Divine Intervention

As you may recall, J and I were able to purchase a modest townhouse in the nether regions of lovely Portland nearly two years ago. What you may or may not know is that my malignant mother was our real estate agent. Yes, 4 realz. We really didn't have a choice - mom sells real estate and if we'd gone with another agent (which we considered), we would have put the Hatfields and the McCoys to shame.

True, mom was willing to forgo her commission (THIS time, she told us...which, I guess, means that next time - when we are more able to afford a more glamorous abode - she'll make some money off of us), although that is not the only reason we went with her. The horrid horrid aftermath of going through someone else (even someone we would have had to have paid THIS time) was far too foreboding. And so it was that mother dearest became our de facto real estate agent.

And, while mother's knowledge of Portland and its environs can barely rival that of a fifth grader (despite that she has lived in the Portland Metro area HER ENTIRE LIFE, although the last 30 or so years have been in the suburbs), we did receive excellent and attentive service from her. I presume, however, that she is like that with all of her clients, being a workaholic and all, and that we were not receiving preferential treatment (well, THIS time, anyway). She even handled it pretty well whenever she showed us a place that she seemed pretty jazzed about and wanted us to get all googly-eyed and proclaim it the one and, instead, we'd shrug our shoulders and say "meh" in unison. She didn't know what 'meh' meant, but she could tell that it meant we wouldn't be signing any papers any time soon.

Flash forward two months and over a hundred houses later (oh, the stories I could tell about some of those houses!), we stumble upon the townhouse where we now live. For our dollar (and that was pretty much what we had to spend, a dollar), this place was the shit. So we placed an offer. And it was declined. We countered. It was accepted. Yay! We were nearly homo homeowners!

But, ah, the details. We had to, of course, sign the papers. Oh sure, sounds harmless. So we sit with Mom at the title company, along with maybe three other people whose functions have escaped me, around a HUGE conference table - seriously, this thing was so huge that it could probably kick Chuck Norris' ass. So blahblahblah the peoples' mouths are moving and I nod as if I'm following (yeah, I know this is a tad irresponsible, so shoot me)...blahblahblah sign this...blahblahblah sign that. Eleventy gazillion signatures later, that snoozefest is finally taking its final bow.

And not a moment too soon. I was freakin' starving. A smiling lady hands us a glossy folder with an entire tree shoved inside. This folder remains unopened and sitting in our file cabinet. Mom confers with J and I and mentions her state of hunger. She is inviting us to dinner?

"Let's celebrate!" Mom says. Woo hoo! we are thinking, despite the fact that celebrating with Mom can be sorta hit and miss. What the hell, we decide, if Mom wants to treat us to a celebratory feast, why not let her? Mom asks if there is anything around the area that is not too expensive.

"It's not like I'm rich, you know," she reminds us, as she depresses the magic button that disables the alarm on her brand new BMW.

Mom is, of course, completely unaware of anything in the immediate vicinity, despite the fact that the school where she attended her freshman year (with classmate Sally Struthers!), was fewer than ten blocks from where we stood. No matter, we suggested a reasonably priced trattoria twenty blocks away. We tell her that it's on Broadway and on the south side of the street and to meet us there. Mom acts all confused and says that she'll follow us.

We pull aside at the stop sign while we wait for Mom to do whatever it is she does with her vanity mirror, some lipstick and an extensive evaluation period before she places her luxury vehicle into drive and proceeds. A couple of turns later, we have reached Broadway and J, who is driving, has her right turn signal on so that Mom will know that we will be heading west on Broadway. J halts at the stop sign, but is unable to see the oncoming traffic on her left, due to a large truck parked on the corner. She inches slowly out and then *$#!!BAM!!#$*. We lurch forward slightly as we come to the realization that my mother just rear-ended us. J and I look at each other, neither of us quite sure what to make of the situation.

Noticing that there are other cars behind Mom who didn't gun it when J inched out, J arm-motions Mom to pull into the parking lot of Broadway Auto Body to our immediate right. J's car shows no sign of trauma, but Mom's BMW is dented on its hood. It's the shape of an inverted crescent moon - a perfect arc. The spare tire on the the back end of J's Honda CRV is the convex match to the dent on Mom's car - a perfect yin and yang separated at birth...but not.

Mom looks astonished as she notices the damage to her precious vehicle.

"Oh there's no way that little tap did that much damage to my car," Mom's denial kicked in full speed. "I mean, you could barely feel it, right?"

Mom was in rare form.

"I mean, someone must've hit my car while we were in our meeting at the title company. That had to have been it; I mean, there's just no way."

J and I let Mom continue trying to convince herself that someone done wronged her.

"See, look at your car," Mom said to J, "there's no damage at all. If I'd hit you hard enough to cause this much damage to my car, your car would at least have a dent, right? I mean, I'm not saying it was God, really, but something, something in the universe, must've made me tap you like that so that I'd get out of my car and see the damage that was done...Otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed it for awhile."

OMFG, you've got to be kidding me. It was so so so very hard for J and I not to burst into laughter. God???? Really? I've heard of blaming car accidents on other people before, but God? Like I said, Mom was in rare form.

Well, no need to exchange infos here, although Mom did inform us that she would call her insurance company first thing in the morning. I couldn't help but wonder if she would be explaining the part about rear-ending her daughter-in-law because God wanted her to notice that someone had hit her car while she was in a meeting.

J and I got into the restaurant before Mom found a parking place - she wanted to drive around and get a spot where nobody would hit her. Why bother? I say. With God on her side, nobody will ever be able to pull a hit-and-run over her eyes.

J and I asked our server to bring a glass of Pinot Gris right away so that Mom could begin sedating immediately. Dinner was awkward as Mom continued to practice her story about the anonymous hoodlum who hit her parked car (must've been the neighborhood) and didn't even see fit to leave a note. J and I sedated and nodded, sedated and nodded.

I didn't even know my mom believed in God.

I wonder what else she blames on God?

what I did for love

My lovely wife, J, went with our friends, Kirsten and Jules, to see a folk singer some months back. I had to work, so I sat that one out. No worries - I think the folk music is sometimes enjoyable, but I'm not about to take the most lucrative night off from work to indulge in such a thing.

J returned home from that concert all swoony and fangirly proclaiming "a little crush" on E*l*l*i*s (***why you do t*h*a*t, Bad Kitty?) and kindly requesting that she put E*l*l*i*s on her freebie list.

"Sure," I responded, "why the hell not? But you gotta take someone else off if you want to add her."

She never told me who she removed, but I trust that she took care of this.

So when J called me a week or so ago from her morning commute at 7am (I am so NOT a morning person) to ask me if E*l*l*i*s could play a house concert in our living room, I sleepily sorta somewhat agreed to this. Later when I woke up, I was pretty sure that I hadn't dreamt the exchange.

Here's what J said:

"Hi honey! Would it be okay for E*l*l*i*s to play a concert in our living room?"

Here's what I heard:

"Hi. Would it be okay if someone I have a huge crush on, in addition to a lot of strangers, fill up our house and spill stuff on our floor?"

I somehow agreed to this.

But now I have no regrets and think that our home should serve as an acoustic concert venue on a regular basis (Yo! David Bowie! This means you.). Truly.

