On Thursday, August 17, Allen Callaci began his late afternoon reading from his memoir “Heart Like a Starfish” as the undying summer sun engulfed the performance space of Turn, Turn, Turn. He was very much alive. His book details his heart transplant surgery, an event that brought him to death’s door. I can’t help giving the story away. When I approached Allen before the event he joked, “Spoiler alert, it turns out good at the end,” a relief, because if it hadn’t turned out good there would have been no one to write the book.

I met Allen over twenty years ago, when I had the freedom and time to drive around the country and took a trip with two friends, playing music, seeing the United States and meeting people. We had a connection with the gang associated with the Shrimper cassette label. One travel companion, Will Simmons, had recordings on compilations released by Shrimper. In planning the visit, Will remembered the idea of performing in a Laundromat being discussed with Shrimper founder Dennis Callaci, Allen’s older brother and bandmate. We found ourselves in Claremont, California, a bunch of guys with acoustic guitars, playing an impromptu show to an unsuspecting audience preoccupied with getting their clothes clean. Allen and Dennis, a stripped down version of their band Refrigerator, were playing “State Trooper,” a Bruce Springsteen song. Allen was belting it out. When Dennis joined in on the chorus it seemed to get more intense. With each cry of “Mr. State Trooper,” their volume made me more anxious thinking the Laundromat concert would erupt into an incident of disturbing the peace. It turned into a memory and an example DIY ingenuity. When faced with no concert venue, you create one.

After getting in touch with Allen through Facebook, there were inklings of the book he’d been working on. The story had me squeamish. It was tough to imagine Allen’s health struggle. He told me how insane his experience had been. At first no one could figure it out. Allen felt sick, left work and then blacked out at home. At urgent care he was diagnosed with a bad appendix, sent to a hospital where a new diagnosis of a blood sugar issue was made. As he was being released he blacked out again. Allen admitted he picked the right time and place to pass out. He ended up in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles or as he called it, ER to the stars. He praised the hospital as the only one in the world that could help his condition and figure out what was wrong.

It was discovered that Allen’s heart was operating at less than twenty percent efficiency and he had been born with an artery to his heart that never fully formed. The doctor was surprised he could be active at all. It was Allen’s brother Dennis who explained that Allen had been able to lead a normal life despite his heart’s condition, working as a Librarian, College Professor while also being a Rock and Roll Singer. Allen got a kick out of imagining his doctor’s befuddlement concerning his patient’s unlikely rock singer stature. In the book he created a humorous chart comparing himself to, perhaps the most representative of all rock singers, Mick Jagger.

Allen spent six weeks in the hospital getting his new heart. This turned out to be a quick turn around as the procedure can take six months or more. His convolesence included a “bubble boy” experience where he couldn’t leave the house and had to be especially germ conscious due to his loss of an immune system.

“Music is where I’ve always gone to heal,” he explained as he read a section from his book about a fisher-price cd player on loan from his nephew that he had in his hospital room. He also read descriptions from the book of his performances of the song “Lonesome Surprise” with John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats calling him from a concert stage in San Francisco so he could phone his part in while recovering from surgery. This was a reprise of a performance Allen had done of the same song years before during an international radio broadcast in the Netherlands when he had just started working as a Junior Librarian at the Upland Library. Allen proved his versatility being able to perform in a Laundromat, international radio broadcasts by phone and even after a heart transplant operation.

After reading from the book, Allen sang an a cappella version of “Heart Like a Starfish,” the song he had written twenty years before about a past relationship gone wrong that became the memoir’s title. He explained that the song had come from reading Harlan Ellison who had written about how the heart could be like the body of a starfish with damaged parts growing back. There he was, that kid as I remembered him from the Laundromat, singing, pardon the pun, his new heart out, with passion, conviction and the authority of a rock singer. I no longer had to worry about him getting too loud. This was his gig.

