January 18,2010

The four seasons of Portland are like no other I’ve experienced. I love the Alaska seasons of “winter” and “not winter”, but when you have distinct breaks in the calendar that correspond directly to a myriad of opportunities, jobs, and things to do, it’s tough to get excited about “fishing” season and “hunting” season.
It’s still winter here although the so-called ‘cold snap’ ended a few weeks ago and we sit comfortably in the mid 40’s to mid 50’s. I’m still raking dead leaves, now turned nearly to mulch as the wind has blown so hard that the fences around town act as wind stops. Leaves are a funny thing here, not something I paid much attention to at home because when the leaves fell they were, in good time, buried by old man winter. Then come spring, they were a muddy mess along with the rest of the state.
Portland has a leaf problem. I’ll say it right now. No one cares about the leaves, and their problems getting to where they need to go. It is a green city in more ways than one with the abundance of trees littering the streets and the proliferation of live local bumper stickers now in vogue. I am finding that yard maintenance is not just gardening and watching things grow, but also seeing things die (and hopefully come back) and become hardened to the coming season. It’s also about keeping it free from the falling cherries in the summer, the broken cottonwood branches in the fall, the empty walnut husks and the pesky critters (ya you, raccoons and jays and squirrels!) who are constantly out looking to cause trouble.
We planted strawberries, radishes, kale, spinach, lettuce, garlic, chives as well as decorative bulbs and a whole new native grass lawn. Sunflowers, bamboo, a curly willow, a huckleberry or two also went in. Can you see any life now? Of course not, as death has overtaken the garden, but with another edition of raking today, I did see some new green shoots coming out of the previously leaf covered ground.
The leaves though seem to come out of nowhere, as just when I thought the last ones had fallen, more suddenly appeared while we were away and I cursed the damn trees for shedding AGAIN. They make the roads slick for bicycle tires, they clog drains, they make unruly mulch piles, they de nude the trees, and now the amorous squirrels high in the cherry tree have no cover for their lovemaking.
Yard work and leaf raking is like a second job for most (my only job) and I wondered about Alaska’s leaf population and knew that no one in their right mind has time for raking in the fall. Then the snow flies and the point is moot anyway.
I have loved the seasons so far but it is hard to keep up even if you are unemployed. I have seen firsthand on a near daily basis the transformation of our favorite park a few blocks away from this vivid imaginarium of color to the sodden worn down brown it now wears. I still like walking there because it is different every day and sometimes Abby plays good ball and other times she is distracted and out of sorts so I end up playing toss and fetch by myself. Rain or shine, cold or warm, I am rarely the only one there and with today’s break between lows coming in from the coast, there were kids playing basketball, guys tossing a Frisbee, and dogs with happy owners galore.
Just another day in the park.