Of course, the night before the concert, J calls me at work (at a time that ended up being the worst possible time she could have called) and says, "Will you cook dinner for E*l*l*i*s before the show?"

"What????" What next? Can she stay in our guest room? Will I cook her breakfast as well? Can I lend her some money?

"I don't know. And actually, this is a really bad time. Can I call you back later when I'm less pissed off?"

"Okay, but Jules already said that we'd make her dinner. Call me when you're on your way home from work."

By the time I found myself driving home from work, I'd had a chance to think about this. I figured I needed to look like a rock star in order to compete with the folk star - I wanted J to remember how fabulous I am, even with E*l*l*i*s in the house. I called her up.

"Alright, I'll do it. What am I making?" Fortunately I really do enjoy cooking, so I wasn't pissed off at Jules for volunteering me for the job. Hee hee, now she owes me! Now, if David Bowie comes to my house to play a show, I'm so making Jules cook for him.

"Mushroom risotto," J tells me. Phew. That's something I could make with my hands tied behind my back and drunk to boot.

E*l*l*i*s ended up enjoying my risotto and ventured to try a fig for the first time. (I'm a huge fan of figs and, in fact, have a tattoo of a much-larger-than-actual-size cut-open fig in between my shoulder blades.) We enjoyed her company while we enjoyed small talk on our patio. She turned out to be very genuine and kind and rather charming - very easy to be around and not even a hint of diva at all.

Then the onslaught of strangers began to fill my home. They turned out to not be so bad, either. In fact, several of them were quite appreciative of our hosting of this event and of the snacks and complementary cheap wine that was provided. Nobody threw stuff on the floor (and, if they did, someone was smart enough to pick it up before I spied it). And several folks offered to help clean up. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not neurotic. Okay, well just a little. I just value my space and am something of a private person. I also have trust issues and I know that there are unsavory folks out there (especially rabid fans) and you can't tell by looking at them who is batshit crazy and who isn't.

The entire space was lit only with candles - eleventy zillion of them. It looked pretty great, actually. And peeps were very respectful of the space and of the music being provided. E*l*l*i*s sounded awesome (studio quality even! I have no idea how she pulled that off) and the entire evening was a magical success. I told E*l*l*i*s that she is welcome in our home any time and I meant it.

My lovely wife was only a little bit fangirly and goofy and did not end up hooking up with E*l*l*i*s.

I think I like folk music a little more now.



***Re: above (On account of my attempts to be picking and choosing what the Googlers might be Googling and which Googles land on my blog and which ones don't. And on account of my attempts to be remaining somewhat anonymous-ish).

Green means go, right? Right?

Well, I had a little accidente the other day...totally 100% my fault. I was stopped at a red light, behind a fella in a Volkswagon somethingoranother and when the light turned green he didn't go, so I hit him. Okay, I didn't hit him because he was refusing to follow protocol when the light turned green, I hit him as a result of his abeyancy.

Obviously, nothing catastrophic in the grand scheme of car crashes - I was probably going about 1 mile per hour and, since I started out about 5-7 feet away from him, the impact was pretty minimal. I've been the hittee before, but never the hitter - I have yet to decide which position is the more challenging one to be in...check back in with me after I pay out on the claim.

Despite the apparent triviality that was this accident, I was pretty shaken up over the whole thing - my hands were trembly and my heart rate was racing. Yet, somehow, it didn't seem like it would be a very good idea to sit there and pop an Ativan at that exact moment. I followed Mr. Volkswagon over to the Walgreen's parking lot to exchange infos.

When I got out of my car, I began to apologize - very sincerely. I asked him if he was alright. Mr. Volkswagon stood there, with a disgruntled expression, looking at his dented rubber bumper and shaking his head back and forth. I told him that I was fully insured and that we needed to exchange information.

He just continued shaking his head back and forth.

"Sir," I said to him, "I've apologized and I've told you that I'm fully insured."

He said nothing - just grunted and glared at me.

"Sir," I continued, "There's no reason to be so angry - it was an accident and those happen. I've apologized, I've told you that I'm fully insured, and the damages appear to be pretty minimal. What more do you want from me?" After a short pause, I continued, "Is it alright with you if we exchange information now?"

"No. You give me your information and I'll send you an estimate," he told me.

"No," I told him, "absolutely not. Our insurance companies will handle this." (Did I look stupid to him?)

"But I did not do any damage, so you don't need my information."

"But we were both involved in the accident, so I do need your information. I will give you my information when you give me yours."

At this point, I was beginning to think that he was pretty lucky that I wasn't some asshat chewing him out for just sitting there when the light turned green.

He proceeded to walk over to the front of my car, where we both learned that there was absolutely no damage to my vehicle. This made him irate.

"See, you don't even have a scratch on your car!" Was he envious? "You drive a nice car and you get away with no damage and you have put a dent in my car!

This really seemed to piss him off. I decided not to take this bait, as I could see no good coming out of an argument over whose car was the nicest and how unfair that was. I told him again that I'd give him my information when he gave me his.

He grunted again and produced a driver's license and a copy of his registration with his insurance information below it. He then told me to write "I hit you" and sign it on the piece of paper where he'd written my infos.

"No way," I told him, "I'm not comfortable with that. I will tell my insurance company that I hit you and it's quite clear by the damage done that I was at fault, but there's no way I'm writing that down for you."

He wasn't happy about that, but that was too bad. What the hell was he trying to do? It was a really minor accident - was he going to try and take me to small claims court or something? Clearly this guy watches way too much daytime television. After the exchange, he just stood there. He really seemed to want to prolong this. I told him that I'd be phoning my insurance company either later that day or the next morning and that they would take it from there. He stood there looking at me and I told him that if there was nothing else he needed from me, then I needed to go.

I then popped an Ativan and headed off to work.

Just wondering: Where did American citizens come from?

Yesterday, in Portland, the largest immigration raid on a workplace in all of Oregon history occurred in a food processing plant in North Portland. Over one quarter of the plant's employees, 167 workers, were taken away in buses and will be detained in Tacoma where they will be interrogated and investigated and, most likely, eventually deported. These are people - many of whom are trying to raise families and are living in poverty - who were working for minimum wage in a job that had virtually no means of advancing, either in position or wage. They pose no potential harm to anyone. They work in a job that many legal US citizens would not be willing to work.

This fuckin' pisses me off.

I don't even want to think about the money and effort being spent on attempts to seize illegal immigrants, many of whom work for minimum wage and often in more than one job. In the meantime, library services in schools are being edged out and school librarians are being cut out of budgets or, if they are lucky, being reduced to part-time. I read a recent article in The Oregonian about gang activity being on the rise in Portland and the graffiti indicating turf wars on many a fence/wall in my neighborhood suggest the same. And where is the money for the programs addressing the problems of gang activity/involvement?

And building a fence along the border of Texas???? Are you fucking kidding me? What a ridiculous waste of money and resources.

