round of greetings at all the tables. and who could blame him. lyons was definitely looking good in those pants.
lyons' description of the zingerbier, which accompanied the salad course, was brief and cutely halting. the guests, among them a contributor to the times, could probably have determined for themselves that the beer was a brown ale infused with ginger, and when lyons sat back next to me the woman sitting to my right asked him if he wouldn't say a bit more about the next one. she was in marketing -- and she was right about the salad bringing out the ginger in the beer, which had only a subtle zing out of combination with the asparagus and carmelized garlic vinaigrette. she wanted to know alcohol contents, too, and unlike her i hadn't brought a pen and so don't have those numbers marked on my menu, but i will allow myself to claim incapacitation as justification for not articulating the strengths and weaknesses of every course for my knowledge that with each one the alcohol by volume in the beers increased.
i do remember taking notice of the sherry notes in the 5-ton strong lager, which was paired with a farro and garlic stuffed porchetta, after i was given the words by kasten in his description of course three. i also took a moment to aprpeciate the floral qualities of the super dog ipa for the first time after lyons explained the effects of dry hopping before course two, and explanation he reprised in more detail for me when he rejoined the table. the woman to my right also liked hops (she had them in gold cast on her necklace and earrings), but she didn't like that the squid and chiles were deep fried.
the couple to lyons' left looked to be the youngest in the room and were particularly portland: an intel worker in flip flops with a striking and well poised lady companion. in the course of the table's conversation we found out that she was half italian -- her first generation father distills grappa back in chicago -- and her delicate toga dress, which tied loosely over her right shoulder, very much suited her roman features and willowy frame. if her boyfriend (although i should probably permit them the possibility of having been just friends) could have benefited from a more careful styling, then at least she had done her best to compensate through attention to her own. or so i thought until i suspected the couple to be discussing my relationship with the brewer behind cupped hands, at which point i gave myself over to my disappointment at the woman's hair, which, above a discreetly made up face, was held in place by a now glaringly shoddy hairpin. and she didn't seem to like beer.
the woman two seats to my right, however, did. she was a friend of the woman directly next to me, and in their opening conversation i overheard the farther one mention her book project, regarding which she'd recently had a meeting with her publisher. she was to be responsible for writing amusing, state by state anecdotes for a book on liquor laws throughout the country, and the project, would, she said, involve a significant amount of internet research, but she could get some of that done on her upcoming trip to germany, spain and morocco with her husband, another intel employee, him about to go on his second triennial sabbatical, who sat to the right of his wife, almost directly across the table from me, largely unaddressed.
after courses four and five, paired with the 2010 stumpy jack bourbon barrel aged imperial porter and the 2010 old yeller barleywine, respectively, i'd had enough that i finally threw in my two cents, which i'd felt somewhat obliged to pay from the beginning for not being asked to pay for my seat. (meanwhile, the woman to my right had complemented lyons for delivering an anecdote about the naming of barleywines in his explanation of the old yeller.) it was not, in fact, possible to distinguish the coffee bitterness from that of the hops in the coffee imperial porter served with desert, and the woman with the book deal was quick to correct me, confirming with the brewer, passing over the man who for all she knew was his simpleton lover, that porter didn't have a detectable hoppiness at all. i respected her pluck, and i won't buy her book but am sure that's how she got her deal. we arranged a passive detente by agreeing to the woman between us that we didn't care for the cocoa braised cured bacon. after the stupefacient richness of the blue cheese butter that accompanied the roasted ribeye filet, course five, i could have gone without desert anyway.
the dining room cleared quickly after dinner, beginning with the quick exit of the young couple from our table. there was a half pitcher of the coffee porter left, and i joined kasten's wife nicole, who was wearing a super dog t-shirt with her black suit, in another glass. only two gallons of the beer had been made, and specially for the event, so it seemed a shame to let it go unfinished, even if the combined punch of the caffeine and extra alcohol might have been ill advised at eleven o'clock after four hours of steady drinking. but isn't that always when the good stuff comes out?
