An Orbit Obit: Foggy Exotica

Most of you are thinking, why is this guy writing about strip clubs and rock clubs? These are the types of places the guy has barely stepped a foot in since he moved to Portland eight years ago. That thought, if we were communicating telepathically, would have me stammering, hemming and hawing for several minutes.  Given time to defend myself, I’d acknowledge the need to mourn the loss of our local cultural institutions. Then I’d offer up what little I may have experienced of these places in tribute.

Foggy Notion

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Use the old shoe store photo filter.

What’s not to love about a place that may (or may not) have been named after a Velvet Underground song? I’ll live with many regrets, one being not having tried the pierogis they served there. We came close once on a walking tour of Lombard Street that ended at the bar, where all walking tours of this area  should end.  It wasn’t in the cards that night but I did have time to be critical about the decor. In hindsight I have to admit that the kind of rock club I want to go to should have a picture of Mick Jones and other assorted punk rockers on the wall in a stark black and white mural. It’s good to see Mick represent so how can I complain? Besides there was  a nice high stage, skee ball and Arizona ice tea if you were in need of an alternative to alcohol.  My best memory was standing outside the club waiting to meet up with someone and listening to a beautiful, god awful racket as the noise roared out of the club through the windows. A group of people spilled out of the door and seemed in parts bewildered, amazed and in good humor about the whole thing.

I have no idea what it takes to keep a club going but I know it has to be a challenge. Even a cooking show make over of the bar menu couldn’t save the place. In an area that seems to have 10,000 bands performing on any given night it also seems impossible to compete for people’s entertainment dollars. I was hugely inspired when the Foggy Notion got an exterior paint job with what looked like a row of record albums and bright colors for the trim. They jazzed up the old shoe store they were headquartered in which makes the silence from the closure all the more deafening.

Exotica International Club for Men

   exotica long shot

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If Exotica International Club for Men could talk it would say, “rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated.” This is what I found out after riding my bike through the glassy sidewalks along Columbia Boulevard to arrive in the empty parking lot. It always looked like a classy place in passing. Then again how much class can a business retain when its nearest neighbor is a Jack in the Box restaurant? I was always attracted to the exterior decor. The dark stone mixes well with the odd shade of blue. I was struck by the attempt at what I’d call tiki-exotic. I was never inspired enough to succumb to the temptations inside that would have led to an inspection of the interior design. Upon further review while visiting the site, I spied a note that stated that Exotica was closed due to repairs and maintenance. It seemed a safe bet to conclude that an empty lot and a for sale sign meant it was shut down for good. It all feels better to be able to report that a repaired and refurbished Exotica International Club for Men will return some day.

cracked door exotica

closed sign exotica

Note: Jack in the Box Reflection

Now I can say I come to praise Exotica not to bury it. I used to look over at the club every time I was on my way to pick up take-out. I knew little about what went on there besides an old coworker telling me that some of the Blazers from long ago, well, after 1999, would hang-out there. The truth to that rumor (or fact?) could not be confirmed at press time. If there’s anything that distinguishes this place from other strip clubs it may be the name and other details on the sign. I’ve always had in my head that it seemed upscale, as far as strip clubs go and the loopy font of the basic Lounge sign add to its charm.

lounge sign exotica

exotica for sale

It hardly matters at all now that I’m finding that I’m merely mourning the end of an era: Exotica International Club for Men 1999 to 2015. No word on when it’s coming back, but it sure seems likely to spring back to life. Men are waiting.

exotica entrance sign

See a Portland Orbit video report about Exotica: https://youtu.be/FdLE8ljT3L4

 

 

The Beautiful People of the Bike Lane

In Portland, Ore., we have bike corridors and bike lanes, both of which are marked with large images. Bike corridors are streets marked with bike symbols that provide easier access for bike transportation. The bike routes are recognizable thanks to the oversized bike symbols, while the bike lanes that run along side roads have lined borders and are marked by a thick, stick figure riding a bike with a floating head.