The thing that bothers me the most about this is that I know (and have known) several people directly impacted by this issue. Having worked in restaurants on and off for several years, I've worked alongside many an undocumented immigrant. I see them working their asses off (while the high school students from the nearby wealthy neighborhood, who mostly work as bussers, are often total slackers and wouldn't know a work ethic if it called 'em on their freakin' Blackberry), often working overtime. Most make a concerted effort to learn English and, often, are functionally bilingual in less than a year. These are people who have families they are trying to support and care for.

I've formed friendships with illegal immigrants who have spoken rather frankly, over a few beers, about the "coyotes" and the expense and dangers of crossing the border. I've heard some horror stories and the fears involved in embarking on this journey are not to be taken lightly - starvation, getting lost, death, violence. Some time ago, I worked alongside a woman, Rosa, who had recently arrived in Portland via coyote. She looked shell-shocked and the fear and sadness in her eyes were unmistakable. I can't help but wonder what she endured while making her way here. She worked as a dishwasher and she worked hard. She didn't speak much and knew little English. And these sacrifices are made in order to work physically exhausting jobs for minimum wage. Or, in the case of the Del Monte Food Processing plant here in Portland, under allegedly abhorrent and unsafe working conditions, as well as working extraordinarily long hours (up to 18 hour shifts) with no overtime pay.

And I really hate the pundits who cry, "but they don't pay taxes!" Well, you know what, pundit? They also don't reap the benefits of legal citizenship: voting, social services, unemployment benefits, Social Security benefits, income tax refunds (which many, who work for low wages and have children, would receive), financial aid for higher education. Just sayin'.

And, yet, there are folks who want them gone. Whenever I drive back to Portland from Seattle, I encounter a privately-owned billboard in a rural area of Washington, halfway through the trip that always has conservative/very right-leaning - and often anti-immigrant - messages. On a recent trip, the billboard sported the following quip: "Welcome to America! Now speak English."

Here's what I want to know: Mr./Ms. Billboard Owner, where did your ancestors come from? Did THEY speak English upon arrival in the United States? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Do Ya Wanna Makeup?

When I was living in California, J and I worked in the same establishment for a little while (not how we first met, but it was where we reconnected and got together). There was a woman, Jane, who worked there at the time (she was maybe a secretary of some sort?) who sold Mary Kay cosmetics on the side.

One day she came up to J and said, "You're a really pretty girl, but your skin could use some help - I have just the product for you."

J, being much smarter than this peddler of crappy cosmetics, did not take Jane up on her offer. And if I'm going to be perfectly catty (and I am), Jane wasn't so easy on the eyes and it would behoove her to worry more about her own skin than to make subtle jabs at others in order to increase her net income.

Flash forward a couple of years when we're newly in Portland and I'm working at the small neighborhood restaurant where I presently work. I'm working lunches and I have a regular group of 16 who comes in every Wednesday(it's a networking group - so they are all about shameless self-promotion to one another and, occasionally, me) . Most people were pretty friendly to me and appreciated when I went the extra mile for them (such as knowing who drinks the same drink every time and having it waiting for them when they arrive, amongst other nice touches). I remembered all of their names pretty rapidly and would refer to each one by name and do whatever I could to make them happy. Since it was such a large group, I was permitted to add an automatic 18% gratuity to the tab - I also printed out a separate check for each person, even though the restaurant wouldn't typically do that for such a large group. Some of the folks threw me an extra dollar or two on top of that, which I thought was really thoughtful and was much appreciated. One man, Dale, would even peer pressure everyone into throwing me a little extra at Christmas time. Nice guy, Dale.

This was more than three years ago and only one out of the 16 remains a regular customer (although, in all fairness, not all of them lived in close vicinity of the restaurant). Well, one of the women in the group, Maryanne, sold Arbonne beauty products and was very eager to make some cash off of me. Being smart enough to know that I didn't plan on waiting tables at lunch my entire life (this was, of course, before I was admitted to UW), she attempted to recruit me into selling Arbonne as a representative under her guidance. For those of you who don't know, Arbonne is a multilevel marketing structure, not unlike Amway (think pyramid, think trickledown). They claim that all of their products are "100% natural" and comprised of botanical ingredients - I've heard through the grapevine that this is not so, although I can't say for certain. Maryanne showered me with compliments about my customer service skills, how personable I was and so on. I told her I'd think about it, although I had absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. Hell, she was a regular customer and I wanted to maintain a good rapport.

One day, she gifts me with a host of Arbonne samples of skin care products, including one anti-aging serum that she claimed was practically magic. Since I was perfectly happy with what I was using at the time (Lancome or something, I think) and wasn't in the market for a change, I set the samples aside figuring I would use them when I finished off my current product. When Maryanne saw me the following week, she raved about how great my skin looked (note: I hadn't even broken the seal on any of the Arbonne products). Even though I already knew that she was just feeding me fake compliments to hook me in, this confirmed it. I told her thank you and went on with my (honest) business.

She began to pressure me into ordered product (which was expensive, but no more so that what I typically use). I figured that since she was a longtime regular customer and I'd made some dough off of her, I'd throw her an order. I think I tried to get a sunscreen and maybe a bath gel (two things I needed anyway) and she upsold me into a couple of skincare products (what is it with these people and the damn skincare products?) by promising a discount. I succumbed (no, I'm not usually this easy).

She had me fill out an order form, which included a request for my phone number. I told her that I don't usually give that out and, since she saw me weekly, did that really matter? Oh no, they needed that! She gave me some reason (what if there is a problem with the order??? or something) and I wrote it in, but reminded her that I really value my privacy and don't usually give it out.

(You see where this is going, don't you?)

Not long after I received my order, I was accepted into my current graduate program at UW and, as a result, had to stop working lunches in order to have my days free for school (and blogging!). I announced to this group on my last Wednesday that I would no longer be working days and that someone else would be taking care of them in the future. I told them why and several folks congratulated me and gave me an extra large tip that day (Maryanne stuck with the tacked-on 18%). I told them I'd be working evenings and to come in and see me. Since then, I've only seen Geoff, who has come into the bar, but mostly gets take-out.

Within a couple of weeks, I received a phone call from Maryanne. Not recognizing the name on the caller ID (and thinking it might be one of my daughter's friends), I answered the phone. It was Maryanne wanting to know how I liked my products and would I be interested in ordering more? I said thanks, but no thanks - I was good.

Not long after her phone call, I receive an Arbonne catalog in the mail with an enthusiastic note saying that she misses seeing me at the restaurant. I skim the catalog that is littered with testimonies from successful Arbonne reps and what I recall as a very tan, very blonde executive type with a message of encouragement.

A couple more weeks pass and she calls again, but I don't answer this time. So she calls the next day. And the next. And the next. Same scripted voicemail each time, with the latter containing a somewhat agitated tone. Scary. I never return any of the calls. I never order any more scary Arbonne products.

I hear from owner-man John at work that the networking group doesn't come in for lunch anymore.

A couple of years have passed since my last phone call from Maryanne and I'd relegated the experience to merely a weird story that I sometimes told others when the subject was raised.

