GOODBYE COLUMBUS; or, PORTLAND IS BURNING, ALL OVER AGAIN

in the men's bathroom at the tip top lounge there's a photo. and it's screwed to the wall. i know because i'd thought about trying to take it at least once, on the occasion of my next visit to the bat after none of the photos of the leveque tower in the archives of the ohio historical center had been that one that i'd wanted. funny thing, though, that i'd forgotten about that photo until i saw it again on the wall of the living room of a friend. the framed digital copy that my mother had somehow produced for me to warm the old house, and that i had given to that friend of mine on the occasion of my leaving. and funny thing that i'd re-encountered that photo -- which shows a man in hat and suit with coat and briefcase in hand walking away from the camera across the broad street bridge toward the tower -- on columbus day, having myself recently re-departed from columbus. i don't know how the bridge looked back in the fifties (sixties?) when that photo was taken, and the photo doesn't give much indication. today, however -- or at least as of last month -- it's decorated at intervals with bronze plaques. "por castilla y por león, nuevo mundo halló colón," just a couple of blocks west of where the statue of christopher columbus stands in front of columbus city hall and a few more from where that dubiously conceived bicentennial public art project announces that to columbus the man himself had never come. but today, his day was recognized even in the rose city. and what do we have here? a confoundingly boring gallery reception for the wedding of two former ravers. downtown, later, dead on a saturday night. a revisit of the clyde that left us wanting more...although not in a way that would take us back. and then, the afternoon after, none of the stars that we'd expected to see at the season opener (although the moon rose early). old friendships, however, would seem to die hard, and the free pints that they afforded me on my columbus day rounds were indescribably appreciated after my first weekend back in the saddle, a saddle which, it warrants mention, should definitely have been ridden in padded shorts. but what of seville, and the perpetuation of the cult of columbus there? we're still awaiting the news. but in the meantime it seems clear: you really can't ever go home again, even if the neon sign that i gave to that same friend when i left the last time is blaring a hopeful declaration to the contrary over the dinner table. it's about time that i read that story by philip roth. "goodbye columbus." not that i think it has anything especially pertinent to say about our particular situation, but before this blog left portland the last time, i think i remember it having something to do with books. and whether we like it or not, the author might be about to win the prize. to the future. and to the possibility that the beers might still be free.