Bike lane marker plain

I didn’t know what they were called until I did some research. I didn’t care for the knick name “bike guys” somehow preferring my own more generic name of “lane markers.” Once I began to notice the footless people riding on these bike symbols in the bike lanes it was hard to miss the detailing added to the occasional markers. While huffing and puffing around town, their entertainment value is undeniable. Sure the thrills are cheap, but the designs also provide a bit of low-key joy to the world. If you study the generic nature of the stick figure person on the bike, you can imagine how some creative enhancements spice them up adding pizazz to the bland features.

I wasn’t sure who decorated these things before I researched the subject. I surmised it was the work of one person. The designs seem uniform and consistent in the number and style of additional elements. My theory had me under the impression that bike marker decorations were the work of a lone, talented vandal. Consulting the bible of all Portland Oddities, PDXccentrics, which exists in book and blog form, revealed that the lane markers are the work of PBOT, that’s the Portland Bureau of Transportation. Which makes sense because, when I had a look at the movie “Martinis in the Bike Lane,” I discovered there’s a bit of know-how involved in burning the thermoplastic material that makes the designs into the road. This isn’t something that gets pasted on the asphalt which negated another of my theories about the markers being giant stencils.

SW Terwilliger Blvd

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How can I knock this? I just happen to think that a hobbyhorse is a goofy toy. I probably would have had hours of maniacal, improvised fun with one if I had one as a kid. The subtle use of green in the hat, belt and boot made me want to stop and take a picture. Of course there’s no shame in riding over a one legged hobbyhorse rider.

N Vancouver

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Dubbed the transportation super hero, this female representation of the decorated bike lane markers is one of the reasons I don’t like the bike guys moniker. I can really appreciate this cape and glasses wearing female super hero. Usually it’s the exact opposite, when super heroes only wears glasses to disguise themselves as normal people.

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N Broadway

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I like how this marker celebrates the Rose Festival, a local event who’s spirit I’ve never really caught. It brings back memories of  the incline that stretches from Lovejoy and well past the Broadway bridge. When this Rose Princess marker showed up it provided comic and cuteness relief. It’s a nice acknowledgement of the rose parade tradition. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the significance of the half dozen roses she’s carrying, in case you’re wondering.

Here’s a blog entry as part of the PDXccentric web site.  Scroll down to get the history:https://pdxccentric.wordpress.com/c4-bike-guys/

Great coverage from a Portland bike community blog: http://bikeportland.org/tag/bike-lane-characters

Post Script:

A week or two after this post I discovered a photo I took of another lane person. This is more of example of the older “bike guys.” This one might be smoking a pipe and sporting horns.

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Scooped!

Sorry to disappoint. I’m sure you were all lining up in anticipation of reading about a trip to Salt & Straw for a scoop of exotic flavored ice cream. No, I’m dashing this off to share an experience that had me feeling like a real journalist after having a run-in with BREAKING NEWS! Returning home from work on my bike on Thursday afternoon, I heard sirens and saw police and fire trucks zooming past me. I noticed cars turning around because the street was blocked. I kept pedaling because my bike and I could squeeze by anything.

RV side

The first thing I noticed when I got close were two dogs on top of the vehicle pacing. I rode around the school bus in the crosswalk then realized the vehicle was on its side. There was debris in the road, on looking neighbors, a woman with two more dogs was sitting down and a half dozen firemen surrounded the scene. Feeling the excitement and realizing I could take pictures, I dug my phone out. My shots were taken quick. I was walking my bike through the scene while I grabbed two pictures then I acknowledged one of my students standing with his mom and I got back on my bike and peddled off.

RV Crash  1

RV with dogs

Dogs on a make shift roof.

On the ride home, my brain buzzed—thinking about my crash photos. I had not seen any other media at the scene. So far I had an exclusive! Once home, I tweaked the pictures. They were a tad dark. Then I composed the following email and sent it to the news desk of one of the local TV stations.

Hey, I happened upon this crash on Columbia Blvd. in North Portland. I’m not sure why the dogs ended up on the roof of the overturned vehicle. You’d be welcome to use these photos if you’re covering the story.