Flash forward to today when my phone rings and I pick it up, first checking the caller ID. I see the name and know that I know that name from somewhere, but where? Not long after I decide not to answer it, I remember exactly where I know that name. I listen to Maryanne's message and here is what it says:

"Hi, not sure if you remember me, but it's Maryanne - the regional rep for Arbonne Skincare (oh, I remember you, Maryanne). I just wanted to touch bases with you since we'd lost touch and tell you about some of our new products! And, if my notes are correct (she took notes on me?!?!?!), you have a daughter who is about 16 now and I just wanted to let you know that we have some products that she'll just loooooooove! They're younger products with exactly her age group in mind and I just know that she'll love them. I remember (you don't remember - it's in your "notes") that you said you were going to school and I want to see how that is going and catch up with you, see how you're doing. So, give me a call!"

Okay, my very political, activist daughter (who is 15) is currently sporting a Mohawk and pretty much uses no product at all, except for some Burt's Bees lip balm that is tinted. I GUARANTEE that she would not be amenable to Arbonne's aggressive tactics.

I'm really hoping that Maryanne acquires a clue.

Calgon take me away (unless you are made by Arbonne or Mary Kay).

City Hall's first mosh pit

Can I just say...my daughter is largely responsible for the first ever mosh pit held in City Hall in Portland.

I am so damned proud.

As the student leader of her school's GSA (Gay Straight Alliance), she is way involved in the local gay activist community (particularly with regard to youth -a word she hates). She speaks at and leads workshops for local youth-oriented conferences and was even asked to be a guest speaker for a teachers' conference recently. She was also part of the planning committee for the Day of Silence/Night of Noise shindig in P-land. Somehow, they persuaded TPTB to allow them to hold a gathering/rally/punk rock concert in the rotunda of City Hall.

And my sweet baby girl was one of the emcees of the event and made sure everything was running smoothly and on schedule. Damn she was impressive. And I'm not just saying that because she might read this. Honestly, she has better things to do than read my blog.

Of course, I confess to a mini-Mom-moment when my girl jumped into the mosh pit. I felt an eensy bit panicky and feared for her safety. I know, that sounds lame and dorky to me now, too. But it comes free with being a Mom, so what could I do? I couldn't help myself. Yikes! What if she gets hurt?! I so wanted to go and pull her out (mostly so I could refrain from wincing when she fell down or when someone jabbed her petite frame right in the gut), but that would be so the wrong thing to do in that moment.

I took deep breaths. I watched the amoeba-like moshpit and made note of the seemingly jubilant participants. I kept telling myself that she is strong and capable and is just having fun. I even tried looking away, but found that I was better off visually monitoring the situation from afar.

I finally found the calm place and concluded that I would have the following bumper sticker made: "My honor student can hold her own in a mosh pit!"

feeling like the underdog

In honor of my birthday, I'm posting a rant that I wrote in early February, 2007...

Dear Lizzie B.,

You fuckin' pissed me off tonight.

When I first saw you many months ago, I thought you were amazing! So accomplished! So articulate! So well read! So beautiful! And you play on my team! Welcome aboard!

But your maneuver of the celebrity-author-handler equivalent of cock-blocking was inexcusable. You seemed so incredibly phony and unlikable when I was initiating a conversation with S-L P as I was reflecting on her previous visit to Powell's reading from her not-a-play novel, complete with guitar and accompanying songs. You whisked her away while I was in mid-sentence, completely disregarding that my conversation with her mattered a great deal to me and might have even mattered to her, as well. All the while, you smiled that fakey pasted on grin, decked out in your white wool coat, trying to look pure, pristine and untouchable. I don't really admire you anymore, for the record. I don't care if you're so young to be holding such a prestigious position in the Portland cultural scene. I don't care if you've published your writing in literary journals. I don't care if I'm the only one who doesn't think you're no longer all that great.

Signed,
bk

and, at the same time,

Dear S-L P,

I wanted to talk to you tonight. I really did. But I was feeling shy and unworthy of attending a reception in your honor in a fancy-pants post office lobby with supersized portraits of Dubya and Dick looking down on me while I consume the complimentary chocolate chip cookies not-from-a-box and wine that doesn't suck at all.

And it's not that I really had anything that compelling to say to you or any burning question about what it's like to be a writer or how did it feel to win a Pulitzer Prize or - wow - what was is like to take a writing class from James Baldwin? I just wanted you to keep talking.

And I don't even fully understand why you couldn't keep talking as long as you were on the stage and the people were listening and enjoying themselves. I mean, what was up with them flashing that blue light at you, trying to hurry you up? Hurry up for what??? It's not as though there would be a late night cabaret or anything and they needed to make way for that. You were happy talking to us and we were happy listening to you talk to us and answer random questions, even ones from young and naive writers-to-be who are seeking a panacea for writer's block.

So what would have happened if you had ignored the blue light and just kept on talking? Perhaps it could have been the literary equivalent to the old Portland story about Prince showing up at the Roseland theatre at the conclusion of some show or another and then playing until 2am. Were the blue-light blinkers telling him 'no'? Of course they weren't.

At the beginning of the lecture, when you were introduced by mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named, we learned that you entertain even your most far-out ideas and breathe life into them to see what they hold. Would it have been such a far-out idea to just keep talking?

Perhaps the reception at the funky post office had a limitation on the hours permissible for using that space? After all, it is a government facility and there were two bonafide police officers guarding the chocolate chip cookies. And I would have been perfectly content listening to you talk at the reception but, the young man in the hat (who I gather is the aspiring writer with writer's block) seemed to have a great deal to discuss with you.

And by the time we were close enough to say hello, mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named caught the eye of my friend, Kara, who works with her. Kara had just been talking about how mean-lady is kinda icy and phoney. But I was able to squeeze in a friendly hello and you so warmly returned my greeting. What I was starting to say, before you were so rudely whisked away in the middle of my sentence, was just that I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture /songs/personable book-signing event at Powell's some time ago and your warmth and clear interest in the individuals in your captive audience were so impactful - I have such fond memories of that event.

Here is, in particular, what I wanted to say to you about that event: The way you read your characters from your book and then pulled out your guitar and sang songs from the book and then every single person in that audience obediently nabbed a copy of your novel and stood in line for a moment of your time and perhaps a signature in their new book. The fact that you spent time actually saying hello and speaking to every single person in that line was so kind and generous - I'm certain that I'm not the only one who looks back fondly on that reading for that exact same reason. I left that reading feeling really fantastic.I couldn't believe that, while signing our books, you asked us questions about ourselves - that you seemed to care who we were as individuals. I appreciated that.

And that, even though tonight's event was much larger and less intimate, your warmth, humor and approachability still emanated through your anecdotes and reflections.

That was really all. I know it wasn't important or insightful or brilliant, but I just wanted to express my appreciation. You're a wonderful artist and storyteller and a beautiful woman - inside and out. Please continue to visit Portland regularly!

With warmth and admiration,
bk

rock & roll twilight zone: the time traveler's wife and her wife

Last night, my lovely wife, J, and I attended yet another concert that was less expensive than the totally-not-worth-forty-dollars-EACH Taylor Hicks show. Irish angst a la Damien Rice was on the bill for the evening and we were both looking forward to it.

After asking me eleventy gazillion times if I have the tickets, J asked me who was opening the show. "Dunno," I told her, "hopefully someone good."