nicole gave me the early edition summary from the press table. apparently the times writer had thought the food portions too large. i couldn't help thinking that he'd just needed some sour grapes to mash knowing that someone else was going to leave with the man of the hour, who after course four got up the courage to make a smiling round of greetings at all the tables. and who could blame him. lyons was definitely looking good in those pants.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
2011 BONNIE AND CLYDE
the metaphysical pet project was originally conceived as a regular salon on culture, etc., but poor attendance unfortunately relegated the better parts of its activities to a private chronicle in three notebooks, the contents of which run the gamut of early twenty-first century graphic design and prose and poetic style, but which were also only publicly represented on one occasion. the "pop culture pantheon" was performed only once at the waypost on north williams avenue on an early fall evening three years ago. unfortunately, for all its brilliance and necessary bravado, that performance predated the formation of moniquipher, the definitive manifestation of looking good in pants in portland, or, and as a result was not able to garner for the metaphysical pet project the authority that it might have commanded had the height of its activity been during the reign of portland's finest -- but also most elusive -- power couple.
but hark! (and irony of ironies), rumor has it that the two might split, and not from each other but from the city of their birth. the shining princ(ess)es apparent to the throne left woefully unoccupied by elizabeth taylor and burt reynolds (charlie sheen having proven to be an unfit heir) seem intended to rebuke their celestial birthrights and flee. who knows what record of reckless abandon and illicit sex the police will find on the film rolls left behind at their north portland hideout...and is there a local musical act ready to assume the responsibility of immortalizing their portland story in the long shadow cast by serge gainsbourg and brigitte bardot?
and their reasons? their intentions? the truth? none of that here, of course. only the laugh of recognition. "if we've gotta walk away, we've gotta hold our heads up high." portland is burning. but there's the dream. no me ha dejado.
but hark! (and irony of ironies), rumor has it that the two might split, and not from each other but from the city of their birth. the shining princ(ess)es apparent to the throne left woefully unoccupied by elizabeth taylor and burt reynolds (charlie sheen having proven to be an unfit heir) seem intended to rebuke their celestial birthrights and flee. who knows what record of reckless abandon and illicit sex the police will find on the film rolls left behind at their north portland hideout...and is there a local musical act ready to assume the responsibility of immortalizing their portland story in the long shadow cast by serge gainsbourg and brigitte bardot?
and their reasons? their intentions? the truth? none of that here, of course. only the laugh of recognition. "if we've gotta walk away, we've gotta hold our heads up high." portland is burning. but there's the dream. no me ha dejado.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
SUMMER READING LIST, YEAR 2
it's been a while that i've thought i should read goodbye, columbus (if only just for the title story) and bright lights, big city. (read into both of those titles as much as you should.) and for a look at the other side of the same coin, i should probably refresh myself on the beautiful and the damned as well. fitzgerald isn't at all bad. good thing, too. we wouldn't want this year's list to fall to the same fated procrastination as the one from last year. but it's ultimately the thought that counts, right? and the thought is to express it now before the fifth season of "gossip girl" starts this fall and i'm improperly thought of as just another wannabe dan humphrey. no way. the world can still wait for this lonely boy.
Monday, June 13, 2011
PORTLAND IS BURNING
that should have sufficiently apparent two years ago when our letter to sam adams asking that he use his mayoral clout to get courtney love cast as dazzler in one of the x-men movies never received a response. even if adams never knew love on the portland music scene in the late eighties, he could have tried something. and if he wasn't going to try then, hell, we would have been satisfied with a condescending letter. our mayor doesn't seem to know who his constituents are anymore, and that's not surprising: portland is forgetting itself.
perhaps that's too strong. it's just easy to resort to polemics after having our expectations and anticipation so thoroughly crushed. and no, not exactly by adams, although the depressing scene at the cirque du cycling criterium yesterday evening was what prompted us to see in better relief the sign that the courtney affair should have sent us so clearly all that time ago. maybe it's not that everyone forgot, or that no one cared. this year's race was on a cool and drizzly sunday, not exactly prime conditions for attending a street fair and spectating a bicycle race -- even if the drizzle did increase the possibility of spectating the splintering of more carbon fiber.