Please credit:

David Craig
The Portland Orbit

I received no response. Later I saw a mention of the crash on another station’s news broadcast. They showed a photo that looked similar to the one I had taken. It made me realize there had been plenty of people with up to date cell phones  snapping away. I realized anyone with a decent phone could have tweeted, emailed or Instagramed a picture lickety split. The thought of riding home on my bike before sending my photos had me feeling more like the pony express.

The next day on my way to work I stopped at the accident site. There was remnants of the accident left behind piled on the roadway. Later, I talked to the student I’d seen about what happened. The student was quick to tell me that he had been on the news. I asked him the pressing question: “How did the dogs get on top of the RV?”

He responded, “they were inside of the motor home, then one lady came out, the other one was stuck and her leg was stuck with the steering wheel and stuff.” He said he had been driving with his his mother and they had been seconds away from seeing the accident. I got a clear sense of how it happened when he told me a truck had been involved in the accident. “The truck had pieces of the motor home in it. It was a semi,” he explained.

debris blues

Debris blues.

In my attempts to take this story to a wider audience I learned a few things. The first thing would probably be to take higher quality photos. My pictures wouldn’t have looked good on TV. I’m really wary of getting cornered in an AT&T store in an attempt to upgrade my phone all while signing my life away again. I also realized I need to be ready. I have to have all the tip lines for all the local news stations programmed into my phone along with email contacts. It also makes sense to contact all of the news stations instead of pinning all my hopes on one station. I also had to consider that maybe I was presumptuous to ask them to include my name and the name of my blog/news organization. I’ll take publicity where I can get it, if I can get it. In the larger scheme of things I’m not sure why I want to work so hard for nothing. Later it occurred to me that this wasn’t much of a story in light of all the breaking news that was coming out of the refuge occupier situation in Harney County.

Addendum: Speaking of scooped, I was impressed (with myself) to see the Willamette Week devote their recent issue to shoes. I was already week a head of them on my own shoe coverage. Read on (link above) if you’re in need of more shoe reporting.

Portland Shoe Art Scene Part 2!

 

Previously on the Portland Orbit: Last week we covered part one of the Portland Shoe Art scene including shoe street art, an art car who’s crowning achievement is a high heel shoe and local documentation of the phenomenon of shoes on telephone wires.

Lately I have been engulfed in thoughts of Shoe Art  which have had me considering what contribution I could make to the Shoe Art world. Below I offer my first attempt:
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“Doom of the Shoe.” To one man trash; to another art.

I was inspired by the abandoned shoes I saw strewn on Columbia Blvd. They cried out for me to capture their essence, not as derelict shoes but as Shoe Art. Or maybe I cried out to them, besieged by my need to become part of the Portland Shoe Art scene. First I had to wonder, why it always one shoe? Did the other shoe run/walk/crawl away? Knowing that’s not possible, I began laboring over street shoe photo sessions while avoiding getting run over. After studying the results of my efforts for quite some time it dawned on me that giving the picture a sensational title like “Doom of the Shoe” would create a larger artistic impact. For what it’s worth the shoe was too close to the side of the road to ever have to worry about being run over. My next experiment involved framing a series of shoes as one image. I hoped this would have a better chance for Shoe Art consideration. Luckily modern technology makes this easy. I do feel I’ll be contemplating the artistic value of shoes grouped in threes until someone comes and puts a net over me. After some deep thought, I realized I couldn’t defend my single panel triptych as art, but no one can say I didn’t try.

three shoes update

 Indefensible art.

Missing Shoes (1)

I went back to my corporate shoe offices and my giant shoes were gone!

