it's true, that things have been getting pretty gay around around here, but that's how things have been getting around portland, and we've just followed suit.
to mark the beginning of summer, which finally got around to making an appearance on july 29, we took a river trip, and being careful to stay on trend (after thursday night's enrampagement we acknowledged that it would be good for us to mingle), we decided to try our luck at rooster rock state park on the columbia, the east end of which is synonymous with summertime portland faggotry.
the beaches at the east end of the park are about a half mile from the clothing optional signs at the east edge of the parking lot at the entrance to the park (where we warned the woman who stopped us that we might tell the state that she was charging people to get in). none of us having been to the park before, we'd no visual cues for when to turn off the east-west trail from the parking lot and go north toward the river and ended up slogging through the mud that the clothing optional men we met along the trail told us we could avoid if we went one or another way.
luckily, we found a dry patch of sand in the sun by the edge of the river without having to search for too long. the late middle aged clothing optional man sitting in a lawn chair on a rise just above where we laid down our blankets told us that there's usually more beach. the wide and rolling dunes at the aptly named sand island -- which is separated from the oregon side of the river by about a quarter mile of water -- were in full sun, but they seemed only accessible by boat when we decided to settle on our spot.
our group was mixed and included some first encounters, so we didn't get completely clo-op ourselves (use it: on trend), but there was a regular stream of unclothed guys (we wouldn't see a naked woman until we were leaving) walking near the water, cruising for a spot of their own.
oh, hey, tranny -- but for realsies. her name is alex, and we were introduced to her at least once before by sebastian, who has since the inception of our friendship come to himself by that same way. one of our group mentioned after alex's had passed that alex had been a part of the organizing force behind the big gay warehouse in san francisco. but apparently no longer -- and no surprise: a hundred make out rooms wouldn't have gotten us on that shuttle to south san francisco for the warehouse pride party with no guarantee of safe or easy passage back to the city.
get to the point already! is what we were all thinking when it was proposed that maybe i could make it to sand island if i weren't swimming alone. and, sure enough what had escaped me the other three times i'd gotten into the water came to easy yet wholly unexpected (but definitely hoped for) fruition with a companion. the view of the gorge from the other side of the island was worth the adventure, and the water in the shallow pools just off the beach was much warmer than at where we'd laid our blankets.
my girlfriend knew the score when i swam back to where she was waiting with the group. the return was significantly more difficult than the swim out, and not just for the energy we'd expended since setting out, but for having to swim against the current as we recrossed the eddies in the center of the water between the blankets and the island, the renaming of which we were notified immediately after our return. damn it, oregon. why can't i quit you.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
ALL ABOUT THE BENJAMINS
portland may have forgotten the memorial day of st. christopher (feast of, really...bastards!), but the rose city is definitely showing the bens of the city some love tonight. and duly so, because a certain five of them make us some of the better beer that allays our distress over the gloom year in and year out (and in particular this year, the year that summer never came). we're an hour away from the conclusion of the first annual benfest, july 25, 2011, held at the new(ish) grain & gristle on ne 15th ave and prescott.
the lineup (in no order of obvious importance):
the ben-alt-imate, a german style alt bier from ben engler of occidental brewing...done by eight when the christophers got here.
the friends with benefits, a three year aged russian imperial stout with black benberries from ben dobler of widmer brothers brewing.
the peach hefeweissben, an unfiltered wheat beer with peaches from ben edmunds of breakside brewing.
ben & jerry's ice cold cream ale, a collaboration between ben flerchinger of lucky labrador brewing and jerry fechter, the owner of lompoc brewing.
the bourben de ieso spades, a bourbon barrel aged version of hopworks urban brewery's ace of spades by ben love.
...and a bonus ben beer from outside of portland (although arguably from the pacific northwest), the midnight benshine, a black imperial steam beer aged in oak with brettanomyces from ben johnson of midnight sun brewing and ben millstein of kodiak island brewing in alaska.
maybe going for pints wasn't such a good idea. i've only had a chance to try numbers five and six, and the abvs of both are working along with my empty stomach to convince me not to have a third. coming directly from a ride might not have been the best idea, but now i know to stop by the occidental tap room then next time i'm taking the longer way home through st. johns.
far be it from me to comment on any of the beers on offer with such distinguished palates breathing over my shoulder, especially when more than one of them is going to be blogging about this tomorrow. i just wanted to start early enough to stake claim on my title. and anyway, i don't need to have an opinion on the beer. someone mistook me for jeff alworth.
the lineup (in no order of obvious importance):
the ben-alt-imate, a german style alt bier from ben engler of occidental brewing...done by eight when the christophers got here.
the friends with benefits, a three year aged russian imperial stout with black benberries from ben dobler of widmer brothers brewing.
the peach hefeweissben, an unfiltered wheat beer with peaches from ben edmunds of breakside brewing.
ben & jerry's ice cold cream ale, a collaboration between ben flerchinger of lucky labrador brewing and jerry fechter, the owner of lompoc brewing.
the bourben de ieso spades, a bourbon barrel aged version of hopworks urban brewery's ace of spades by ben love.
...and a bonus ben beer from outside of portland (although arguably from the pacific northwest), the midnight benshine, a black imperial steam beer aged in oak with brettanomyces from ben johnson of midnight sun brewing and ben millstein of kodiak island brewing in alaska.
maybe going for pints wasn't such a good idea. i've only had a chance to try numbers five and six, and the abvs of both are working along with my empty stomach to convince me not to have a third. coming directly from a ride might not have been the best idea, but now i know to stop by the occidental tap room then next time i'm taking the longer way home through st. johns.
far be it from me to comment on any of the beers on offer with such distinguished palates breathing over my shoulder, especially when more than one of them is going to be blogging about this tomorrow. i just wanted to start early enough to stake claim on my title. and anyway, i don't need to have an opinion on the beer. someone mistook me for jeff alworth.