the event organizers should have kept the criterium on a saturday, and if they had, we all would have been treated to much better weather, conducive both to encouraging a greater turnout of spectators and assuring that those spectators were in need of liquid refreshment. the sun might also have encouraged more post-race strip downs, although the best of the eye candy from the categories one and two race had dropped out before the finishers made it into their final ten laps. granted, a saturday race would have conflicted with the heartbreaker at the alpenrose velodrome, the annual track racing event hosted by the gentle lovers, and what's the cirque crit without them? still (fatigue? come on! the lovers showed), the fields on sunday did seem to be smaller than in past years, and so the race wasn't much with them, either.
perhaps, though, there weren't any fewer riders than last year or the year before, but the event definitely seemed smaller and more controlled, which was no doubt due in large part to the tameness of the lawn parties on the course where it wasn't on mississippi. the bike messenger house on michigan between fremont and beech had a healthy showing for it's front yard barbeque, but other than there and at a couple of houses on albina between failing and shaver the crowds on the back streets were pathetic, and the partygoers could hardly raise cheers amongst themselves. people raised their voices more in conversation than in encouragement for the riders. hardly anyone noticed the crash.
what good are a stocked refrigerator and a brigade of mason jars in the face of all that? portland needed something dazzling at the cirque du cycling criterium yesterday evening, and no one in the entire boise-eliot neighborhood felt like stepping up to dazzle. it was the end of the weekend, sure. the parties were over. but it was the end of spring, too, and it was still cold and rainy, and everyone also suffered from remembering that we'd had at least a few solid weeks of semi-inspiring weather before the criterium last year.
it's possible that it was just a bad idea to go out after an afternoon nap. but surely the anticipation and the mason jar brigade should have helped dispel any lingering irritability? too bad the irritability was lingering outside in the neighborhood. it might have been better to have not gotten up at all, except maybe to go get a rental to take back to the couch. something fluffy and full of action -- but definitely not an x-men movie with courtney love playing dazzler. that never happened, and our eyes can no more pretend to see the glory.
it's the end of the metaphorical weekend, portland. the party's over. portland is burning, and we're all all wet.
christ. that stupid nap.
perhaps that's too strong. it's just easy to resort to polemics after having our expectations and anticipation so thoroughly crushed. and no, not exactly by adams, although the depressing scene at the cirque du cycling criterium yesterday evening was what prompted us to see in better relief the sign that the courtney affair should have sent us so clearly all that time ago. maybe it's not that everyone forgot, or that no one cared. this year's race was on a cool and drizzly sunday, not exactly prime conditions for attending a street fair and spectating a bicycle race -- even if the drizzle did increase the possibility of spectating the splintering of more carbon fiber.
the event organizers should have kept the criterium on a saturday, and if they had, we all would have been treated to much better weather, conducive both to encouraging a greater turnout of spectators and assuring that those spectators were in need of liquid refreshment. the sun might also have encouraged more post-race strip downs, although the best of the eye candy from the categories one and two race had dropped out before the finishers made it into their final ten laps. granted, a saturday race would have conflicted with the heartbreaker at the alpenrose velodrome, the annual track racing event hosted by the gentle lovers, and what's the cirque crit without them? still (fatigue? come on! the lovers showed), the fields on sunday did seem to be smaller than in past years, and so the race wasn't much with them, either.
perhaps, though, there weren't any fewer riders than last year or the year before, but the event definitely seemed smaller and more controlled, which was no doubt due in large part to the tameness of the lawn parties on the course where it wasn't on mississippi. the bike messenger house on michigan between fremont and beech had a healthy showing for it's front yard barbeque, but other than there and at a couple of houses on albina between failing and shaver the crowds on the back streets were pathetic, and the partygoers could hardly raise cheers amongst themselves. people raised their voices more in conversation than in encouragement for the riders. hardly anyone noticed the crash.