Imagine my surprise biking over to the Adidas corporate campus to visit the pair of enormous Superstar shoes that I always remembered passing on North Greeley and finding them gone. I thought they were always there. I mean how easy is it to move a giant pair of shoes anyway? Did a nefarious shoe collector have them stolen for his private collection? I liked that shoe sculpture because Superstars were the first pair of Adidas I ever owned. I felt empty and sad with a big whole, not in my heart, but in my Shoe Art blog post. I had to think quick. My first thought was to ask people about the giant shoes. Workers were spilling out of the office on a Friday afternoon and might have been willing to talk but after an insane day at my own job I was afraid of being seen as the crazy person mumbling about giant shoes and blogs. I took a ride around the corporate offices on the other side of the road to see if I could spy Shoe Art of any kind. I was hard up for Shoe Art.

In the distance, near the soccer field they use to for product testing, I saw an oversized pair of cleats. Huge shoes are Shoe Art and this was the real thing. I crowded a group of tourists taking a picture, waited impatiently for them to leave and then I grabbed my shot. How can I critique the design when I had found an example of corporate Shoe Art? Actually the cleats are wildly decorative and would be distracting to the other team. I expected the shoes to be open to let people crawl around in them. There’s probably a fetish for that. The shoes were enclosed with a roof at the heel that made a place to sit. While they leapt out at me in their design and size they seem randomly placed in the middle of a plaza. These sporty shoes are in dire need of a pedestal. The corporate Shoe Art had a pop art feel that seems to have driven the other examples of Shoe Art underground or in some cases into the street.

adidas shoe art

While I was thinking about Shoe Art all the time, collecting images and organizing my many thoughts on the subject I was leafing through the Portland Mercury when I came upon this image:

Shoe Art Shower Minh Tran

Photo Credit: Minh Tran

I stopped dead in my tracks. Shoes, so many shoes hanging, I was amazed by these hanging shoes. I have to admit I wasn’t getting the concept, these shoes were artistically arranged around a bathtub full of skateboard wheels hanging from a shower rack all combining as a piece of amazing Conceptual Shoe Art. I was shaking. The photo by Minh Tran shows the shoes in their glory. Why it was made and who made it was a bit of mystery and to explain it risks confusion but it has something to do with a clothing line and an event held at a fashion design studio to celebrate it. What matters is that, for a second, when I saw this picture I was thinking, I’m really on to this Shoe Art thing in Portland. It’s happening. People are nuts for shoes and Shoe Art too.

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Shoes and Wheels

Photo Credit: Minh Tran

Addendum: Last week I posted a picture of shoes on a wire taken by Karl Lind. I liked Karl’s photo but when I found a shoe/wire shot that I took in September I knew I would be remiss in not including it in this post. It’s similar to Karl’s and it includes the kind of hopeless “what am I doing here vibe” that the shoes seem to be communicating or maybe they’re just wondering how they’re going get off the wire.

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Portland Shoe Art Scene Part 1!

 

It took me a while to reflect on and collect enough shoe images to fully explore the Portland Shoe Art Scene. As I did this collecting and reflecting it occurred to me that Portland actually has a Shoe Art Scene. It seems to be a combination of shoe street art, an endless supply of shoes slung on telephone wires, shoe sculpture and lonely, single shoes strewn on Columbia Blvd., which inspired my own attempts at shoe art and led me to concluded that there is added value in art if you can give the work an amazing title. Then, in all my pondering, I discovered some real shoe art that could actually make the Portland Shoe Art Scene legit.

Shoe art Division St

First I go back, almost to where it all started. In the Spring of 2015. I was substitute teaching at a school located a block away from Division Street. I hunted down a cup of expensive and seemingly exotic coffee from a new coffee shop on my lunch break. On the way back I saw some mind-blowing, public art that was part three-dimensional graffiti and part surrealist, guerilla street art show. I captured the art at it’s peak with a photograph. I had a feeling that with this art being out in the elements it would be in a constant state of decay. Great shoes, great colors and it was right on the telephone pole next to the street in the full view of everyone who had to walk by. The following fall I returned to the school for a day, saw the shoe art pole and witnessed the decay that had set in over the summer. Some of the shoes were missing. I didn’t take a picture, probably because I was in a hurry to get back to work. I realize now that I would have hated to see the shoe art in any other condition than when I first encountered it. It’s unclear whether the street art got no respect or had no way to be preserved. I never saw a “do not touch sign” or a security guard around who would have kept people from getting too close and stealing shoes off the art.