Sunday mornings are made for guys like me. It's a leisurely morning spent in bed watching the rain mist down and catch on the bare branches outside. It's starting the coffee process by turning on the espresso machine (for sam) and cleaning yesterday's bialetti (for me). It's feeding the antsy hungry dog because it's past nine and her stomach alarm is ringing. It's turning the heat up and NOT stoking and/or building a fire. It's turning NPR on (hopefully before cartalk at 11). But most of all, it's our day to slow it all down and indulge in the laziness of being a couple without kids (for now :)) and only one job.
I like to take abby on a morning stroll to get the fat ad laden newspaper so that I can curl up on our broken "womb" chair, drink my baileys and coffee and peruse box scores, death, travel, comics, books and the opinion section. Some days I go just a few blocks to get the paper, and others, like today, I go seven or eight blocks through our sleepy neighborhood to Fremont Place. Whole Foods lives here, as does Daddy Mojo's bar, Blockbuster, Starbucks, Cafe Destino, the library, a pet store and a few other odds and ends.
I go this far for the measly newspaper to satisfy my curiosity, because there are two competing coffee houses virtually next door to one another and I like to see who is frequenting either and how crowded they are. Inevitably Starbucks is the more populated, though the Cafe Destino holds its own, and in a more creative assertive way. They were there long before the giant moved in next door, and might last the economic downturn, but who knows here in coffee heaven. Local art hangs from their walls, baristas dont wear name tags, music from across the spectrum plays, tables are mismatched with chairs and the menu is in chalk. It has character. It has charm. It has good coffee for god's sake.
Starbucks has name recognition. That's it as far as I can tell. It's a chain with zero personality and a universally recognized unaccomodating menu. It's green aprons and a UN of employees. It's a venti macchiatto in Portland, Brussels, London, Barcelona, Santiago, and Sydney. It's the sameness that appeals to the masses and repels me. I'm forced into Starbucks at certain airports and I curse the lines, the cattle mentality, and the overpriced crap that comes in my cup, because the one thing that I really don't like about Starbucks is the coffee. They make a terrible cup of mass produced stale coffee. It appeals to the same general populace that frequents Burger King, Carl's JR, and Jack in the Box. It's fast food for the caffeine crowd, but you know what? IT'S NOT CHEAP! Cheap coffee,yes, cheap financially, no.
As I walk by the Starbucks on Fremont, I see young people and old, hippies, yippies, yuppies and professionals all with one thing in common. Hypocracy. Because here in Portland I can almost guarantee each and everyone one of them will say that they are in favor of small business and against the corporate giants of the world, yet they continue to order their grande non fat soy vanilla lattes guilt free.
Portland has almost as many varieties of coffee roasters and houses as it does breweries, but in the name of competition, it's akin to baseball and the New York Yankees. They put an efficient bland corporate team on the field built to win The rest of the league is filled with misfits, cast offs and also rans, yet they all have personality, desire, and the motivation to win. I don't buy Starbucks coffee because I don't believe in it, but mostly because I think their coffee sucks. I don't like the Yankees because they are a well oiled corporate machine intent on winning at all costs and abusing the sanctity of the game. Starbucks is also an abuser of the caffeine addicted nation, preying on the weak minded and easily influenced. I will watch the Yankees in the World Series because I'm a baseball fan, and have no choice. I won't buy Starbucks on the street because I have a choice, and choose otherwise, but at the airports I have no choice and regret it every time.

hello
hello
hello
is there anybody out there?
The prescient words of Pink Floyd echoed through my head today as i contemplated my head first dive into the practices and wierdness of chinese medicine years ago with my brother's partner. She began going to school for acupuncture, and chinese medicine thus relegating me and my brother (and most of her friends) to voluntary pincushions to which she could practice that ancient art of needles. She loved me as i was a walking contradiction to everything chinese medicine stands for, and hence, a perfect study group all by myself because I had ailments that could keep her busy forever. But because I always lived far away (alaska to oregon to hawaii), she never had much of a chance against my twenty year pains.
One thing I have learned about ancient medicines and practices is that they are based on repetition, routine, and diligence. And one thing my life has never had is those three things, but having moved to Portland six months ago, I have had a schedule, a routine and the diligence to see a practitioner regularly enough to develop not only a working relationship, but a degree of familiarity with the laundry list of herbs and teas I daily injest.
And so, today I went again for my monthly $100 acupuncture. Having been pricked and tweaked for nearly six months now, I have definitely curbed my fear of needles while also increasing my confidence in the healing benefits of chinese medicine. I, like most doubters of anything new and different, harbored large misgivings about these practices actually working. I have always relied on the western version of a medical band-aid, that ubiquitous small orange vial with the white screw/flip top lid, but I am now seeing the very bright light at the end of the long tunnel of pain I have been suffering through for much of the last few years.
Today I sat at Golden Needle, breathing deeply and concentrating on steadying my pulse. Tongue reading, pulse taking (not that pulse,but the under pulses of the various meridians traveling through my wrists), questions about diet, bowels, mucus, snot and various other bodily functions we generally only like to share with good friends and spouses, are all part of the process. I laid down and prepared myself for the the inevitable. Dr. Xin is a small chinese man who takes great pleasure in tweaking these nerves so much so that i involuntarily twitch and gasp, then he apologizes with a sly grin and dials back the 'amperage'. After getting two needles in my feet, two on my calves, two in my knees, four in my hands, two in my forearms as well as two more in my elbow, I was ready to 'relax', as he calls it.
Sometimes I can feel the points connect, like a dot to dot representation of my energy meridians, and other times I only feel a slight electric impulse throbbing in specific areas. Today it all came together and I closed my eyes to focus on this amazing circuitry as Dr. Xin left the room to leave me to listen to some guy in a monastery pick at a zither. Not very comforting, I can tell you right now.
The warmth of the heat lamp sent me sliding down the banks of tiredness and before long I was only holding onto consciousness by a thread. But that is the best thing about acupuncture when it is done right, it pushes the outside world far away and the body rushes forward front and center. "My hand felt just like two balloons", both leaden and airy, resting on my hips with needles twitching above. My feet had warmth coursing through my toes while moving just the slightest bit caused a gasping as the energy became re-focused somewhere else. It's a complete body experience, akin to getting a therapeutic massage in that it's both incredibly beneficial and relaxing at the same time.
The good doctor returns every fifteen minutes or so to tweak, smile, and check to see if I've lost consciousness yet. And then, just like that it's over and he sends me out the door with a buzz and a plastic container full of ancient remedy that I'm to drink twice a day for the next month.
There is a reason chinese medicine has been around for centuries and that's
because it is not an overnight cure but a long road to recovery, which is also part of the reason it is having a hard time gaining a foothold in this fixmefeedmetextmeinformme NOW world of insta-gratification. It doesn't come in a tidy little package or prescribed with dreary ordinariness because every person is different and every treatment is therefore different.
Good things come to those who wait...probably confucious with a back problem.