what good are a stocked refrigerator and a brigade of mason jars in the face of all that? portland needed something dazzling at the cirque du cycling criterium yesterday evening, and no one in the entire boise-eliot neighborhood felt like stepping up to dazzle. it was the end of the weekend, sure. the parties were over. but it was the end of spring, too, and it was still cold and rainy, and everyone also suffered from remembering that we'd had at least a few solid weeks of semi-inspiring weather before the criterium last year.
it's possible that it was just a bad idea to go out after an afternoon nap. but surely the anticipation and the mason jar brigade should have helped dispel any lingering irritability? too bad the irritability was lingering outside in the neighborhood. it might have been better to have not gotten up at all, except maybe to go get a rental to take back to the couch. something fluffy and full of action -- but definitely not an x-men movie with courtney love playing dazzler. that never happened, and our eyes can no more pretend to see the glory.
it's the end of the metaphorical weekend, portland. the party's over. portland is burning, and we're all all wet.
christ. that stupid nap.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
THE FARMERS IN THE DELL
the hood river valley chamber of commerce must train the proprietors of every stop on the fruit loop in a standard welcome spiel. the greeters -- owners, volunteers or something in between -- all ask the same questions, starting with "where are you from?" it was after answering that question at the alpaca farm that we learned from the alpaca farmer that, among the states where alpacas are raised, ohio leads the country in number of alpaca farms and also in number of alpacas raised and that china has of late been buying south america out of all of its alpacas in attempts to surpass the united states in worldwide market share.
the alpaca farm that services foothills yarn and fiber isn't far from odell, the small community in the hood river valley between highways 35 and 281. following the fruit loop map that we found in the not primarily resale bookstore in hood river, we passed through that community on our way from the hood river lavender farms to where we met the alpacas, and on our way back, the charm of the local high school convinced us to turn down the main drag of the town on our way back toward the columbia river and highway 84.
if you're looking for authentic mexican food, odell is an incredible, if unlikely, foodie dream. the michoacan sports bar and grill is right there on the odell highway, but for those not simply wooed by its contemporary industrial design and neon signage there's the taqueria los amigos, where there's not just a full menu of reasonably priced and traditionally prepared mexican (american) favorites but also a quarter machine full of authentic-y temporary tattoos. if you're lucky you'll get the "smile now cry later" styled virgin of guadalupe. you couldn't not lean like a chola with that on your neck. there are also three television screens, all of them showing the same mexican news program, a program hosted by a tall, faintly brown anchor who must have used the same plastic surgeon as michael jackson. we watched her deliver the news until our tortas arrived, at which point we realized that there was a food cart across the road (a cart! in the hood river valley!), a cart called the snack shack, which was next to "espresso your love," central odell's only apparent public wifi hotspot. our tortas, cubano and jamon, were delicious. the fresh guacamole and specially curated salsa tray were worth the wait, even if we were the only customers at los amigos at two-thirty on that friday afternoon. (we also acknowledged that the three ladies we found sitting by the register when we went in probably had no idea how to treat our completely unexpected arrival.)
"is it racist of me to wonder why there are so many mexicans up in the hills of this part of oregon?"
"um, you haven't lived on the west coast, but no. that's just observation."
after lunch, and just north of los amigos on odell highway, we spotted what looked to be an abandoned warehouse complex on the left side of the roadway.
"ooh. old abandoned buildings. i'm turning."
"i don't think they're abandoned. it's just not fruit season." (the hood river valley might get more sun than portland, but the sun's general elusiveness has been a statewide phenomenon this year.) "besides, they probably find a way to use the buildings the rest of the year. you shouldn't get too close. there are cars parked. they're probably having illegal cock fights in there."
"now that's racist."
"you're right. it could be dogs."