HOW TO GRACEFULLY COUNTENANCE AN OBVIOUS SNUB, AGAIN
from the "catholic encyclopedia":
(the historical martyr seems to have volunteered himself to the wrath of emperor diocletian after the man who is now honored as st. george proclaimed himself a christian and was tortured and killed by the same.)
the church did remove the feast of st. christopher from the calendar of saints in 1969, so it's understandable that the socially discriminating would want to avoid committing any possible faux pas by not too ostentatiously celebrating, but july 25 does remain the memorial day of st. christopher, so tributes and gifts of service, however belated, will still be accepted discreetly by us in the saint's memory and on behalf of those individuals who were given his name in recognition of this their gosh darn name day.
cash will gratefully be accepted in place of gold should the acquisition of the latter pose any significant obstacle to the presentation of the gift or its bearer. i'm sure that my dead godmother would have wanted it that way.
The legend says: A heathen king (in Canaan or Arabia), through the prayers of his wife to the Blessed Virgin, had a son, whom he called Offerus (Offro, Adokimus, or Reprebus) and dedicated to the gods Machmet and Apollo. Acquiring in time extraordinary size and strength, Offerus resolved to serve only the strongest and the bravest. He bound himself successively to a mighty king and to Satan, but he found both lacking in courage, the former dreading even the name of the devil, and the latter frightened by the sight of a cross at the roadside.
For a time his search for a new master was in vain, but at last he found a hermit (Babylas?) who told him to offer his allegiance to Christ, instructed him in the Faith, and baptized him. Christopher, as he was now called, would not promise to do any fasting or praying, but willingly accepted the task of carrying people, for God's sake, across a raging stream. One day he was carrying a child who continually grew heavier, so that it seemed to him as if he had the whole world on his shoulders. The child, on inquiry, made himself known as the Creator and Redeemer of the world. To prove his statement the child ordered Christopher to fix his staff in the ground. The next morning it had grown into a palm-tree bearing fruit. The miracle converted many. This excited the rage of the king (prefect) of that region (Dagnus of Samos in Lycia?). Christopher was put into prison and, after many cruel torments, beheaded.
The Greek legend may belong to the sixth century; about the middle of the ninth, we find it spread through France. Originally, St. Christopher was only a martyr, and as such is recorded in the old martyrologies. The simple form of the Greek and Latin passio soon gave way to more elaborate legends. We have the Latin edition in prose and verse of 983 by the subdeacon Walter of Speyer, "Thesaurus anecdotorum novissimus" (Augsburg, 1721-23), II, 27-142, and Harster, "Walter von Speyer" (1878). An edition of the eleventh century is found in the Acta SS., and another in the "Golden Legend" of Jacob de Voragine. The idea conveyed in the name, at first understood in the spiritual sense of bearing Christ in the heart, was in the twelfth or thirteenth century taken in the realistic meaning and became the characteristic of the saint. The fact that he was frequently called a great martyr may have given rise to the story of his enormous size. The stream and the weight of the child may have been intended to denote the trials and struggles of a soul taking upon itself the yoke of Christ in this world.
(the historical martyr seems to have volunteered himself to the wrath of emperor diocletian after the man who is now honored as st. george proclaimed himself a christian and was tortured and killed by the same.)
the church did remove the feast of st. christopher from the calendar of saints in 1969, so it's understandable that the socially discriminating would want to avoid committing any possible faux pas by not too ostentatiously celebrating, but july 25 does remain the memorial day of st. christopher, so tributes and gifts of service, however belated, will still be accepted discreetly by us in the saint's memory and on behalf of those individuals who were given his name in recognition of this their gosh darn name day.
cash will gratefully be accepted in place of gold should the acquisition of the latter pose any significant obstacle to the presentation of the gift or its bearer. i'm sure that my dead godmother would have wanted it that way.
Friday, July 22, 2011
CRASHING THE TOUR
late evening coffee ain't no friend of easy sleep or early rising. and so i didn't make it to oblique coffee roasters or to st. honoré for a morning cup and to watch the climb up the "iconic mountain" between modane valfréjus and alpe-d’huez. i did, though, manage to drag myself to the computer in time to catch the rear of the group rolling through the finish of the stage on a live stream. "an amazing bit of sporting spectacle." tour commentary is almost more stirring than the race itself. here comes the stage recap montage set to "ain't no mountain high enough"! word is they're considering having a national holiday down under should cadell evans end up taking an overall first, but the yellow and green jerseys are both still in doubt. can voeckler do it for the french? talk to the guys talking on british eurosport. maybe it's just the accents, but they could probably get me excited about anything. tour! tour! tour! whoa: there's a game app? i wonder if it includes the frenzied spectators waving hands and flags and running up around the riders. the guys on british eurosport are surprised they don't cause more riders to go down. maybe if i actually watch one of the last two stages i can see a crash.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
HOW TO GET STARTED WITH ADOBE INDESIGN CS5
you pay adobe some hundreds of dollars. you see, adobe doesn't care that you only have a week left in your online class.