Seven minutes
Lying on the floor…
The overhead fan whirred lopsidedly, pushing the dense heat around the broken room. I was on my back, sweat pouring off my face and dripping down my armpits, my nakedness a result of being ambushed by her husband. My head felt two sizes too big for my shoulders, my legs were trees just felled and my eyes were almost swollen shut. Not a good way to start a vacation I thought. But who has ever been accuse of thinking smartly at three a.m. with a half gallon of tequila swimming around in one’s belly. She took me to her place, again a bad idea, whispering in my ear that sweet sugary Mexican breath running shivers down my sweaty neck. I had no choice but to get in the cab, I had no idea where I was (bad idea number two) who I was with (number three), or where I was going (number four). So, here I am bloodied, broken, alone, naked, and probably poorer for the occasion, but damn, was that fun.

Eleven minutes
On the bridge…
Over the river, moving north, was a stream of red lights, like salmon swimming upstream, cars barely moved, being bottlenecked at the off ramp into two lanes. And like salmon, there was much jostling and jockeying for better position, the occasional bump to bumper and the irrepressible and constant bleating of the horn. Mr. Dunleavy sat in his Camry five days a week, every week making this migration to his home an hour away where he would greet his wife and two kids, sit down to dinner, watch the news and sportscenter, and then turn in. Monday through Friday fifty two weeks a year this was his role, the hand he had been dealt. To combat the boredom and monotony of his routine he had his pills (valium, oxycontin, percocet, xanax) and his booze. Knowing the length of commute (one and a half hours) and the speed (negligible at best), he was ble to compute how much ice he would need to keep his vodka chilled all the way home. About a third of the way, on the bridge usually, he would pop a pill so that by the time he was kissing Mrs. Dunleavy in the kitchen, the edge would be worn smooth and he would be able to slide easily into his loving father doting husband role. Another two or three drinks, nothing substantial mind you, he would be floating on air and ready to melt into the nearest easy chair. Reading to the kids was as meditative to him as it was to them and he often fell asleep with his back against the wall, glasses atilt on his face, book open in his lap, and the kids warning mom that she had better come rescue dad.

Nine minutes
Valentine’s day in Juarez…
Is a cultural mixed blessing as gringos mingle with chiquitas and vaqueros carouse with American teenagers that spill across the border. There are roses, candy, champagne, flowers and all the fluff of America but in this border town there are also pimps, pinups, drug dealers and the side winders of the underground where anything goes and often does. Happy couples stroll the plaza while beefed up boys in wife beaters and bling rattling their hairless chests thump low riders in the streets. Junkies in the alleys fleece strangers venturing too deep and up on the second floor of the hotel a white man proposes to his Spanish chica over white wine and room service. Fireworks go off somewhere illuminating the square and focusing attention on the dark sky above. It is a celebration of sorts but the pimp in the dressed down Cadillac wishes it would all be over so he could get back to running his profitable business as Saint Valentine has never been particularly good to him.