"now that's love."
bon appetit.
the alpaca farm that services foothills yarn and fiber isn't far from odell, the small community in the hood river valley between highways 35 and 281. following the fruit loop map that we found in the not primarily resale bookstore in hood river, we passed through that community on our way from the hood river lavender farms to where we met the alpacas, and on our way back, the charm of the local high school convinced us to turn down the main drag of the town on our way back toward the columbia river and highway 84.
if you're looking for authentic mexican food, odell is an incredible, if unlikely, foodie dream. the michoacan sports bar and grill is right there on the odell highway, but for those not simply wooed by its contemporary industrial design and neon signage there's the taqueria los amigos, where there's not just a full menu of reasonably priced and traditionally prepared mexican (american) favorites but also a quarter machine full of authentic-y temporary tattoos. if you're lucky you'll get the "smile now cry later" styled virgin of guadalupe. you couldn't not lean like a chola with that on your neck. there are also three television screens, all of them showing the same mexican news program, a program hosted by a tall, faintly brown anchor who must have used the same plastic surgeon as michael jackson. we watched her deliver the news until our tortas arrived, at which point we realized that there was a food cart across the road (a cart! in the hood river valley!), a cart called the snack shack, which was next to "espresso your love," central odell's only apparent public wifi hotspot. our tortas, cubano and jamon, were delicious. the fresh guacamole and specially curated salsa tray were worth the wait, even if we were the only customers at los amigos at two-thirty on that friday afternoon. (we also acknowledged that the three ladies we found sitting by the register when we went in probably had no idea how to treat our completely unexpected arrival.)
"is it racist of me to wonder why there are so many mexicans up in the hills of this part of oregon?"
"um, you haven't lived on the west coast, but no. that's just observation."
after lunch, and just north of los amigos on odell highway, we spotted what looked to be an abandoned warehouse complex on the left side of the roadway.
"ooh. old abandoned buildings. i'm turning."
"i don't think they're abandoned. it's just not fruit season." (the hood river valley might get more sun than portland, but the sun's general elusiveness has been a statewide phenomenon this year.) "besides, they probably find a way to use the buildings the rest of the year. you shouldn't get too close. there are cars parked. they're probably having illegal cock fights in there."
"now that's racist."
"you're right. it could be dogs."
"now that's love."
bon appetit.
Friday, June 10, 2011
SYMPOSIUM
spotted: couples, all out man/boy love at every pub and cafe in town. is there a new non-profit on the scene pairing stylish men in their twenties with men of late middle age for board game fun? are we witnessing the beginning of a new trend in geeky rent boying geared toward portland's black plastic bespectacled creative elite? they're playing chess and scrabble and some strange variation of go using pennies and dimes all across the city. and they're wearing their wedding rings. sometimes both of them. surely no one's fooled? ok. maybe it was just regular old go and neither the man nor his boy had yet decided to consummate the relationship with a proper board. but no. of course not! it couldn't be his father.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I MET HER IN A CLUB DOWN IN OLD SOHO, WHERE YOU DRINK CHAMPAGNE AND IT TASTES LIKE CHERRY KÖLSCH
beer releases in portland, oregon are star studded events, even if only a thousand or so people can actually identify the stars -- although it should also be said that the people who would recognize the names of their craft beer blogs are far flung. save one notable but unmentionable exception (i don't remember his name from the bits of conversation on which i was able eavesdrop), the best of the best were gathered at the lucky labrador beer hall in northwest portland yesterday evening for the release of a new kölsch made by lucky labrador brewer ben flerchinger in collaboration with lola, the ladies of lagers and ales, a local, all female powerhouse of beer expertise and homebrewing knowhow.
lola began its activities in late 2010 as a casual drinking meetup between friends, but has since expanded its purview beyond just the social realm. the members of lola (and if you're a lady in portland who's interested in craft beer then you already are one) may not be industry professionals, but their passion for good beer and their regular proximity to experienced brewers and local beer connoisseurs have garnered the group increasing recognition as a tastemaker unto itself -- and literally, now that lola has made its official on-tap debut.