so it happens that, despite your pretensions to responsibility, you turn to the neglected distraction of the pile of books on the file cabinet. confessions of the letter closet has arrived to the apartment in all of its 290 pages and sits atop the pile. (for its recent arrival, reading it won't actually rectify the neglect of the rest, but what helps is helpful.) ironically, you've recently sold your copy of the first volume of foucault's history of sexuality -- the one you bought because it was cheap and forgotten at the seattle public library book sale -- a reading of which would have been indispensable in taking the most from the introduction of the book you're now trying to engage. the book you bought with the store credit you got for the other one was vaguely epistolary, but it had nothing to do with queer desire, so having read it doesn't really inform your understanding of the letter closet. had you not read it, however, you wouldn't have come across that interview with the woman who translated it in which she talks about translation as a layering of subjectivities and the intrinsic nature of the translating act to render contexts relative. you think, at least, that foucault would have liked that.
for all of this thinking, you think that some program somewhere would probably put you on track for an accelerated graduate degree. you and the basis of cultural criticism are already so tight. that's what he said, anyway. earlier. really. and you probably should have asked him to stay, but you thought it would be funnier to have something to write about expounding, loudly, as he left, on the uncertain space between encouragement and patronization. and a discursive conversation is only fun to talk about, not actually to talk. so you hugged and laughed about being over that dead end self-awareness, especially since criticizing it recently got you punched in the mouth.
so much coffee so late in the evening turns out not to have been any boon for productivity, although you might not have drank so fast had your internet connection not been suspiciously in favor of adobe's resistance to your signing up for another indesign trial. you know you're not going to cough up those some hundreds of dollars, but you know that you're thinking about it.
do not TELL me that the connection restarted again. not helpful. really. don't start with me, bitch.
so it happens that, despite your pretensions to responsibility, you turn to the neglected distraction of the pile of books on the file cabinet. confessions of the letter closet has arrived to the apartment in all of its 290 pages and sits atop the pile. (for its recent arrival, reading it won't actually rectify the neglect of the rest, but what helps is helpful.) ironically, you've recently sold your copy of the first volume of foucault's history of sexuality -- the one you bought because it was cheap and forgotten at the seattle public library book sale -- a reading of which would have been indispensable in taking the most from the introduction of the book you're now trying to engage. the book you bought with the store credit you got for the other one was vaguely epistolary, but it had nothing to do with queer desire, so having read it doesn't really inform your understanding of the letter closet. had you not read it, however, you wouldn't have come across that interview with the woman who translated it in which she talks about translation as a layering of subjectivities and the intrinsic nature of the translating act to render contexts relative. you think, at least, that foucault would have liked that.
for all of this thinking, you think that some program somewhere would probably put you on track for an accelerated graduate degree. you and the basis of cultural criticism are already so tight. that's what he said, anyway. earlier. really. and you probably should have asked him to stay, but you thought it would be funnier to have something to write about expounding, loudly, as he left, on the uncertain space between encouragement and patronization. and a discursive conversation is only fun to talk about, not actually to talk. so you hugged and laughed about being over that dead end self-awareness, especially since criticizing it recently got you punched in the mouth.
so much coffee so late in the evening turns out not to have been any boon for productivity, although you might not have drank so fast had your internet connection not been suspiciously in favor of adobe's resistance to your signing up for another indesign trial. you know you're not going to cough up those some hundreds of dollars, but you know that you're thinking about it.
do not TELL me that the connection restarted again. not helpful. really. don't start with me, bitch.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
(SUMMARY) ACTIVIST JUDGMENT
the fags are all up in portland, like they followed us back from san francisco or something. (and we use that once derogatory term only to indicate that the same-sex loving going on between the new arrivals/permanent visitors is generally presenting male). and it's not just a new generation, unless you consider that maybe "our" efforts to promote and attend wild polyamorous dance nights have made it easier for older, once cloistered gay men to walk down the street hand in hand.
at the final race of the mt. tabor road series on wednesday evening, seeing the fag himself (although he's a fag in name only and that name can no longer be mentioned here) made us wonder which of the shiny legged and spandexed warriors ripping around the mountain might have tastes for other than their cheering girlfriends. sadly, that wondering came to a negative result (excepting, of course, the constant summary conclusion that all of them must -- frame of reference and all that). bicycle racers are always the last to know, and in this case, they probably just haven't taken the time to get down from their bicycles to see how they might like finally walking the walk (hand in hand).
not that seeing fags downtown is ever any surprise, but they do tend to be of a certain ilk (the eponymous "downtown gays," who have, in fact, been showing up more and more often outside of their reserve lands near the west side waterfront). and it was a surprise to realize that three of the four sitting at the big table at central (shh! it's a secret!) on thursday evening weren't there for the photo shoot the rest of the patrons probably assumed, but had simply arrived for cocktails and crepes in, not matching, but exactly coordinated purple gradient plaids. not that any one of those shirts would have been unattractive (or off trend) on any one of the individual men, but the gathering of them all together was enough to convince us to take our fingers off of that weakening pulse. at least the odd man out was the one we knew.
friday presented similar frustrations but from the opposite end of the spectrum, although that's just portland: sure he's sitting close with that girl, but that's not beyond the bounds of friendship, and no, no one cares who you saw staring at what, unless you're accusing him, because we thought so, too -- and besides, you understand full well the assumptions that come along with living too long in this city. downtown excepted, the obvious ones must have been observing the sabbath.
the odd man out at central was in impressive form (and character) at the booty reunion at branx on saturday, where the odder were the expected and most welcome, and which we felt obliged to attend to congratulate puppet, who was in part responsible for the creation of booty back in the days before porky's became the eagle and who had actually followed us back from san francisco (if only for a weekend). our visit to bunk bar earlier that night isn't even worth mentioning. the gay not-gays and the general confusion caused by their proliferation in portland was friday's topic, anyway, which on friday had taken an entire tray of e.l. fudge cookies to put out of mind.