Post script: After the reading Allen sat down with old friends and discussions about medical tribulations ensued. A woman talked about her bone marrow transfusion and similar immune system challenges and Jake and I compared left elbow, bike crash scars. I didn’t want to make a low ball offer to Allen to buy the book. I didn’t have enough cash but I figured I’d get it at the library. When I looked through the online system it wasn’t there. I discovered a book suggestion form and filled it out. A week later, I received an email telling me the library purchased the book for their collection and that I could be the first person to put a hold on it. I’m guessing that’s the kind of thing that might fill a librarian/author’s heart with pride.

Public Service Announcement:
One of the first things Allen mentioned was the importance of getting an echocardiogram, a sonogram of the heart, instead of an EKG or ECG, electrocardiogram test that measures the electrical activity of the heart. This starts to feel like a medical conspiracy that I’ll have to revisit in a later post but it may be worth discussing this with your Doctor. This may have been the type of information that might have helped Joe Strummer, another rock singer, who died from a heart attack caused by an undetected heart defect.

See the book trailer here:

Info on Allen’s next reading:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/peter-cherches-and-allen-callaci-at-rhino-records-tickets-37361862336

It’s an aftermath afterthought that has me wondering if this blog post is necessary. Everyone had their experience of the eclipse. So how relevant is mine? I answered my own question about whether it was necessary to be in the Path of Totality. It was. Being in Oregon we weren’t  far away. It meant planning and braving the predicted epic traffic jam which transpired afterwards. I didn’t know the difference a few degrees would make so I ignored pleas from those telling me the eclipse was best experienced in that annoyingly named Path of Totality.

We had fun watching the whole eclipse, what we got of it anyway. In the end I thought of Johnny Rotten at the Sex Pistol’s Winterland show in 1978 when he asked the audience, “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” It wasn’t Mother Nature’s fault. I cheated myself.

Our plan was simple. We turned our Adirondack chairs around in our driveway to face the sun, made more coffee and put on eclipse glasses. We knew when things would get started.  Soon enough the moon crept across the sun, taking small bites. I thought about bringing out the radio. God knows watching the eclipse on TV or even the preshow coverage would have made me koo-koo nuts. Who needs squawking radio or TV commentary when you can provide your own. I was getting plenty of rapid fire stream of consciousness and screwy non sequiturs from my wife, Ronna.  The sun looked, to her, like Ms. Pac Man and she predicted it would soon look like a banana. A neighbor strolled by. I heard someone speaking but couldn’t see through the glasses.

“You guys have the best seats in the house over there, all comfortable and relaxed,” she said. We didn’t have to go anywhere to find this comfort. Once the eclipse started we looked at the sun every few moments. I rationed my looks because I didn’t want to damage my eyes. No matter which ISO number the lenses were rated, I didn’t trust the flimsy paper and plastic.

The postman swung by. He was all business. “Did you get your glasses?” I asked. He said he had some, and seemed to imply he’d check it out when he wasn’t so busy. I had a cup of lukewarm coffee I forgot to drink in the excitement. I settled in for what was becoming a good show. I took notes, while my wife pulled out an oversized tome and began illuminating page one with phases of the eclipse.

“The sun looks like a banana right now. It looks exactly like a banana,” she noted. A big orange banana was hovering in the sky seen only with eclipse glasses. It occurred to me that totality wouldn’t look like much because the whole sun would be blocked out. I relaxed knowing I wouldn’t have to rush this blog post out. People would need time to decompress.

In the interest of science we contined our observations noting times.

9:55a.m.  The sun looks like a cresent moon. It seemed to be getting dark and the wind kicked up.

9:59a.m.   “When’s totality?” I asked. I kept forgetting that I couldn’t see anything with the glasses unless I was staring at the sun. “We’re supposed to see stars and planets,” I mansplained. “Maybe it won’t happen if you keep yammering on about it,” my wife countered.

I became conscious of the car noises, cars blasting their radios. People were missing it. Meanwhile I heard a group of people milling around in the streets like tourists who had lost their tour guide.

The dog seems to be freaking out in the house barking at nothing. I’m mesmerized by the long shadows coming from my pen against my notebook. We hadn’t even waked and baked that morning and the world seemed strange.

10:04a.m.  Our conversation gets confusing. “What time is it?” Ronna asks. “10:04,” I say,  “. . . I think it’s 10:09,” meaning Totality is five minutes away. “No, it’s 10:04,” Ronna said. Pure comedy.