Now, yesterday was something of an action-packed day for us as we were meeting the man who is now our financial advisor for, well, some financial advice on all of the money we don't have. Poor guy - I hope he makes some $ off of us someday, as it seems like we got way more out of the two-hour meeting we had yesterday than he did. After all, not only did we put some money that we didn't even know we had out into investment oblivion and hired him to babysit it, we learned a whole new language! Now I can tell peeps I'm 80% aggressive and really mean it!

Well, anyway, that meeting ran a little later than we'd anticipated and we were both starving. Concert was to start at 8pm and we were convinced that, due to a last minute venue change, they'd start it late. After getting downtown a little after 8, we drove around in circles hoping for the elusive complimentary parking spot. Didn't happen. We finally ponied up $3 for a lot close to the Roseland. I know. Makes us look like cheapskates. But $3 almost buys a beer! And after spending two hours learning that we need to spend wisely so that we'll have a cozy retirement, every little bit counts - I'm sure our financial advisor would agree.

While we half expected to walk up the stairs to encounter the opening act in mid-set, I thought to myself, "damn, that sounds an awful lot like Damien Rice."

Turns out it was. We walked in at 8:25 and he'd already started, so no opening act. Who has a show with no opening act?????? I racked my brain trying to name one other show I'd been to in which that was the case.

WTF???

What gives, Damien Rice? Why no opening act?

What's even more strange is that it seems as though everyone else attending the show was in on this bit of info (that the show would start on time and that there would be no opening act, so you need to really truly get there early). How can this be?, I thought. I hate being uninformed. To add to the peculiarity of the headlining act already underway, he was performing a particularly discordant tune from his newest release, 9. In addition to that, the sound system at the Roseland didn't seem to support this aural-assaultfest, as it didn't sound so great. J, thinking that the entire show would resemble this, dubbed the venture a waste of my money. We proceeded to the beer-drinking part of the Roseland to get our drink on and watch the show from the balcony. Once we realized that the beer acquision line was snaking down the steps and the capacity of the balcony would have made the Fire Marshall shit his pants, we headed back down to the main floor.

Fortunately, the sound issue never again reared its ugly head - the rest of the show sounded lovely. I adore his beautiful yearning ballads and appreciate that he also rocks it a lil, showing an almost punk rock side - loud, angry, and unapologetic . The accompanying strings were fantastic, really adding depth to the performance.

J and I couldn't help but notice an elderly lesbian couple about three feet away. One was dancing up a storm, really getting into the groove; the other maintained a more quiet stance, but still rapt. We kept looking over at them, amused and charmed by their presence. I looked over at J and said, "Check it out - that's us in twenty-five/thirty years."

She chuckled, and then added, "Well, it's good to see that your hips still move," referring to the more lively of the couple. I looked over at her and her calculated movements. She was wearing a black tank top...I was wearing a black tank top. She was sporting a couple of tattoos...a couple of my tattoos were visible. She was wearing a black punk rock belt, studded and ringed...I own a belt that appears to be a first cousin of her belt. She had short, messy hair and glasses...I have short, messy hair and glasses. Then it hit me. I turned to J and said,

"And clearly I go off of my medication at some point."

J, in hysterics at the overenergized, dancing granny with stamina to spare, then looks at granny's partner, staid and somber, and added,

"And, apparently, so do I."

I flashed back to the scene in The Time Traveler's Wife, in which Henry observes a younger version of himself at a Violent Femmes show in a Chicago nightclub.

The night was riddled with other oddities, as well. At one point, a duo of 70s throwback, Harley-riders walked past us, one in a Danzig T-shirt and wearing a backwards trucker hat with the bill upturned and the word 'Wasted' across the inside brim. His pal was wearing a faded denim jacket with the sleeves crudely cut off that was adorned with about three million metal studs and a bandanna holding his lengthy locks in place. Shortly after they strolled past us, toward the stage, they made a return trip past us, toward the exit this time.

"Wrong show," J concluded.

In addition to several other bizarre little moments, the show followed suit. Was there a full moon last night?

Damien Rice (it somehow doesn't feel right to refer to him as either Damien or Mr. Rice) engaged in an interesting soliloquy. He inquired as to whether any of the members of the audience had ever looked in the mirror, really looked in the mirror, gazing into your own eyes and realizing "you know me!" "you know me better than anyone else in the world!" "you're my best friend!" "I do everything with you!" "I masturbate with you!" "We're going to die together!" (he claims to verbalize these statements aloud). I have no doubt that he actually does this and appreciate his candor and vulnerability in revealing this very personal moment he shares with himself. I wondered how many folks were going to go home and attempt to replicate this moment, making it all their own.

To close the show, Damien Rice did something I've never seen done on stage before, or at least not so covertly. He starts in on a story, which involves a man and a woman and takes place late at night, in a bar. A member of the band then leaves the stage and returns with a bottle of wine and a glass. He hands Damien Rice the glass and fills it up. In one, huge gulp the vino is gone and the story continues. Story becomes a little more heart-wrenching and the glass is refilled. At an appropriate moment in the story, a mere two minutes later, the second glass is also consumed in a single bound. The story is filled with even more angst, as the woman must leave to meet up with her boyfriend, despite the hinted-at connection. Boy (yes, this man has - with an intoxicating aid - become a boy) is depressed and the glass is refilled. The would-be lovers part (perhaps forever) and the third glass is downed. At the point, our story teller is a little bit wobbly and full of what, if I recall correctly, is an incurable drunken sadness. The story continues, the boy now alone and spiralling into a deep and emo-filled despair. A band member brings him a lit cigarette and the stumbley story is slurringly rambling on, an empty glass held out for a refill. This one, too, disappears instantaneously and the maybe-maybe-not drunken Damien Rice concludes his story from a reposed position on the floor. The bottle is empty.

The show ends with the final encore, Cheers Darlin', complete with the clinking of an empty glass as a percussion instrument, concluding the show.

Bravo!

When Disco Inferno and Hollywood go head to head

My lovely wife, J, plays on a recreation league women's indoor soccer team: DISCO INFERNO. They have a game once a week and, if I'm not working, I like to attend.

On my very first day of librarian action figure school, all students were gifted with a travel mug with the name of one of the larger student groups emblazoned across the cup: ALISS, The Association for Library and Information Science Students. While I was happy to receive any gift at all, I already had a gazillion travel mugs for coffee that I like very much and use all of the time. So, I decided that this particular go-cup (as coined from my friend, Beth, who is from N'awlins) would be used exclusively for cocktails!

I've made it a habit of making myself a cocktail to take to the soccer games, as they do serve beer there (good beer, too!), but they confine all beer drinkers to a small area which is not optimal for watching the game. Plus, who's gonna suspect I'm working on a gin and tonic out of a mug that proclaims itself to be for library students???? (Yes, I do this at movie theatres, too)

Oftentimes, I also bring my ipod or a book on cd to listen to while I am enjoying my cocktail and watching the game and I typically have a crossword puzzle or Sudoku for downtimes and intermission halftime. While I thought I was well-equipped this last Monday, I discovered that my ipod had a dead battery and I found myself relegated to the sounds of the soccer game.

How serendipitous this turned out to be!