it was just as well that we were trapped in a classroom all day sunday as it was pouring rain from morning until afternoon. so maybe it was for the best that someone caught the cop punching on video (although you can't detect the pcp on screen). the topic of personal video histories by anonymous documentarians (and the regrettably recent origin of the technology responsible for their current ubiquity) came up afterwards at dinner, as well as did the persistence of traditional publishing and the physical book market. who would want to read something like confessions of the letter closet: epistolary fiction and queer desire in modern spain (gays in spain!) as an ebook? right. no one. that's why it's coming to the apartment in 290 actual pages delivered by actual courier -- from somewhere in california. you see, it's not just with the fags, although it's just basic kindness to show the newcomers some portland hospitality, and our commitment to that responsibility has been unexpectedly consuming. moniquipher has been busy. as far as this summer's reading list goes, we've already strayed dreadfully far afield of goodbye, columbus. we just hope you'll understand when we don't have much time to share.
at the final race of the mt. tabor road series on wednesday evening, seeing the fag himself (although he's a fag in name only and that name can no longer be mentioned here) made us wonder which of the shiny legged and spandexed warriors ripping around the mountain might have tastes for other than their cheering girlfriends. sadly, that wondering came to a negative result (excepting, of course, the constant summary conclusion that all of them must -- frame of reference and all that). bicycle racers are always the last to know, and in this case, they probably just haven't taken the time to get down from their bicycles to see how they might like finally walking the walk (hand in hand).
not that seeing fags downtown is ever any surprise, but they do tend to be of a certain ilk (the eponymous "downtown gays," who have, in fact, been showing up more and more often outside of their reserve lands near the west side waterfront). and it was a surprise to realize that three of the four sitting at the big table at central (shh! it's a secret!) on thursday evening weren't there for the photo shoot the rest of the patrons probably assumed, but had simply arrived for cocktails and crepes in, not matching, but exactly coordinated purple gradient plaids. not that any one of those shirts would have been unattractive (or off trend) on any one of the individual men, but the gathering of them all together was enough to convince us to take our fingers off of that weakening pulse. at least the odd man out was the one we knew.
friday presented similar frustrations but from the opposite end of the spectrum, although that's just portland: sure he's sitting close with that girl, but that's not beyond the bounds of friendship, and no, no one cares who you saw staring at what, unless you're accusing him, because we thought so, too -- and besides, you understand full well the assumptions that come along with living too long in this city. downtown excepted, the obvious ones must have been observing the sabbath.
the odd man out at central was in impressive form (and character) at the booty reunion at branx on saturday, where the odder were the expected and most welcome, and which we felt obliged to attend to congratulate puppet, who was in part responsible for the creation of booty back in the days before porky's became the eagle and who had actually followed us back from san francisco (if only for a weekend). our visit to bunk bar earlier that night isn't even worth mentioning. the gay not-gays and the general confusion caused by their proliferation in portland was friday's topic, anyway, which on friday had taken an entire tray of e.l. fudge cookies to put out of mind.
it was just as well that we were trapped in a classroom all day sunday as it was pouring rain from morning until afternoon. so maybe it was for the best that someone caught the cop punching on video (although you can't detect the pcp on screen). the topic of personal video histories by anonymous documentarians (and the regrettably recent origin of the technology responsible for their current ubiquity) came up afterwards at dinner, as well as did the persistence of traditional publishing and the physical book market. who would want to read something like confessions of the letter closet: epistolary fiction and queer desire in modern spain (gays in spain!) as an ebook? right. no one. that's why it's coming to the apartment in 290 actual pages delivered by actual courier -- from somewhere in california. you see, it's not just with the fags, although it's just basic kindness to show the newcomers some portland hospitality, and our commitment to that responsibility has been unexpectedly consuming. moniquipher has been busy. as far as this summer's reading list goes, we've already strayed dreadfully far afield of goodbye, columbus. we just hope you'll understand when we don't have much time to share.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
GOODBYE PDX, THE VANISHING
we gave away the chicken paw we brought home from wong's king seafood restaurant on sunday too early to find out if it might actually grant us our wish of wishes of this week and keep the teenager with us. her mother wants her back?!? what a system. and what about the stress of uprooting her again? especially now that she's finally adapted to the rhythm of the life and style of moniquipher. how can she possibly cope with arizona again knowing that everyone on the avenue is waiting to see her on her next walk?
cathedral park was deserted on tuesday evening except for some dog walkers and a couple of men fishing off the jetty at the river. the mood on the free box blanket on the lawn under the st. johns bridge was melancholic, a jaded nostalgia for the view of the north end of forest park across the river and a sad warmth -- despite the chill -- that seemed intentionally cultivated to shield the picnic from the looming sadness of the coming morning. then there were the meth fags (conjured, perhaps, by some serious wondering over which van sant film had included a scene in the park), and that's a piece of sentimental education that our fourteen year old would never have taken in had she not come to portland. who cares now what she's done for our image, but who could question what she's done for portland's collective heart?
before one last portland ice cream, we made sure to mess up the sidewalk on mississippi with one last family walk. if she's leaving anyway, she might as well make a scene. and notoriety is what gets you covers. at least that's what our agent said when he asked us for the video to leak to vanity fair. hugs. get what you want. and don't worry. just let those tears come.