Fifteen minutes
On standby to Paris…
I wandered the concourse of JFK, not knowing anything about this airport and getting ready to idle away two hours until my potential plane left for de Gaulle. I figured the best place to start was an overpriced bar where I could acclimate myself to the absurd prices I would encounter overseas. It was like slowly ascending a high mountain, the oxygen deprivation effects not as sever the longer it takes you to get to the summit. I had come from the northwest, via Chicago and now New York and in three airports cocktail prices had risen accordingly and I wasn’t in shock anymore. Next to me was a woman knee deep in the Sunday Times puzzle, frazzled hair drifting every which way including her eyes, while her vodka martini sweated its way onto a napkin. I ordered a Bombay martini, dry, and found the price so severe I only chuckled as the bartender handed me a few ones and some paltry change in return for a twenty. Get used to it, I thought, wondering if I had enough money to last the month I had planned. If it wasn’t, then I could always quit drinking…or sleep outside the Louvre. The eyes of patrons in airports are drawn to one of three places; their reading material, the sports on TV, of to the people coming and going just outside the door. It’s like peering at a busy sidewalk from a barber’s chair, an impartial observer watching the comings and goings of a society on the move. I liked watching people from this vantage with only a distant time frame tethering me to the ground. Couples, businessmen, mothers with kids, kids on leashes, mothers without kids, teenagers with pillows and headphones, they all walked by returning to someone or leaving somebody else.

The methodic beauty of a slow pulled Guinness is that it is that rare form of barista magic that is unduplicated anywhere else in the world. There is an art to not only the actual dispensing of the precious liquid but also to the generally unacknowledged brilliance of the person minding the CO2 levels, keeping the tap lines clean, and also, keeping that keg of Guinness at the proper temperature.
Ireland pours different from the rest of the world, we'll just give them that since it is their court, Tanzania on the other side pulls long and heavy while here in Portland, most baristas fail to take the necessary time to accomplish that magical head, cascading down the edge of a room temperature glass. They pour like its a lager, tap up, glass under, and fill. Still, the creamy goodness of Guinness trumps any fault of the barista, as the first sip turns into the tenth, who actually cares who poured it?
So I sit in an Irish bar listening to the Eurythmics and the Cars (must be '80's music day) looking at the nearly 25 taps and see IPA's, porters, lagers, pilseners, wheats (two, actually) with the full complement of Oregon breweries represented, but only see Guinness and Beamish stouts as the lone Irish representatives. There is no whiskey as this is a public house (no liquor here, only karaoke, darts, beer, wine and soundless TV) and the requisite food served up by early twentysomething grommets with patchy beards, rasta hats and scattered tattoos and piercings. Irish paraphernalia decorate the walls along with a Buffalo Bills pennant, a portrait of both Reagan and Kennedy, and mirrors of Harp, Mactarnahans and Lindemans.
This place screams Americana! Fish and chips, paddy (haha)melts, burgers, wings, salads and then a nod to their claim to fame---shepherd's pie, Murphy's stew, bangers and mash, and scotch eggs. I love truth in advertising, especially in pubs because if it's one thing you know you'll get in an Irish pub, it's a glass of Guinness. And, truth be told, I wouldn't go into an Irish pub for the food, no offense to Leprechaun Nation, but the food from the Emerald Isle leaves a little something to be desired.
One day I will go to Dublin on a decidedly dreary grey day, walk the streets until I can smell the telltale vinegar emanating from an authentic chip house and open the door to find the true Irish standing behind that infamous black and gold label. The crusty old salt behind the bar won't even ask what kind of beer I want, he'll just pour and expect me to accept it. Until then, I'll be content to frequent these so called Irish bars as much as I frequent French bars (for their brie and champagne), German bars ( brats and lager), American bars (burgers and Budweiser), and Italian bars (pizza and chianti).

'IN THE AGE OF INFORMATION,
WHY IS THE TRUTH SO HARD TO FIND'