Two musical conundrums occur. I always thought the Smash Mouth song was about staring at the sun when it’s actually about walking on the sun. Then I realize no one seems to know the guy that sings with Bonnie Tyler on the song “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” It’s Rory Dodd!

I couldn’t have the dog’s barking disturb my Totality so I go get him. Inside the house I take note of the long strange shadow in the back of the kitchen.

Seconds from totality:
“What in the world,” Ronna said.
“What do you mean what in the world?” I ask.
“It’s crazy look at it. It’s unbelievable.”

At 10:09, Ronna tells me, if we were in the path of totality, we could look at the sun without the glasses. There’s a tiny sliver of sun that won’t go away. We’re looking with bare eyes. In the distance I hear squealing kids. It’s underwhelming. We need Totality, a traffic jam and an under fed, dirty camping experience for the full effect. It got darker but that sun sliver, that tiny percentage kept the sky lit.

“That’s all we get?” I asked. “I am disappointed. I thought maybe this would be a lot more fun. I had fun.”

“That’s because you’re easily amused.” Ronna responded.

I vowed to plan ahead for the next eclipse as I slurped cold coffee. So much coffee had me needing an astronaut diaper. There was nothing left to do but watch the moon uncover the sun. To make an eclipse experience epic you had to watch the whole thing. Ronna told me to look at the black spot on the upper righthand corner of the sun. “There’s no corner on the sun.” I said feeling smart. Ronna realized it was a branch. “Nevermind,” she said.

11:37a.m.  It was officially over. The last few minutes included a three dimensional view of the moon and a sense that you could see it moving as it pulled away from the sun.

That was it. Despite all the hype it was over. The sun was a round circle again. There was nothing to watch now but television replays.

In the end, watching the eclipse became an excuse to put off chores like folding towels. It must have been dramatic elsewhere. The radio blathered crazy nonsense about poets writing eclipse poetry who couldn’t hold their pens straight during Totality. Facebook was on fire with people singing the praises of the event and all it’s magnificence. I was now a loser in Trump’s America because I didn’t experience the eclipse in the Path of Totality. Maybe if they’d called it something else. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so freaked out about traffic jams and had just learned to love them, I would have achieved total viewership. Trump looked at the sun without eye protection. Surely someone could have found the President a pair of eclipse glasses. Did he not plan ahead? Even with glasses there was no totality achievement for me. My life had not been changed. I did have commemorative stamps, but I still felt shame. I underachieved. I had been a doubter and didn’t think a small percentage would be a big deal. It made all the difference in the universe.

 

Special thanks to Ronna Craig for her epic moon and sun collision photo.

 

It’s been wearing on me to the point that I can’t help but obsess over it. The endless eclipse hype got me. Now, I’m quivering with low-level anticipation. Questions remain: How bad will traffic get? Can a viewing of less than totality be satisfying? How will I know? Will I burn my retinas staring into the sun? Is there a chance the world, or maybe the U.S. can achieve enlightenment from the eclipse experience?

It’s felt like a slow boil to this hysteria that’s happened over six weeks. The local news feels relentless with promos about tomorrow’s live coverage. An event like this must be a godsend in what can be a slow news month. NPR has covered the event from many angles running a couple of interviews with the most enthusiastic eclipse expert ever.  We’re talking a guy who made plans three years ago to observe the event in Jackson Hole, Wy.  At least he’s staying out of Oregon. They also ran a piece about movies that have included eclipse events in them. While this holds my interest, I have hype-fatigue.

Oregon is going crazy. There have been hours of coverage on Oregon Public Broadcasting about the goings on in the state and the Eclipse Festival in central Oregon called the Symbiosis Gathering  that has 30,000 attendees. Oh yeah and, as promised, I can probably choose to watch the solar eclipse live on one of my local TV channels.

Looking through a sample pair of glasses at Paxton Gate I was surprised that I couldn’t see a thing. It dawned on me. I knew they prevented eye fry but I thought of them as cool and maybe strong sun glasses. My out-of-town guest explained that the glasses were for looking at photons. My God!  Everyone’s a scientist.