cathedral park was deserted on tuesday evening except for some dog walkers and a couple of men fishing off the jetty at the river. the mood on the free box blanket on the lawn under the st. johns bridge was melancholic, a jaded nostalgia for the view of the north end of forest park across the river and a sad warmth -- despite the chill -- that seemed intentionally cultivated to shield the picnic from the looming sadness of the coming morning. then there were the meth fags (conjured, perhaps, by some serious wondering over which van sant film had included a scene in the park), and that's a piece of sentimental education that our fourteen year old would never have taken in had she not come to portland. who cares now what she's done for our image, but who could question what she's done for portland's collective heart?
before one last portland ice cream, we made sure to mess up the sidewalk on mississippi with one last family walk. if she's leaving anyway, she might as well make a scene. and notoriety is what gets you covers. at least that's what our agent said when he asked us for the video to leak to vanity fair. hugs. get what you want. and don't worry. just let those tears come.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
AVIAN AUTOPSY, A DISTANT SECOND
when portland's chinatown started coming up, chinatown moved to 82nd. there's still a block of chinese restaurants on sw 4th between davis and everett, but portland's oldest, hung far low, hasn't been open in chinatown since 2005, and the space it used to occupy on 4th and couch now houses a hyperreal disney land of a pan asian place. hung far low reopened as a bar at the northeast corner of 82nd and division, and a few blocks east of there is wong's king seafood restaurant, the place in portland to go for dim sum.
after coming back from a late lunch at wong's king i couldn't look at the hens in the backyard without feeling somewhat guilty -- or without a curious pang of appetite. they don't grant wishes like the one from the monkey in that w. w. jacobs story, and they don't represent such an enduring cultural archetype either, although they do enjoy a special cultural status among certain groups of non-chinese around portland. among the many fantastic meats on offer from the dim sum carts at wong's king, the aspics and the fried things wrapped in rice oblaats or baked into dumplings, the most exotic and challenging is the chicken paw. just try saying the words without wanting to try one. the mantra is a wish granted unto itself. and you get to say it every time you smile and hand over a takeout box. the paws are served in fours.
after coming back from a late lunch at wong's king i couldn't look at the hens in the backyard without feeling somewhat guilty -- or without a curious pang of appetite. they don't grant wishes like the one from the monkey in that w. w. jacobs story, and they don't represent such an enduring cultural archetype either, although they do enjoy a special cultural status among certain groups of non-chinese around portland. among the many fantastic meats on offer from the dim sum carts at wong's king, the aspics and the fried things wrapped in rice oblaats or baked into dumplings, the most exotic and challenging is the chicken paw. just try saying the words without wanting to try one. the mantra is a wish granted unto itself. and you get to say it every time you smile and hand over a takeout box. the paws are served in fours.
Friday, July 8, 2011
THE TROUBLE WITH DIVERSITY
there's a man at the albina press (the one on albina) reading a book by that title. i've confirmed that the book isn't so rabidly xenophobic as it might have been (it's about how america's celebration of "differences" too often ignores socioeconomic inequalities), but the title itself could very well mean something bizarrely orwellian in a coffee shop in the white-left paradise of portland, oregon, "the city that works," and that works because it's not that difficult to make things work when everyone wants the same things.
but we stay and drink the coffee anyway -- at least until we turn thirty-five, when we'll be evicted unless we've had children or purchased property or are maintaining a committed relationship with a tattoo artist -- so for the time being, even if we've now confirmed through biased and unscientific testing that the coffee is better in, say, san francisco.
that was more or less the spirit of the introduction i gave to the envoys from vancouver that stopped here after a brief visit to seattle and before kicking off their good will tour of the oregon and washington coasts between nehalem and victoria. after the bloc cascadian planning committee staff meeting (to have been held this month between peak's pub in port angeles, washington and the bar at the empress hotel in victoria) was canceled due to the incapacitation or forced overseas asylum of key committee members, it was the least i could do to express portland's own good will and dedication to the cause by entertaining the two mcgill trained cultural theorists and the albertan cowgirl, now all residents of british columbia.
the envoys were gracious beyond their responsibility and greeted me warmly even after i failed to make clear that albina turned into mississippi south of prescott, which confused my instructions to meet me along the former as i walked toward where they took dinner on wednesday evening near the intersection of albina and alberta. when we did finally find each other (none of us with a gps equipped device but the ever gracious and intrepid vancouverites having easily gotten directions from a passing local), there were smiling introductions for the unacquainted (embraces for the rest), which kicked off a pleasant walk through the coolness of the twilight to the sushi and fried chicken place on between shaver and failing (really, people, portland is burning).
the beginning of the good will tour was scheduled for early the next morning, so we had neither sushi nor chicken -- anyway the envoys had just eaten -- but we did drink, northwest microbrews for all of us but the one of the researchers with the gluten intolerance. we raised glasses to seattle with a round of jasmine ipa from elysian brewing, which made for an easy segue into our necessary conversation on microroasted coffee, the best of that in vancouver being, as it is, available from elysian (unaffiliated with the seattle brewery). i remarked at the attractiveness of one of the baristas at the cafe on broadway and ash and then confessed that i'd suggested we try the sushi and fried chicken place in hopes that we'd get to order from a certain bartender who doesn't come around the albina press anymore. yes, we are. so precious! not to worry, i was reassured; it would have been nice had there been a table open outside, but the general ambiance of the avenue and the calmness of the evening seemed to suit my guests, and their apparent satisfaction greased the wheels of our discussions.