working on the lucky labrador's seven barrel system was a first for most of the ladies, a homebrwer's dream per the statements of one lola member, and if the line of pubsters waiting at the kölsch tap was any indication, the product of the ladies' labor was a wild success. that success surely won't be one off, either: lola already has plans to craft another collaborative brew with the people at coalition.
the kölsch itself? looking good in pants doesn't necessarily mean being able to articulate your palate, but the beer definitely would have been a refreshing companion to the heat and the sun this past weekend. aromatically sweet, with a distinctly dry finish, but also particularly effervescent. the ladies of lola, that is. it's indiscreet pass judgment on a friend's beer either way, the recognition of which should be exonerating, even if it means admitting to being friends with ben. try the beer for yourself -- while you can -- at the lucky labrador beer hall, 1945 nw quimby st, or sample a special cherry variation in the rare beers section at the portland fruit beer festival this weekend at burnside brewing, 701 e burnside ave.
three cheers, lola. and well played. it was nice of you to let ben take so much credit.
lola began its activities in late 2010 as a casual drinking meetup between friends, but has since expanded its purview beyond just the social realm. the members of lola (and if you're a lady in portland who's interested in craft beer then you already are one) may not be industry professionals, but their passion for good beer and their regular proximity to experienced brewers and local beer connoisseurs have garnered the group increasing recognition as a tastemaker unto itself -- and literally, now that lola has made its official on-tap debut.
working on the lucky labrador's seven barrel system was a first for most of the ladies, a homebrwer's dream per the statements of one lola member, and if the line of pubsters waiting at the kölsch tap was any indication, the product of the ladies' labor was a wild success. that success surely won't be one off, either: lola already has plans to craft another collaborative brew with the people at coalition.
the kölsch itself? looking good in pants doesn't necessarily mean being able to articulate your palate, but the beer definitely would have been a refreshing companion to the heat and the sun this past weekend. aromatically sweet, with a distinctly dry finish, but also particularly effervescent. the ladies of lola, that is. it's indiscreet pass judgment on a friend's beer either way, the recognition of which should be exonerating, even if it means admitting to being friends with ben. try the beer for yourself -- while you can -- at the lucky labrador beer hall, 1945 nw quimby st, or sample a special cherry variation in the rare beers section at the portland fruit beer festival this weekend at burnside brewing, 701 e burnside ave.
three cheers, lola. and well played. it was nice of you to let ben take so much credit.
Monday, June 6, 2011
JUNE, BUSTIN' OUT ALL OVER SINCE 1945
deer corpse. just off the bike lane on highway 30 about a mile north of the merger of nw yeon and st. helens road. pulled over by the train tracks. it was open at its rear and spilling bloated organs. a big one (the liver?) looked about to pop. had it popped, my next retch would have brought something up. i thought of the old, overalled man who i'd seen a couple of days earlier sitting, on the opposite side of the same road, in front of a seemingly one-off stand that advertised elk jerky. the deer probably died that same day. on the third day of sunshine, it was leaking and bloated.
after a hazy morning, the sunshine was bright on sunday afternoon. it had been since two summers ago that i'd ridden to the beach at the northeast end of sauvie island, which was apparently a long enough time for me to forget how uncomfortable the ride back can be after hours in the sun and too little nourishment. two vitamin waters didn't turn out to be enough for forty miles. if the stand had still been up, i might have thought to get some elk jerky.
i leave for the beach and i understand that getting to the island is only half the trip, but i'm always able to imagine that the ride on the island itself is going to be easy because of the scenery. but the scenery, and it was beautiful on sunday, didn't put me in the padded shorts that i should have worn for that many miles and such bumpy roads, including reeder road, which gets significantly more bumpy at the exact point of the road sign that marks the border between multnomah and columbia counties. also on the bumpy roads of sauvie island: a dead mole and a dead snake. seeing the snake reminded me of the fact of snakes and that the fact of snakes on the road might mean snakes on the trail through the woods between the road and the beach.