My brilliant neighbor Paul was on his way to meet his brother who was camping in central Oregon.  He was leaving the Thursday before the eclipse allowing for a few days to be stuck in traffic without missing it. There have been reports of long traffic back ups and fuel shortages in Prineville, OR and miles around it. Before he left, my neighbor had me considering where the sun would be in relation to my house in case I decided to stay put and not drive anywhere for a few extra degrees of totality. From our observation where the sun was at around 11:30AM that day, he determined our best vantage point was through the sky light in our upstairs bathroom. Again, it’s nice to be surrounded by scientists.

The Furnace guy told me that the Holiday Motel, not to be confused with the Holiday Inn chain was charging $999 for a room he said was only worth about 30 bucks. There’s no time to substantiate this but I’m sure if you needed a room and there’s one available at this price if you coughed, sputtered, hemmed and hawed you could talk them down six or seven hundred dollars.  It is a motel room in Portland; not in the Path of Totality.  Where are you supposed to watch the eclipse? From a motel parking lot in an industrial section of town?

We also heard about plans someone made to go to a minor league baseball game scheduled to start at 9:30 Monday morning. This is going to be the only sporting event that anyone knows about where play will have been suspended for the eclipse. The maker of this plan is leaving the house at three in the morning to ensure on time arrival at the game about fifty miles away in the Salem/Keizer area .

The panic to find a pair of glasses ended when the folks at Natural Grocers hooked us up with two free pairs. We were more than willing to sign a waiver for them. The glasses were getting scarce, and we had been joking about having to spend 11 dollars for a pair if we managed to find one.

The worst of this forthcoming eclipse has been rediscovering the existence of a disco remix of Bonnie Tyler’s epic anthem “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”  But there I was experiencing it from the lip syncing lips of a TV reporter bound for the Path of Totality. That may well be part of the sour grapes experience of seeing Facebook posts from people with job tasks that involve traveling to optimal places to experience the eclipse.

One recent afternoon heading out of the grocery store  I saw, from the corner of my eye, a display of souvenir cups emblazoned with the phrase “Great American Eclipse.”  I was annoyed with this marketing of a natural phenomenon. I didn’t even think to take a picture, I was too busy fleeing. Days later the display had been moved. It helped a bit when someone pointed out that the marketers were probably going to lose their shirts trying to sell dumb merchandise. One local TV channel is calling the event something generic like Total Solar Eclipse 2017 so “Great American Eclipse,” is, at least, on the exciting side.

This hoopla serves a purpose.  It gets the word out that the sun will temporarily be blocked out.  This way, everyone around the world will not freak out, but instead just accept it since they have had ample, to the point of ad nauseam, advance notice.

On a promo for a local radio show, OPB’s State of Wonder, which devoted a whole episode to eclipse coverage, I heard a man discussing the event. I’m paraphrasing but it sounded like he was saying the two-minute event would change people during those two minutes, possibly for all time.  I will be sure to let you know how the eclipse changes me in part two of this post to run later in the week.

Editor’s note: The Portland Orbit has no qualms with the use of unnamed sources probably because we’re not always sure what their names are to begin with.

Thanks goes to Will Simmons who said “you gotta write about the eclipse,” and Allen Callaci who suggested a two-part post, a kind of aftermath/after geometry type thing.

And a shout out to these folks because the name is so close: http://orbitoregon.org

The Portland Orbit office is closing early this afternoon in order to celebrate the birthday of our founder, contributing writer and photographer, Mr. David Craig. We’ll be back tomorrow with a post about a Colonial statue in SW Portland.

Sometime in late November I looked up and saw the lights. I expect to see lights at Christmas time but it was after seven in the morning. The design was making me wonder what statement was being made. I was looking at a giant martini glass strung over three balconies of an ultra modern, boxy housing complex. Little did I know I’d be obsessing over it trying to get the right photo while discovering the limitations of my iPhone camera.