i knew it already, but it was nonetheless surprising to be reminded in so many words that portland may not have many brown people, but there were more than in vancouver. of course, they have more asian residents and a large population of first nations people. and what to do about gentrification? that word that is inherently double spoken whenever it's voiced by most of the people who got to stick around long enough to see its effects, especially those latecomers so conscious of our gentrifying neighborhoods' lack of diversity. and on that, myself and all of the envoys from vancouver could agree. our work was done. and during our brief meeting we even had time to touch on poetry and television. praise be the cultural omnivores! white people, you're killing yourselves! at least the end of the world will be uniquely catered.
but we stay and drink the coffee anyway -- at least until we turn thirty-five, when we'll be evicted unless we've had children or purchased property or are maintaining a committed relationship with a tattoo artist -- so for the time being, even if we've now confirmed through biased and unscientific testing that the coffee is better in, say, san francisco.
that was more or less the spirit of the introduction i gave to the envoys from vancouver that stopped here after a brief visit to seattle and before kicking off their good will tour of the oregon and washington coasts between nehalem and victoria. after the bloc cascadian planning committee staff meeting (to have been held this month between peak's pub in port angeles, washington and the bar at the empress hotel in victoria) was canceled due to the incapacitation or forced overseas asylum of key committee members, it was the least i could do to express portland's own good will and dedication to the cause by entertaining the two mcgill trained cultural theorists and the albertan cowgirl, now all residents of british columbia.
the envoys were gracious beyond their responsibility and greeted me warmly even after i failed to make clear that albina turned into mississippi south of prescott, which confused my instructions to meet me along the former as i walked toward where they took dinner on wednesday evening near the intersection of albina and alberta. when we did finally find each other (none of us with a gps equipped device but the ever gracious and intrepid vancouverites having easily gotten directions from a passing local), there were smiling introductions for the unacquainted (embraces for the rest), which kicked off a pleasant walk through the coolness of the twilight to the sushi and fried chicken place on between shaver and failing (really, people, portland is burning).
the beginning of the good will tour was scheduled for early the next morning, so we had neither sushi nor chicken -- anyway the envoys had just eaten -- but we did drink, northwest microbrews for all of us but the one of the researchers with the gluten intolerance. we raised glasses to seattle with a round of jasmine ipa from elysian brewing, which made for an easy segue into our necessary conversation on microroasted coffee, the best of that in vancouver being, as it is, available from elysian (unaffiliated with the seattle brewery). i remarked at the attractiveness of one of the baristas at the cafe on broadway and ash and then confessed that i'd suggested we try the sushi and fried chicken place in hopes that we'd get to order from a certain bartender who doesn't come around the albina press anymore. yes, we are. so precious! not to worry, i was reassured; it would have been nice had there been a table open outside, but the general ambiance of the avenue and the calmness of the evening seemed to suit my guests, and their apparent satisfaction greased the wheels of our discussions.
i knew it already, but it was nonetheless surprising to be reminded in so many words that portland may not have many brown people, but there were more than in vancouver. of course, they have more asian residents and a large population of first nations people. and what to do about gentrification? that word that is inherently double spoken whenever it's voiced by most of the people who got to stick around long enough to see its effects, especially those latecomers so conscious of our gentrifying neighborhoods' lack of diversity. and on that, myself and all of the envoys from vancouver could agree. our work was done. and during our brief meeting we even had time to touch on poetry and television. praise be the cultural omnivores! white people, you're killing yourselves! at least the end of the world will be uniquely catered.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
PORTLAND IS BURNING, part 2
the residents of close-in portland aren't probably the most patriotic of americans (because, after all, portland is so european!), but they don't let on to any distaste for their country on it's birthday. you can't choose your family, and all that. and if you're around, you show up for their birthday parties.
most of what people in portland set off on the fourth isn't legal in oregon, but that doesn't keep every street in the city from lighting up with mortar bursts as soon as it's almost dark, and despite our vainglory for our environmental friendliness, the sun rises on the fifth to reveal the streets full of burnt out debris.
at the barbecue we visited before heading to the knoll at the southwest corner of mississippi and fremont to watch the pyrotechnic shows around our neighborhood and beyond (as far as lake oswego!), another of the guests said something about the fireworks she saw during the feria in seville, fireworks set off haphazardly by celebrating families with no concern for the proximity of other celebrants. one of her anecdotes resonated with our own experience later in the evening when one of the mortars launched by the man putting on the show on top of the knoll exploded at about only thirty feet and rained its contents over the nearby spectators.
the ones around the neighborhood far outshone the fireworks visible from downtown -- and they lasted longer too. and just as they started to taper off in frequency, lo, up the hill from interstate avenue came a dozen cyclists, half of them with their front racks stacked with boxes of roman candles, at least one of them a working courier. when they got to the top of the hill and the intersection they unpacked and started their fight. when they'd finished they put themselves back on their bicycles and headed east on fremont, probably (hopefully) to repeat their performance for another crowd. they'd had absolutely no consideration for traffic or bystanders as they dueled, and as the bursts from their weapons bounced off the pavement of the road and ricocheted of street signs and flew over the heads of the people sitting on the knoll, our so wonderfully unprecocious fourteen year old whispered harry potter curses.
it was heartwarming, really, witnessing the city at its best, proudly come together to celebrate its similarities. but then that group of idiots decided to use a sparkler to fire up a show poster that was stapled along with dozens of others to the electrical pole at the southeast corner of the intersection. it didn't take long for the fire to spread to the other posters and then to the creosote soaked pole itself. idiots. and wasn't that casey's old roommate? like they say, the more things stay the same...
most of what people in portland set off on the fourth isn't legal in oregon, but that doesn't keep every street in the city from lighting up with mortar bursts as soon as it's almost dark, and despite our vainglory for our environmental friendliness, the sun rises on the fifth to reveal the streets full of burnt out debris.