Turned out that on my left were two kids, a girl of about six (Ashley) and a boy of about nine (Mikey), who were watching their mom, a player on the opposite team, Hollywood. On my right was Lena, whose mother is the goalie for Disco Inferno and whose daughter occasionally plays on the team, as well. Lena played some time ago and then advanced to a higher level of play. She knows all of the players' names and has that soccer lingo down pat.

Here are some highlights of my observations at Monday night's game:

Mikey (with much urgency): "behind you!! there's someone behind you!"
Me (under my gin-scented breath): file that one away under 'duh.'

When the score is tied:
Mikey: (with much feeling) "Ashley, this is inTENSE!"
Rec league, folks; we're talking rec league. Fun to watch, fun to play, not World Cup.

Mikey spies an abandoned black T-shirt on floor in between where he is sitting and where I am sitting. He picks it up. Mikey smells it, then says, "this smells like Mom."

Mikey continues to cheer on his mother's team, as if it were the World Cup final. In addition to being extraordinarily amusing, it's actually somewhat endearing.

Sister Ashley is clearly embarrassed by Mikey.
Ashley: "Mikey, you're being too loud. You're making a fool of yourself. Mom's never going to bring you to a game again."
Mikey (with a tone of authority): "I'm doing it at the appropriate times."

I must've made a double, maybe a triple, 'cause I feel great! I clap extra loudly when J's team scores a goal or prevents the other team from scoring - Mikey gives me a look.

Lena, on my right, is the soccer mom with a skilled 15 year-old in the game. She may as well be the coach understudy. "Man on!" "Way to ________ (it's amazing how many words go here)!" "Come to the corner!" "See ____________(fill in unguarded player name here)!" Chick knows her game and isn't afraid to call it. She heaps praise on her team and her players. Loudly.

Flash forward to soccer mama's baby dribbling the ball toward the goal. Chick in the red shorts on the other team shouts out: "Go Becky! You can outrun her. She's NOTHING."

Wow, vicious, I'm thinking.

Chickadee in the red shorts should check out roller derby. Natch, soccer mama hears this, looks over to the bench and glares roller-derby-bound girl's way. I join her in the glarefest just because. I'm good at glaring and that comment was rude and uncalled for.

Teammate nudges roller-derby-bound girl in the arm and glares, as well. R-D-B girl gestures over and shows her teammate, "that's her mom."

Lena, the soccer mama makes snarky comment about how some people get whiny when their team is losing.

This is one of the best games ever.

I need to pee and I want to be where I can see the goal better, now that the teams have switched sides, but I just can't bring myself to leave this spot. This is pure comedy.

Ipod shmypod.

I just gotta know...who was Steve?

So I'm driving in weird funky (and not in the hipster way) deep SE Portland, where there are predominantly convenience stores, pawn shops, strip clubs (but none of the swanky ones), dive bars, gun shops and drive-thru cigarette stores. You heard me.

As I cruise down SE Foster Rd. I notice a taxidermist establishment on my left. Underneath the Taxidermy sign is a marquee, which reads:

Goodbye Steve
We'll Miss You

Please let Steve not be a former animal of some sort.

Above the Law

I was at the height of maximum busy-ness when a 40/50-something couple with a child of about seven sat up at my bar. Now, I don't claim to know what the law is everywhere else, but in Oregon, folks must be age 21 or over to sit at a bar. Sometimes bars that are attached to restaurants have a seating area with tables where minors may sit and for the sole purpose of food consumption (the law's words, not mine) and our restaurant is one of those places. However, all of my tables were full and I had three bar stools available, so they just bellied on up.

I'm sure the look on my face was priceless when I turned around to see a second-grader seated at the bar, but then I nicely told dad that I was sorry, but the young man was not permitted to sit at the bar, as per Oregon law. Dude then gestures back to the kitchen and said, "well, he said we could."

This should have been the first red flag that something was not quite right. I asked him who told him that and he said the chef had. (Insert red flag number two) Okay, this just keeps getting weirder because I know for certain that the chef knows the rules. So I nicely tell the man that
I'm sorry that he was told that and the chef must be misinformed. I let him know that I'd be happy to pour them a couple of drinks that they may carry to the lobby and consume there. Seeming to completely ignore the fact that I need that kid off the barstool -STAT- dude tells me that they just want to get a quick dinner, as they are on their way somewhere.

Okay, this hits something of a nerve***, as I have a HUGE prob with folks who come into busy restaurants at 7:30pm and want to have a QUICK dinner. That said, I told these persistant (red flag numero 3) folks that, again, I was really sorry, but I could not serve them dinner at the bar as long as the child was with them. Then, dude tells me that the servers are backed up in the restaurant, but the kitchen isn't too busy so he doesn't see why they can't get a fast dinner. Alright, despite the fact that this is red flag #4, where is he getting this information and why does he know something like this???

Clearly, this was the part of the night in which my brain was malfunctioning, as customers just don't say that sort of thing and I should have realized right then and there that something needed to click. Dude's wife then pointed to an empty table in between the bar and the restaurant and asked if they could sit there. I informed them that there was no server for that table. They asked if I could wait on them at that table and I told them that there would be no way I'd be able to give them the sort of service they deserved (which, at this point, when I say "they deserved," I'm meaning something completely different than what they are presuming I'm meaning). Plus, they clearly wanted preferential treatment (yoohoo! Bad Kitty! it's me, red flag number five!) and I didn't have much confidence that they could be taken care of as quickly as they wanted without the needs of others going unmet.

Dude looks at me and, in a disgruntled voice, says "fine, we'll just go somewhere else then."

Okay by me. One less thing for me to worry about. Or so I thought. I go to chef and try to confirm that he does, indeed, understand the law regarding minors at the bar. He snaps at me and tells me he knows. Clearly, he's fucking busy, despite the kitchen forecast I'd received from rude-dad-at-bar.

Is there a full moon tonight?

Jump forward three hours to owner-man John returning from a catering gig and me asking him a favor. Owner-man John says yes to the favor, but under one condition: that from this point forward I recognize the Butts (not their real name. really, this time) and make sure they get taken care of when they come into the restaurant.

huhhhhhhh?

Owner-man John asks me if I know what they look like. Yeah, I tell him, with the Angelina Jolie lips on the wife, I'm pretty sure I'd recognize them even though I haven't seen them in a really long time. Owner-man John then informs me that it hasn't been that long, as they were sitting at my bar earlier this evening. WTF??? They called owner-man John on his mother-fucking cell phone and ratted me out for not kissing their rude MoFo asses. I now officially hate them even more.

Oh shit.

"Crap," I tell him, "I totally didn't recognize them. They didn't have their daughter with them and I didn't make the connection at all."

"Not even the lips?" owner-man John asks.

"You know, I wasn't even really looking at her. He was the one talking to me and I was looking back at him when I was talking to him. And, besides, okay it was the Butts, but they still can't sit at the bar with the kid, right?"

"Of course, I didn't expect you to let them stay at the bar, but you should have recognized them and told him that you'd try and find a table in the dining room for him."

"But John, he just came from the host stand where they were unable to accommodate him! Am I supposed to override the host and overload one of our servers?"