Who makes the declaration, in lights no less, that the way to holiday enjoyment is through giant martinis with olives bigger than water melons? While writing this I imagined the King of Swing (think that character in the movie Boogie Nights with his robe flying open) with exotic mixed drinks and good times on his agenda, remaining sober enough to hang lights before his holiday binge begins.

From what I can tell the lights stay on all day. I see them lit up in the morning and again in the afternoon as I pass through town and the sun is a half hour from setting. I view it with bemusement but I can’t figure out what it has to do with Christmas other than being a design made out of what most people refer to as Christmas lights. It is festive, fun and a subtle advertisment for people to cut loose and guzzle an oversized libation. There’s no mystery about that. It’s a swimming hole sized martini glass on the hill side that borders on being tacky. Of course there’s a pun in there about this being in the “spirits” of the season. Groan, slurp from martini glass, ahhhhh!

My effort to get a picture I could use for the blog became my biggest challenge. From the downtown Max stop it was too far away. The distance and lighting conditions in the morning and afternoon made it difficult to capture the true green color of the olive. Let’s face it, that is the nicest touch, otherwise it’s the outline of a glass. The stir stick is another great addition. This is an authentic and huge martini glass so my inability to do it photographic justice frustrated me. I took pictures at the Max stop cropping to produce a never quite right image. I took pictures on the bus as it roared by but that had limitations.

The last ditch attempt was going to be walking to the bus stop closest to the martini hoping the morning light would cooperate enough for a satisfying shot while allowing for the opportunity to get back to the bus stop in time to get to work.

On a Monday morning I decided I had 8 to 11 minutes which was plenty of time to get to the next bus stop and get the best picture possible without renting climbing gear. As I approached, the martini glass had the aura of an oasis or maybe a mirage but the pictures prove it’s real. If someone were to climb up the hill and scale the porch they might be rewarded by the King of Swing with an appropriately sized martini or maybe get shot with a foreign made gun of an unusual caliber. I had to cross the tricky intersection of SW 5th and SW Broadway as a car was honking at a bicyclist. There above the motel dead center in my view finder, yet still too high in the sky, was that glass of holiday cheer. The olive was only glowing a slight alien green, details were lost even from that distance. I am happy with my iPhone camera in most circumstances but I also stubbornly refuse to read the manual.

So there you have it folks. If you’re downtown in the PSU area look to the West Hills to see the oversized martini glass. It’s really something in real life. The olive glows a gorgeous green. I could not do it justice, but no photograph could. Kids put down your red solo cups and get classy. Raise a martini glass to this well lit example of good cheer.

Thanks Ken Boddie for posting about this: http://koin.com/2017/12/11/where-we-live-portlands-giant-martini-house/

A year later the real story is revealed.

Happy Holidays to one and all. Indulge yourselves a little bit, in whatever way you see fit, (giant martinis seem a tad extreme) and the Portland Orbit crew looks forward to seeing you or you seeing our work in the new year!

The Portland Orbit will be on hiatus due to a biking accident. This blogger will return to action when he regains use of the left side of his upper body.

For years I worked weekends and could never get to the St. Johns parade. I had to find out what I was missing. My plan was to take in a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds. It was a safe bet I’d be hearing squeals and giggles of children along with brass instruments, revved up engines, whistles and drum blasts. I expected to see plenty of colors and blurry motion. By the time I parked, I ended up popping up in what I thought was the middle of the parade which began a chase for the front. The sidewalks were clear but when I arrived at Ivy Island, the old gateway to downtown, I felt wedged in. I was across from the guns and ammo store and had caught up with as much of the parade as I was going to catch so I stayed put. Standing against a chainlink fence next to a construction site, I realized the battle for Ivy Island had been lost. The Rose City Model T Club rolled by. Old cars make the best parade subject matter!

Early on the parade was clogged with politicians. It made sense with the election three days away. My inner cynicism kicked in. My brain flooded with snide thoughts. A waving Dan Saltzman reminded me of how politicians never really look at you. Ted Wheeler seemed in need of a stylist which is probably unnecessary for Portland politics. Steve Novick takes his dog everywhere. I realized it was going to be too brazen and probably unethical to trade a Sarah Iannarone vote for a piece of bubble gum. Jules Bailey impressed me. He wasn’t riding in a convertible and his entourage walked the talk carrying signs with messages concerning air quality.