at the barbecue we visited before heading to the knoll at the southwest corner of mississippi and fremont to watch the pyrotechnic shows around our neighborhood and beyond (as far as lake oswego!), another of the guests said something about the fireworks she saw during the feria in seville, fireworks set off haphazardly by celebrating families with no concern for the proximity of other celebrants. one of her anecdotes resonated with our own experience later in the evening when one of the mortars launched by the man putting on the show on top of the knoll exploded at about only thirty feet and rained its contents over the nearby spectators.
the ones around the neighborhood far outshone the fireworks visible from downtown -- and they lasted longer too. and just as they started to taper off in frequency, lo, up the hill from interstate avenue came a dozen cyclists, half of them with their front racks stacked with boxes of roman candles, at least one of them a working courier. when they got to the top of the hill and the intersection they unpacked and started their fight. when they'd finished they put themselves back on their bicycles and headed east on fremont, probably (hopefully) to repeat their performance for another crowd. they'd had absolutely no consideration for traffic or bystanders as they dueled, and as the bursts from their weapons bounced off the pavement of the road and ricocheted of street signs and flew over the heads of the people sitting on the knoll, our so wonderfully unprecocious fourteen year old whispered harry potter curses.
it was heartwarming, really, witnessing the city at its best, proudly come together to celebrate its similarities. but then that group of idiots decided to use a sparkler to fire up a show poster that was stapled along with dozens of others to the electrical pole at the southeast corner of the intersection. it didn't take long for the fire to spread to the other posters and then to the creosote soaked pole itself. idiots. and wasn't that casey's old roommate? like they say, the more things stay the same...
Sunday, July 3, 2011
THE LEGEND CONTINUES
we have a teenager! moniquipher skipped the easy nonsense of the early years. we're raising ours from fourteen, because everyone knows that babies are ugly!
we are still learning, though. it wasn't a very good idea to let the fourteen year old go off on her own in powell's on a sunday afternoon with a promise to find her later. that store is full of black haired females hunched over books in the aisles. but that's what the paging system is for.
and fourteen year olds eat. we feed ours b.l.t.s and ice cream. she likes walking the boulevard and watching the people in the neighborhood. and the people in the neighborhood see her eating her ice cream. there's a come and get it photo opportunity on every block. our agent says it's good for our image.
we are still learning, though. it wasn't a very good idea to let the fourteen year old go off on her own in powell's on a sunday afternoon with a promise to find her later. that store is full of black haired females hunched over books in the aisles. but that's what the paging system is for.
and fourteen year olds eat. we feed ours b.l.t.s and ice cream. she likes walking the boulevard and watching the people in the neighborhood. and the people in the neighborhood see her eating her ice cream. there's a come and get it photo opportunity on every block. our agent says it's good for our image.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
HOW TO LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, part 2, the BRIGHT side
of course it was on the first both warm and sunny day that portland has seen in weeks that i had an appointment and the eye doctor, and having not been to the eye doctor in enough years to forget how significantly dilation of my eyes affects my vision i let dr. ezra go for it and significantly complicated the rest of my afternoon. it wasn't for vanity that i didn't wear the disposable, roll-up sunglasses that dr. ezra gave me but for principle, the principle that if i'd shelled out so much for new frames at an eyewear boutique on mississippi avenue then i'd already justified being vain. and so i left the sunglasses rolled in my right hand and used my left to trace my way along the storefronts between dr. ezra's and fremont, and then a right turn and then a left onto missouri and to home, crossing each street at a squinty eyed dash.
i was fine watching the full sun from inside the apartment, through the open door across the shaded porch, but direct sunlight was completely debilitating. unfortunately, i needed to visit another doctor across town before his office closed at five. i did, however, have proper sunglasses at home. unfortunately, although my darkest pair made the effects of the dilation nearly unnoticeable even when i stood directly under the two o'clock sun, proper sunglasses have the unfortunate effect of disorienting me. (please ask me to take mine off if ever you see me wearing them and about to climb a flight of stairs.) but there weren't two ways about it, only the way to the second doctor's office, eyes dilated and disorienting glasses on and of course with my distracting ear buds in, because you can't ride on a day like yesterday without nicki minaj spitting in your ear. the pathetic irony of the situation was that my goal in visiting doctor number two was to collect my medical records from the follow up care i received after being hit by a car on my bicycle five years ago, and even the fact that i was collecting the records to have reference for continuing care after a more recent accident threw me over my bars and onto all of the joints that i injured that half decade ago didn't deter me from putting up every possible obstacle between myself and a safe ride.
i made it to 39th and division without incident, and the woman at the richmond neighborhood ohsu family health facility was pleasant and accommodating in assisting me with my request. i didn't put her in the awkward position of having to ask me to take off my sunglasses -- or of having to ask me why i couldn't open my eyes -- because after a self-imposed two hour timeout at home and my half pace, not cautious but worried ride, my eyes had improved to the point of my being able to use them without issue under the fluorescent lights of the health facility's reception area. and by the time i made it downtown to sell my penguin classics editions of in search of lost time and chat with the man who gave me my powell's store credit about the literary theme of not reading proust, my eyes had corrected themselves, which meant a renewal of my interest in a meeting i'd planned for the early evening at the bluffs.