I saw this bumper sticker on a rusted out three wheeled Ford raper van a few blocks from my house today while walking Abby the poop eating wonderdog (damn dog has an appetite for other canine poop!!! what is THAT all about?). The sticker wasnt as old as the van but had the time worn scars of fading print and frayed edges.
It made my stop, smile and think as today was also the day I learned that our beloved ex-governor, ex-vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin became part of the FOXnews propaganda machine. Did these two events randomly coincide or is it part of a secret right wing underground plan to undermine the free thinkers of our day and age?
I'm not a politico, nor do I particularly like to argue right vs. left, blue vs. red, but Sarah Palin is like a traffic accident you cant stop staring at. It's grotesque, twisted, and appealingly ugly in a what the hell is that kind of way. I wish someone would push her back to Wasilla (or better yet, have DC adopt her) and say 'move along, move along, there's nothing to see here.'
Which brings me back to the forlorn bumper sticker I mentioned. It seems the harder we scratch and the deeper we get the more uncomfortable everyone becomes. Comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable is a favorite saying of my friend the Bajaraja and I think that is exactly what FOXnews and Palin do in a twisted sort of way. I see her becoming the next Rush, with an equally rabid following of midwestern right to life housewives who follow anything blindly without opening their eyes to the whole issue.
In any case, I feel fortunate to live a life of my choosing in a city where freedom of expression is not only encouraged but welcomed and expected. Yesterday was "Appreciate MAX" day, MAX being Portland's very efficient light rail transportation, which involved riders going pantless from three to five in the afternoon! I appreciate MAX just as much as the next guy but I'll show it maybe in a different way--maybe by slapping a bumper sticker somewhere saying "think for yourself, its not as hard as you think."

january 10 2010
eight minutes
At the laundromat...
strangers meet, nor polite hellos and protect their underwear from prying eyes. I like to sit in those molded plastic chairs, usually orange or green, watching the strata of society filter in through the glass swinging doors. With each entry or exit a blast of cold winter rushes in only to be extinguished quickly by the heat emanating from the wall of dryers. A large corn rowed black woman pushes her two toddlers around in the baskets on wheels while her four loads spin heavily in their stainless steel basins. A used up stripper with yesterday's makeup and baggy sweatpants primly folds g-strings, garters, and various stage outfits from last week's work. An old man in a rusty denim jacket pulls white shirt after white shirt from his basket, crisply folding them into neat little stacks on the chipped formica table. I don't have anything to do but sit, watch and wait, being ignored in a tiny corner of a small building by the everyday and this is why I have always loved doing laundry.

twelve minutes
Across the street...
from where I used to live was an old house that time forgot. It stood off of the street with an over grown cobbled driveway falling from its front door like a lolling tongue. Pillars stood framing the cement porch where I always imagined a skeletal butler staring down at me with hateful eyes and a silver platter holding nothing but my over indulged imagination. I wanted hideous things to happen behind that door but nothing ever told me otherwise as the place stood uninhabited my entire youth. The windows were intact, the paint peeled, weeds grew and birds refused to sit in the lone birch off to the side. It wasn't haunted because it wasn't abandoned really, only refused to be acknowledged. I wanted bodies in the yard, secret passageways inside, trap doors and a curving spiral staircase. I wanted creaky hinges, black cats and dust written messages on bathroom mirrors. What I wanted was mystery but all that old house did was stand there and grow older with me. But, as I grew into my strength and vitality of life, that old place across the street became more decrepit ad eaten, sinking into itself but never giving up. Weeds in the cracks, piles of leaves and rotting trees falling to time across the street.


fifteen minutes
She had said no before...
But I had never listened. I never listened to anything anyone said because I knew what was right, what was best. I lived my life for me, to watch out for number one and take care of myself. If that is selfish and egotistical, I can live with that. She had always come back, staggering like a weary fighter in the thirteenth round, and we had great make-up sex...crashing over chairs, tables, the sofa, and spilling our inhibitions across the wrecked one bedroom apartment. Our neighbors above, below and on either side of us had long ago turned a deaf ear to our antics as at least we were entertaining and not likely to cause harm to anyone but ourselves. Mandy would grit her teeth and snarl like a caged animal when she would leave me,
usually standing drunk in the kitchen, and slam the apartment door. We didn't hold anything back from each other in the battle of love and hate that continually danced across our universe, which probably created the white hot intensity of a falling star. We brought out the best and worst in each other with my cynical selfish egocentric maleness winning out over her stubborn strong abusive femininity every time. We weren't made to last, like an eclipse or an earthquake, it was over before it ever began and saying no was nothing new, but now the apartment felt emptier, lonelier somehow. Her perfume had lingered for moments after she left, like a forgotten shadow, but now that too was gone, disappearing into the depth of night. There was nothing in the fridge, nothing on TV, nothing to drink, nowhere to turn and only the no echoing across the nothing in his mind.