After seeing so many old cars and a couple of dune buggies, I got excited about seeing of all things—a boat! The Multnomah Sheriff’s department dragged along a river patrol boat. My transportation topper was Teeter Roofing and their gang of ATV riders, something you don’t often see at parades.

More middle school bands marched by. It didn’t seem to matter what song they played. They all had a warm, warped sound, like vinyl. It occurred to me that transportation was the major theme of this parade as Miss Teen Rodeo Oregon brought her posse of assistant teen queens by on horseback. Soon after the Clark Country Saddle Club followed. It was great to see how young ladies in sparkly country outfits and cowboy hats are another parade must-have. I realized I was missing the parade watching it through a camera phone so I headed back through the onlookers to another spot. The rain made me realize I needed water proof paper and floats!

As the Roaring King Car Club weaved back and forth along the route I realized there was something cool about a car club. The cars looked like modified ex-police cars with a basic design but I’m guessing supped up engines.

The Mexican dancers twirled around in colorful dresses that cut through the gray skies. I have no idea why someone was making comments about caterpillars as they swirled past.

Then just when I needed to see unicycles the most—they appeared!

Another middle school band passed playing Ozzy Osborne’s “Crazy Train.” Tall people at parades began to get on my nerves. Floats? I was getting desperate for floats when the Power Pep Band rolled by in what looked like a ship on fire.

Ronald McDonald was working the crowd behind this float. He was too chatty. There is nothing worse than a talking clown. Although his make-up was impeccable and his hair poofed and cherry red, he creeped me out in the kind of way I’d feel if I looked at a hamburger patty too long. Behind me I heard a mother say, “Stop whining about it,” which brought me back to the parade and the crowd. I wanted a picture of Ronald. I still hadn’t forgotten the year he was made Grand Marshal. My camera malfunctioned when I hit a button that turned the screen white. By the time I figured it out Ronald McDonald was too far down the street. As I considered whether to chase him down, it occurred to me that he gets all the publicity he needs from having been on TV all the time in the 70’s.

With Ronald out of the picture, I spotted a woman in full clown regalia in the crowd. My need for a clown photo fix drew me to her. I caught up to this clown, passed her and turned to get a photo. She seemed happy to comply or was this happiness due to the perma-grin painted on her face? She suggested a selfie which I attempted but due to being selfie impaired I failed. Ugh! No selfie with the lady clown. I began to wonder if the parade would ever end, my only real complaint was about the rainy weather. I spotted Ellen Rosenblum parading by. She was running for Oregon Attorney General. It’s fun to find a politician with a sense of humor. I heard Ellen say, “Vote now, vote yesterday.” Due to Oregon’s ballot by mail system people were able to vote early either by mailing ballots or dropping them off. Little Leaguers walked by and another middle school band played Michael Jackson complete with dancers doing Thriller moves.

Then I watched a tall tuxedo clad man stroll in the street while a woman wearing a tiara waved from a Jeep. These were representatives from the Skyliners Tall Club. Tall people were now in the parade instead of standing around watching it and blocking other people’s views. The rest of the parade was a blur due to the rain on my glasses.

A car held out a sign with the word JOY scrawled on it. I found out later that this was the theme of the parade. This part of the proceedings felt spontaneous with a car driving around with someone holding a sign out the window. The enthusiastic, low budgetness of it all was joyful.

Pirates announced themselves with obnoxious gun fire. But at that point I was witnessing what felt like a holy gathering, a culmination of a very St. Johns-centric trilogy of Pirates, Wrestlers and floats full of mermaids. Realizing I could catch the rest of the parade on the way to my car I followed the remaining participants back through to the staging area.

Sharon Nasset was riding shotgun in a mini van—not even in a convertible. She seemed keep the lowest profile of the bunch.

A biker gang, well bicyclists on bikes with long handle bars known as Belligerent, were rounding out the parade. A man with a bull horn rode his bike in a circle announcing that the parade committee was “saving the best for last.” I rounded the corner and ran out of parade. I now had the choice of going to the car or meeting back up with the lady clown who was clamoring away from the parade. I’d had almost enough excitement for one day so headed home.