"In the future, I just want you to find a way to take care of them, even if it means that it takes several people doing different things for them. If I'd been here tonight, they would have been taken care of."

"Yeah, and YOU would have been the one waiting on them," I reminded owner-man John. "You know he's a total asshole," I added.

"Oh, he's a rude fuck, but he's also one of my best catering clients."

"I know. Sorry. I just treated them like I would anyone else in that situation and I should have recognized them. I'm sorry."

At this point, Ginny, who is our pastry chef, chimed in, "I can't believe he doesn't know that he can't sit at the bar with a 7 year-old kid!"

"He doesn't care," owner-man John told her.

This is true. This MoFo, Dr. Butt, is some sort of surgeon and, several years ago, he was at the airport and parked his Mercedes in the zone that is for the immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. Well, he returns to his car to find a parking enforcement officer writing him a ticket, which he refused to accept. Parking enforcement officer tries to get into power struggle with Dr. Butt, who, even then, was under the impression that the law does not apply to him. Long story short, Dr. Butt tells parking enforcement lady that he can "Bye & selll peeple likke ewe." Dr. Butt gets into his car, while parking enforcment lady stands in front of the car trying to bar his escape and force him to accept his citation, and Dr. Butt freakin' runs over parking enforcement lady. Parking enforcement lady sues for a million bucks, wins, and is no longer a parking enforcement lady. Meanwhile, million dollar lost lawsuit doesn't even put a dent in Dr. Butt's holdings and, clearly, he learns nothing from the experience.

Parking enforcement lady should have sued for eleventy gazillion million dollars.

***

1. Food can only cook so fast.
2. What about all the orders who have been put in ahead of yours? Should those folks be expected to wait even longer because you can't manage your time well? And, if so, why do you deserve to have your order bumped up ahead of everyone else's? (trust me, folks in restaurants look around and they know who got there first and they get disgruntled if someone who came in after them gets their food first)
3. Perhaps you do actually manage your time well and this was a fluke...there was an accident on the freeway or whatever. Still, if you only have time for fast food or a deli sandwich, then GET THAT. Or go somewhere that isn't busy. When you go into a busy restaurant needing to get served quickly and get out of there in a less-than-reasonable amount of time (30 minutes or less), it's not fair to the server or the kitchen, but -most of all- it's not fair to the other customers. Furthermore, you might just be screwing yourself over if you're forcing the restaurant into a situation where they will need to take shortcuts in order to adequately accommodate you.
4. If you do, despite all of the above, go into a busy restaurant with only a minimal time to be out of there well-fed and you were accommodated, frakkin' hook that server up with a good tip, because they probably bumped your needs ahead of others and they don't have to do that, but they wanted to please you. A good tip is a lovely way to say thank you.
   

Something visible but without substance

So, it's no secret that one of my guilty pleasures (along with In and Out Burger and lots of music from the 80s) is American Idol.

Anyway, I'll cut to the chase here.

Last season's winner, Taylor Hicks, is slated to come to Portland soon to play a show at the Crystal Ballroom. And do you know what they are charging for tickets?????

Forty (40) fucking dollars!!!!! Each!!!!

Now, I'm neither here nor there about Taylor - he wasn't my fave of last season, but I don't think he sucks either. Just not my style is all. Still, FORTY DOLLARS??

Here is a list of people/events I have seen (mostly at the Crystal Ballroom) in which tickets have been less than $40 (most of which have been less than $30):

• Sleater-Kinney (with Eddie freakin Vedder doing an opening set) $13
  
• The Shins $20
  
• PJ Harvey $25
  
• Liz Phair $17
  
• Belle and Sebastian $30
  
• The Indigo Girls (don't tease me, I did that for my woman) - I have no idea what we paid for those, probably $25 - $30
  
• Patti Smith - yes, THAT Patti Smith - $30-ish
• We've even seen Death Cab for Cutie (after everyone knew about them) for less than $30
  
• I think both Dido and Ani diFranco were both right at $40 - at the Schnitzer, though
• I've paid less than $40 for orchestra-level seats at the opera!
• Alvin Ailey, less than $40
• Upcoming Decemberists show $31 (for some reason, they cost more to see in Portland than almost anywhere else)
  

So tell me how this makes sense??? In fact, it's quite likely that the only person I've paid much over $40 to see is David Bowie. And anyone who knows me knows that there is no ceiling on what I will pay to see David Bowie in concert. But that's David fucking Bowie!!!

Seeing as how Taylor's CD is not selling all that well, I can't imagine that folks are going to be banging down the door to pay forty clams to see him sing bluesy songs and whip his upper body into a seizured frenzy. Seriously, am I completely delusional in thinking that $40 is a hella chunka change for Taylor Hicks tickets?

Perhaps Ruben Studdard is opening for him.

not an alter ego, mind you

Hey peeps!

I doth have me a doppelganger!!!

And she is a former Portlander!

I still don't know how she found me, though. My guess is that she did a search for 'bad kitty' to see what folks were saying about her/her cool art and then my shit popped up and she was all, "hey, wait a minute, that's MY name." Luckily, she didn't go all cease and desist on my ass and want to armwrestle me for the name or anything. Nah, she's a friendly bad kitty, so it's all good.

Ode to Avion

Since I've started a tradition of bidding farewell to the lives around me that cease to exist, it would only be fair for me to bid a farewell to Avion, even though I never really was able to see the fabulous and caring side of her that I am told does exist.

Above all else, my heart goes out to Whitney, Avion's on-again/off-again partner who nurtured her and took care of her for more than a year, while Avion's health posed unique challenges and Avion stubbornly refused a bone marrow transplant, claiming that her doctors didn't know what they were doing and that she was no closer to dying than she was to winning the lottery.

Sadly, she never did win the lottery. Instead, she passed away a week and a half ago, quietly at home, with loved ones by her side. She was 29 years old.

Sleater-Kinney...it's not just a freeway exit in Olympia, Washington - it's a phenomena

A week or two ago, I got word that Sleater-Kinney, my fave girl punk rock band and one that has been my solace during a hardship or two, is breaking up and that their present tour would be their last. This saddened me enormously, but I totally get that these things happen. At the time that their breakup was announced, there were no plans for a farewell show in Portland, but we all knew that they would have to schedule one.

And they did.

But tickets sold out in less than ten minutes and many local fans, myself included, were left high and dry. And ticketless. I couldn't believe it. For all of their previous shows, I'd been able to get tickets the day they went on sale and never had any trouble whatsoever. Their shows would typically sell out, but not usually right away.

In no time flat, tickets were available on eBay for upwards of $300. Scalper websites had them available for between $90 and $135 per ticket. These are tickets that originally sold for $12, plus a $1 service charge. In the past, we'd paid around $20 or so for their shows, but clearly they weren't looking to make any money on this show, they just wanted to give back to their very loyal fanbase.

A friend of mine boasted that he'd scored tickets and I have to admit that I was a little jealous. They just had to add another show. They just had to.

Then a couple of weeks ago, my daughter (K) came home from hanging out downtown with her pals and reported that her friend, Hannah, had claimed that a second show was already on the books with tickets to go on sale the following Saturday at noon. Tickets would be available at the venue box office for one hour before they would be released for online and telephone sales. J and K and I all looked at one another.