but after sitting in it half naked and unprotected for an hour the sun lost the scintillatingly elusive charm it had had for me when i left dr. ezra's. and good riddance, i was happy to see it start to set, because i wouldn't have tried to ride out to 81st avenue for that artist's reception had the full sun been on top of me again. even as it set, however, i had enough light to get myself out to milepost 5 without thinking too much about the potential hazards of riding on a friday night in the no man's land that is central northeast portland past 60th avenue. i still had light when i rode past the intersection of 74th and glisan, the southern approach to which is where i was hit by that car. that intersection should have been at the front of my mind after having been to get my records, but i hadn't visually recalled the accident until i revisited the scene. i was happy to have had a helmet this time.
i did not, however, have working lights, the danger (but not the illegality) of which i was reminded later by the police officer who nearly pulled off of se 9th avenue on top of me as i was riding, ironically, far from the unmarked intersections of the no man's land, down the bike lane on madison toward the hawthorne bridge, then at least without my ear buds in so that i could hear myself being chastised (and not encourage a ticket). the encounter shook me, so of course i had to get something to drink, not that riding, shaken, without lights and under the influence was any safer than how i'd gotten myself around the rest of the day, but i just needed a moment, had half a six pack in my bag, the night air was pleasant, and there was enough light under the highway overpasses near the base of the bridge for reading the continuation of that bolaño novel that's being serialized in the paris review. the summer 2011 issue includes part two.
that cop had made me feel silly and childish, but the feeling was so keen probably because that's how i saw my entire day in retrospect, typified by my giving the cop the implausible excuse that both my front and rear lights were in my bag, their batteries having simultaneously failed earlier in the evening. (my rear light was actually stolen, but cops get that excuse all the time.) reading under the overpass, i probably looked just as silly as i felt as the jazz festival attendees walked past me on their ways back from the west bank of the river to where their cars were in the lot by where i was sitting. but my magazine was consolation, and not so much for the bolaño novel, of which i only read a few pages, but for the sudden but welcome reminder that if i moved to new york i could actually marry lorin stein.
i was fine watching the full sun from inside the apartment, through the open door across the shaded porch, but direct sunlight was completely debilitating. unfortunately, i needed to visit another doctor across town before his office closed at five. i did, however, have proper sunglasses at home. unfortunately, although my darkest pair made the effects of the dilation nearly unnoticeable even when i stood directly under the two o'clock sun, proper sunglasses have the unfortunate effect of disorienting me. (please ask me to take mine off if ever you see me wearing them and about to climb a flight of stairs.) but there weren't two ways about it, only the way to the second doctor's office, eyes dilated and disorienting glasses on and of course with my distracting ear buds in, because you can't ride on a day like yesterday without nicki minaj spitting in your ear. the pathetic irony of the situation was that my goal in visiting doctor number two was to collect my medical records from the follow up care i received after being hit by a car on my bicycle five years ago, and even the fact that i was collecting the records to have reference for continuing care after a more recent accident threw me over my bars and onto all of the joints that i injured that half decade ago didn't deter me from putting up every possible obstacle between myself and a safe ride.
i made it to 39th and division without incident, and the woman at the richmond neighborhood ohsu family health facility was pleasant and accommodating in assisting me with my request. i didn't put her in the awkward position of having to ask me to take off my sunglasses -- or of having to ask me why i couldn't open my eyes -- because after a self-imposed two hour timeout at home and my half pace, not cautious but worried ride, my eyes had improved to the point of my being able to use them without issue under the fluorescent lights of the health facility's reception area. and by the time i made it downtown to sell my penguin classics editions of in search of lost time and chat with the man who gave me my powell's store credit about the literary theme of not reading proust, my eyes had corrected themselves, which meant a renewal of my interest in a meeting i'd planned for the early evening at the bluffs.
but after sitting in it half naked and unprotected for an hour the sun lost the scintillatingly elusive charm it had had for me when i left dr. ezra's. and good riddance, i was happy to see it start to set, because i wouldn't have tried to ride out to 81st avenue for that artist's reception had the full sun been on top of me again. even as it set, however, i had enough light to get myself out to milepost 5 without thinking too much about the potential hazards of riding on a friday night in the no man's land that is central northeast portland past 60th avenue. i still had light when i rode past the intersection of 74th and glisan, the southern approach to which is where i was hit by that car. that intersection should have been at the front of my mind after having been to get my records, but i hadn't visually recalled the accident until i revisited the scene. i was happy to have had a helmet this time.
i did not, however, have working lights, the danger (but not the illegality) of which i was reminded later by the police officer who nearly pulled off of se 9th avenue on top of me as i was riding, ironically, far from the unmarked intersections of the no man's land, down the bike lane on madison toward the hawthorne bridge, then at least without my ear buds in so that i could hear myself being chastised (and not encourage a ticket). the encounter shook me, so of course i had to get something to drink, not that riding, shaken, without lights and under the influence was any safer than how i'd gotten myself around the rest of the day, but i just needed a moment, had half a six pack in my bag, the night air was pleasant, and there was enough light under the highway overpasses near the base of the bridge for reading the continuation of that bolaño novel that's being serialized in the paris review. the summer 2011 issue includes part two.
that cop had made me feel silly and childish, but the feeling was so keen probably because that's how i saw my entire day in retrospect, typified by my giving the cop the implausible excuse that both my front and rear lights were in my bag, their batteries having simultaneously failed earlier in the evening. (my rear light was actually stolen, but cops get that excuse all the time.) reading under the overpass, i probably looked just as silly as i felt as the jazz festival attendees walked past me on their ways back from the west bank of the river to where their cars were in the lot by where i was sitting. but my magazine was consolation, and not so much for the bolaño novel, of which i only read a few pages, but for the sudden but welcome reminder that if i moved to new york i could actually marry lorin stein.
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