On April 30, 2015 I blogged about Interstate Lanes. The piece was posted exactly a year before the bowling alley’s last day of operation. At that time, I had heard rumors that alley operations would cease, but I was resistant to considering it. My denial was strong enough to let me enjoy one more year of the bowling alley. Over the course of that year, I didn’t step foot into the place until the last day of business, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t happy to see it each time I drove or rode by. I’ve also appreciated knowing the people of North Portland, who really needed a bowling alley, had one close by.

Huddled for warmth and bowling!

Needing one last taste of bowling atmosphere I headed over to Interstate Lanes in the afternoon of the last day of operation. I needed to see the red neon outlining the windows and the other decor left over from a bygone era. Whether it’s ’70’s, ’80’s or 90’s it’s hard to tell but bowling chic is comforting. The multicolored, multiple bowling, bowlers mural was magical. A kind of magic that’s hard to let go. That was part of the beauty of the bowling alley, the ability to escape into a bowling world and shutting other world out. There’s the clatter of falling pins, blaring classic rock and the mechanical sounds of the machines cleaning up pins and spitting back bowling balls. I think Interstate Lanes was clued into my bowling world concept. On one side of the alley, the interior decorations resembled giant bowling balls rolling over cityscapes–a bowling world takeover? The intergalactic mural on the outside of the building spoke to my world domination through bowling theory.

I bombed into the alley on that last day with my camera phone blazing trying to get the right shot of the congenial note on the door reading:

LAST DAY OF BUSINESS
Interstate Lanes will close
at midnight tonight for the last time.
We want to thank all of
our loyal customers for supporting
Interstate Lanes for so many years.
THANK YOU

The worker at the counter gave me the hairy eyeball. I was self-conscious but I’ve since come to realize that people who blaze into bowling alleys with phone cameras held high are annoying. I wanted one last peek at the the bowling gear vending machine. I stood in front of it only to find it empty. Bowling gear purchased from a machine like tape and powder and maybe ball cleaning supplies has always amazed me. Next to the machine was a glass case with bowling pins on sale for five bucks. I had no cash on me. One side of the alley was empty but the other had a few bowlers who seemed to be enjoying themselves. I watched a girl bowl. Seeing her knock down nine out of ten pins felt satisfying. I looked at the ceiling. It looked stained and worn out. It hit me. After that evening’s cosmic bowling session the alley would lock the doors and never open them again.

A short history of my visits to Interstate Lanes and my experience with bowling in general reveal a mild obsession. I was once in a bowling league. There’s nothing like the pressure of trying to pick up a spare with one pin left and a match on the line. As you can imagine, I whiffed and it’s haunted me to this day. The PE credit I picked for a college bowling course offered little improvement to my mechanics. We grew up with a grandmother who watched duckpin bowling on Saturdays. Years later we had to break the news that the bowling coverage was being cancelled. Working in a group home I had opportunities to watch bowling and I appreciated the talents of the guy who throws the ball down the lane without using the finger holes. I made two visits to Interstate Lanes: once, just after we moved out here and again when a subsection of our book group decided to meet there. With only three members present, a haphazard discussion of Being There broke out during our quest for strikes.

I’m going to miss that place. It seems obvious now why the paint was peeling outside. There was no reason to spruce up what’s going to be torn down. An apartment building will never have the charm or character that this bowling alley had and yes I can accept the economics of it all but I don’t like the idea of people having to hoof it over to Big Al’s or out to Gresham to go bowling. Maybe Grand Central is not so bad. It seems strange that a bowling alley closing puts a hole in my heart, but I know I’d feel the same about a movie theater shutting down or other forms of old school entertainment. What gets me sad is that sooner than later I’ll drive up Interstate to see a hole in the ground. Bulldozers or wrecking balls will have quietly moved in and not so quietly done their dirty work. A year ago I was writing about bowling alone, which seems like a strange and impossible concept to me, but now I’m writing about not bowling at all, at least not in North Portland.