We all had the same thought.

We would go downtown very early Saturday morning and queue up at the Crystal Ballroom. This time we would not miss out on obtaining tickets to the last Sleater-Kinney show ever. We confirmed on the Crystal Ballroom website that our information was, indeed, correct and then set our alarms for 5am Saturday.

By 5:45am, we claimed our spaces as 10th, 11th, and 12th in line, joining the other bleary-eyed fans who'd come before us. I ran down to VooDoo Doughnuts and bought a dozen, which we shared with the other fans in line near us. We brought blankets, a newspaper, snacks and our senses of humor as we did our best to get comfortable on the urban sidewalk. It got colder before it got warmer and we spent a fair amount of time shooting the shit with Amy, who was just in front of us in line.

When fatigue (and sugar crash) set in, we tried laying down and sleeping on the sidewalk - I'll just say that the residentially challenged folks make it look easy and comfortable sometimes, but trust me, it's so not. Other folks were spending the next several hours until the box office opened reading (I saw two copies of The Devil Wears Prada), knitting, playing cards, etc.

About an hour before the box office opened, we noticed a fellow with a large and very official-looking video cam scanning the crowded line and we, at first, thought that perhaps we'd be on the evening news. 'Twas not the case. Turns out he was making a documentary for the band! We gave K our money and let her buy our tickets so that she could be filmed for the documentary.

I'm really sad about Sleater-Kinney breaking up. Their music means a lot to me and the women in the band are smart and very articulate. I hope they continue making music separately and I'm sure I'll get used to the idea eventually.

I don't do so well with change.

Cruising in Portland - the royal welcome mat

So last week was houseguest-O-rama 'round here and that's a-ok by me 'cause they were all good houseguests (this includes my fabulous dad, who is a regular reader of my blog)!

My classmate, Gregory, was visiting from one of my favorite red states and, even though he's visited Portland before, he wanted to learn Portland better and do some semi-touristy things on this visit.

No problemo.

After a delicious meal at my favorite place to wait an hour for a breakfast table, The Tin Shed, we shopped on Hawthorne for a bit (including a visit to the store called Greg's because duh!) and then went downtown for the mini-version of my urban Portland walking tour (there's a mini, regular, and extreme version).

We parked smartly, then looked at The Governor Hotel architecture, which I think looks like Transformers-Robots-in-Disguise at the top of the building (mouse over "The Governor Hotel" and click on the link and you can see for yourself - they have some good pics on their website). From there we walked to Pioneer Courthouse Square, also known as Portland's living room.

Now, this is where things got interesting.

I was dying to show Gregory the amphitheatre at the northwest corner of the square, where you can stand on a small circle of metal and speak aloud, facing north, and just like magic your voice is seemingly amplified, but only within the sphere of the little circle where you are standing! To those standing just two or three feet away, your voice sounds completely normal! I don't know how this works or why it works, but I LOVE it!!! And every out-of-towner I've shown it to has found it rather fascinating as well.

Gregory, J and I take a few steps away and are laughing and talking while I'm pointing out other features of the square. Then, seemingly from nowhere, he emerges in his kelly-green glory and tips his hat to us. It is Eduardo and he works for the Portland Oregon Visitors' Association Sidewalk Ambassadors. Interestingly, their Info-Patrol logo utilizes a lowercase "i" with a curlique, not unlike the logo for my school, The Information School at the University of Washington. Gregory notes aloud that Eduardo is sporting our school logo.

Eduardo cheerfully offers his assistance and J and I mention that we live here and are showing our friend, Gregory, the sights. Eduardo makes small talk with Gregory and is clearly very interested in every word Gregory has to say. Gregory mentions that it would be nice to have a big map of the entire city, not just the puny walking maps of downtown that they hand out at Powell's. Eduardo opens his messenger bag that is chock-full of every type of tourist map one could possibly imagine and inquires as to whether or not Gregory is interested in any of them. Gregory holds his ground and does not succumb to Eduardo's temptations. Eduardo is not the least bit put off by Gregory's refusal of his goods and, instead, confides to Gregory the not-so-secret nickname that the Sidewalk Ambassadors have dubbed the good map, the "Mama Jama." Eduardo tells Gregory where he can obtain said Mama Jama, tips his hat to us and bids us farewell.

Suddenly he is gone as mysteriously as he arrived.

Approximately two point five seconds later, we notice Eduardo running toward us at top speed. J and I inform Gregory that he is clearly being cruised. Gregory spouts some nonsense about Eduardo doing his job. Yeah, right. J and I stifle laughter and enjoy our front-row seats of this show.

Eduardo magically reappears and gifts Gregory with the Mama Jama in his hand. If his eyes twinkle any more, he may find himself employed as the top of the ginormous Christmas tree that Pioneer Square displays each December. Eduardo slips us a card with his number on it - number 9, after The Beatles' song, and because 17 was already taken. The card asks us to rate his performance and he mocks the terminology stating that it seems like maybe he should do a song and dance. We all but dare him to. At this point, there is no doubt in my mind that Eduardo wants Gregory to rate another of his "performances" and I am marvelling at Gregory's suavitude. I've seen this happen to him before.

I ask Eduardo if he has any recommendations of any downtown sights not to be missed. He mentions the Chinese Gardens, which we don't have time for, and happy hour at the Portland City Grill. We tell Eduardo that we were already planning on going to Portland City Grill for happy hour and that we'll be there around 4:30 that afternoon.

Another tip of the hat and Eduardo magically disappears again. We continue our mini walking tour through the square and over to The Portland Building and the Portlandia statue. The Portland Building is a controversial Michael Graves design from the early 1980s - long before his teapots and toasters started to appear on the shelves at Target. Portlandia is the second largest hammered copper statue ever built - second only to the Statue of Liberty.

Plunked on the viewing bench in front of Portlandia, the three of us opened up the Mama Jama and noted various points of interest on the map. J and I were the "Mapgals" holding the corners taut while Gregory studied the grid of Portland.

Next stop: Powell's Books. Gregory went speed-shopping through the store and acquired about a dozen books in thirty minutes flat.

True to our word and with 4:30 rapidly approaching, we walked down to the Portland City Grill to brave the happy hour crowd and hope for a table. As we nestled in to the large, comfortable booth that was easily the worst seat in the house with regard to the view, we decided that we were lucky to have a table at all. Just as we are settling in with our drinks and contemplating our food order, who should mysteriously pop from around the corner?

EDUARDO!!

As we register our shock and awe at his appearance, Eduardo gestures with excitement and sends a plate of calamari flying out of a waiter's hands. The plate lands with a thud and a crack and calamari goes scattering in every which direction under the barstools and between the high-heeled feet of the building's office workers enjoying a post-workday libation.

Eduardo is clearly mortified. We invite him to join us and he repeats that he was just popping in to see if we made it for happy hour. Talk about follow-through! His hat is removed to signify that he is on a break and he mentions that he must return to work shortly. With that, Eduardo then re-donned his hat, tipped his hat with a gentle nod of his head and -poof!- he was gone.

Much to our surprise, Eduardo did not magically appear anywhere else.