i was still on the happy part of my ride -- the ride out -- so i didn't let the snakes deter me. it was all the same anyway, because the trails between the road (where reeder turns to gravel near its terminus) and the nude (queer) beach were flooded, which probably meant that the beach was flooded, too. one of the punk fags who were buying corn dogs at the seven eleven where i bought my vitamin water shouted the score at me as he was getting back into his car, and i didn't bother to get off my bike to see for myself.
the beaches along reeder before the road turns to gravel aren't so pretty. still, i gave one a try to get some sun on my shoulders while i got some reading done. the clothing not so optional beaches are separated from the road by a weedy hillock that rolls down into beach scrub and sand on the side of the water. easy snake spotting, especially for the regularly spaced cement stairways that lead up the hill from the road. i couldn't concentrate on house of the fortunate buddhas. this beach was more crowded than the one at the island where i last remembered spending time with a book. but maybe my mood on that other day was just more conducive to reading. it was breezier, and it was maureen medved's novel.
i left after less than an hour, anxious about the ride back into town, though apparently not trying to delay it. the sun was still a long time from down, but it had gone behind clouds by that point. they'd have calendula flowers at the blue heron herbary, and the thought of making a tea of them and drinking it in the bath later made it easier to get back on the bike. the sign must not be as easy to see as from the opposite side of the road and when going in the direction of the beach because i missed it. dead rabbit. i hadn't noticed it on the way out. there was a chipmunk that ran across the road ahead of my front tire that might have been dead if it had been two seconds later.
the pain in my ass. i don't believe that lance armstrong ever rode a tour on that saddle, so i can only conclude that "replica" isn't a very carefully regulated standard within the bicycle component manufacturing industry. it was a gift. and it matches my other components. it wouldn't have been a problem had i thought more about appropriate attire. i could still appreciate the smell of the wild roses, which was impossible to ignore, but did nothing for the pain in my ass. no honeysuckle yet. not enough sun this year. will there be a shortage of honey sticks at the farm stores this year?
having realized that i missed the turn for the herbary, i stopped for a recovery beer (don't ask me which style i chose) at the captured by porches beer bus by the kruger's farm market, just a mile from the bridge to highway 30. the barbeque vendor was out of everything, and the market was out of kale. $1.25 a bunch is a steal. even after the beer, the approach to the bridge wasn't fun. but then it's just another ten miles to the center of the city. once i was under the st. john's bridge, the ride back from the beach didn't seem like such a pain in the ass. and there's even more beer to be had back in town. and there's that dead deer. disgusting. we've had our differences, portland -- and i really don't know if we can make it work -- but sometimes i do remember exactly why i fell in love. it's sore, has a bloated liver, and it smells like wild roses.
after a hazy morning, the sunshine was bright on sunday afternoon. it had been since two summers ago that i'd ridden to the beach at the northeast end of sauvie island, which was apparently a long enough time for me to forget how uncomfortable the ride back can be after hours in the sun and too little nourishment. two vitamin waters didn't turn out to be enough for forty miles. if the stand had still been up, i might have thought to get some elk jerky.
i leave for the beach and i understand that getting to the island is only half the trip, but i'm always able to imagine that the ride on the island itself is going to be easy because of the scenery. but the scenery, and it was beautiful on sunday, didn't put me in the padded shorts that i should have worn for that many miles and such bumpy roads, including reeder road, which gets significantly more bumpy at the exact point of the road sign that marks the border between multnomah and columbia counties. also on the bumpy roads of sauvie island: a dead mole and a dead snake. seeing the snake reminded me of the fact of snakes and that the fact of snakes on the road might mean snakes on the trail through the woods between the road and the beach.
i was still on the happy part of my ride -- the ride out -- so i didn't let the snakes deter me. it was all the same anyway, because the trails between the road (where reeder turns to gravel near its terminus) and the nude (queer) beach were flooded, which probably meant that the beach was flooded, too. one of the punk fags who were buying corn dogs at the seven eleven where i bought my vitamin water shouted the score at me as he was getting back into his car, and i didn't bother to get off my bike to see for myself.
the beaches along reeder before the road turns to gravel aren't so pretty. still, i gave one a try to get some sun on my shoulders while i got some reading done. the clothing not so optional beaches are separated from the road by a weedy hillock that rolls down into beach scrub and sand on the side of the water. easy snake spotting, especially for the regularly spaced cement stairways that lead up the hill from the road. i couldn't concentrate on house of the fortunate buddhas. this beach was more crowded than the one at the island where i last remembered spending time with a book. but maybe my mood on that other day was just more conducive to reading. it was breezier, and it was maureen medved's novel.
i left after less than an hour, anxious about the ride back into town, though apparently not trying to delay it. the sun was still a long time from down, but it had gone behind clouds by that point. they'd have calendula flowers at the blue heron herbary, and the thought of making a tea of them and drinking it in the bath later made it easier to get back on the bike. the sign must not be as easy to see as from the opposite side of the road and when going in the direction of the beach because i missed it. dead rabbit. i hadn't noticed it on the way out. there was a chipmunk that ran across the road ahead of my front tire that might have been dead if it had been two seconds later.
the pain in my ass. i don't believe that lance armstrong ever rode a tour on that saddle, so i can only conclude that "replica" isn't a very carefully regulated standard within the bicycle component manufacturing industry. it was a gift. and it matches my other components. it wouldn't have been a problem had i thought more about appropriate attire. i could still appreciate the smell of the wild roses, which was impossible to ignore, but did nothing for the pain in my ass. no honeysuckle yet. not enough sun this year. will there be a shortage of honey sticks at the farm stores this year?
having realized that i missed the turn for the herbary, i stopped for a recovery beer (don't ask me which style i chose) at the captured by porches beer bus by the kruger's farm market, just a mile from the bridge to highway 30. the barbeque vendor was out of everything, and the market was out of kale. $1.25 a bunch is a steal. even after the beer, the approach to the bridge wasn't fun. but then it's just another ten miles to the center of the city. once i was under the st. john's bridge, the ride back from the beach didn't seem like such a pain in the ass. and there's even more beer to be had back in town. and there's that dead deer. disgusting. we've had our differences, portland -- and i really don't know if we can make it work -- but sometimes i do remember exactly why i fell in love. it's sore, has a bloated liver, and it smells like wild roses.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
SQUIRREL VS. CROW
it happened this morning. at peninsula park. and at the very same time as i was listening to "stadium love." no kidding. no set up. the crow was after it. that squirrel ended up a corpse by afternoon. no doubt. that's not why i had that napkin on the desk, but it still served for cleaning up the drippings of the chicken soup. "wanna make a trade, cougar for a snake, wanna fall in love. ¶ wanna make a deal, angel vs. eel, owl vs. dove."
those dead squirrels. let's hope that their increasingly ubiquitous bike lane corpses will be, on the reverse side of the calendar, a harbinger of sunshine and clear, the succession of a cycle at the beginning of which their appearance last fall marked the onset of a long, long, grey and rainy winter. "no one's getting out."
"every little thing, pushed into the ring, fight it out to wow the crowd... ¶ guess you thought you could just watch. no one's getting out without stadium love."
girlfriend out of town - m4m - (pdx)
Date: 2011-06-02, 10:24PM PDT
Reply to: ᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆ
hi. girlfriend gone to visit family for the week. looking. hit me up.
"no one's getting out."
crow was fucking up that squirrel.
those dead squirrels. let's hope that their increasingly ubiquitous bike lane corpses will be, on the reverse side of the calendar, a harbinger of sunshine and clear, the succession of a cycle at the beginning of which their appearance last fall marked the onset of a long, long, grey and rainy winter. "no one's getting out."
"every little thing, pushed into the ring, fight it out to wow the crowd... ¶ guess you thought you could just watch. no one's getting out without stadium love."
girlfriend out of town - m4m - (pdx)
Date: 2011-06-02, 10:24PM PDT
Reply to: ᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆᄆ
hi. girlfriend gone to visit family for the week. looking. hit me up.
"no one's getting out."
crow was fucking up that squirrel.
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