shoe art car

Any art car in the world is going to raise it’s artistic level with the presense of a shoe. This car created by Purple Planet Artist Corporation heads over the top with the addition of the mannequin calf and ankle attached to a bright, shiny, hot pink high heel shoe. It towers above all the other figurines adding an air of grace and dignity to its artistic surroundings. The shoe is so stylish, garish and fashionable that it comes close to off setting the balance of the whole roof top attempts at car art as it continues to attain an amazing flagship triumph of Shoe Art on this art car’s roof. This shoe holds it’s heel high and looks even better parked outside the regal façade of Roosevelt High School. I plan to explore, in greater depth, the local art car phenomenon that this particular art car is part of but in the meantime I’ll appreciate the inclusion of shoe art as a subset to the rest of the art car’s expression.

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The sum of it’s parts: Art car & heeled crown.

karl lind shoe shot

Untitled: Karl Lind’s Kick Ass Shoe Art Photo.

You might think I’m grasping at straws when I include the ubiquitous pair of shoes slung over the electrical wire as being part of the Portland Shoe Art Scene. We all know it’s a national phenomenon. While this type of creation is everywhere, it is also annoying to someone like me who sees it as a waste of perfectly good shoes. This is coming from someone who keeps shoes to the point of practically sloughing off my feet. Holes, rips, tears, knotted and tattered laces, I wear them until I can’t walk in them anymore. When I see shoes causally thrown around the neighborhood, I always assume they still have a few miles in them. Consulting the Urban Dictionary I discovered that shoes on wires hint at drug activity. “Places where you see shoes that are thrown on a telephone wire indicate drug houses or places where you can purchase drugs,” said the Urban Dictionary. It feels more like an untidy decoration to me. I had to appreciate the way filmmaker Karl Lind portrayed a pair of wire shoes in a snap shot he posted on Facebook. I think the proportion of sky to shoe is just right. His picture captures plenty of gray sky that envelopes the silhouetted shoes. The photo doesn’t highlight the shoes but it fits them nicely into the space they share with that bleak sky. Captured in an artistic way, these shoes more than aspire to become Shoe Art. They have arrived, in all their anonymous glory.

 

Next Week: Part 2 of our Portland Shoe Art exploration.

 

 

 

You Can’t Go Home Again?

I got away from Portland and it seems like it’s taken me a while to get back. At Christmas time I found myself looking out a window and watching waves in the Gulf of Mexico. It was scenic and peaceful and for a few seconds I may have relaxed. I was over two thousand miles away in a section of Florida with the Spanish name Perdido Key which translates to lost key. It’s a quarter of a mile from the Alabama border which adds to the exotic mystique. So when I do want to get lost, it’s nice to have the option of visiting my in-laws at their condo. The area has a desolate exurban, Omega Man feel to me with tall, empty, at least around the holidays, condo buildings. To get there, we braved a red-eye flight  and then another flight. Some heavier than usual turbulence  created a bit of a panic attack in a male passenger a couple of rows back. To calm myself, I worked up a Drunk Uncle style comedy bit in my mind. Turbulence became “turpulence.” There was even something about a turpulence angel sitting on my shoulder that seemed funny at the time, but no one was laughing. Planes that drop in the sky are not the same type of thrill you can get from a roller coaster.

 My four coat system, actually a coat, a down vest and two sweaters, was thwarted by mid 70 degree weather.  I couldn’t wear any of that on Christmas. I appreciated the change of pace, of course, it’s the holidays, and what you might call a vacation. I didn’t think  much about the Portland I had been immersed in during the last year. At last, I was staying in a condo that wasn’t on my nerves and no one was making snide comments about. I came to realize that New Yorkers and the Wall Street Journal boost my I.Q. Although the I.Q. bump flattens out when you read USA Today. When it was time to leave, we battled delays and two planes with mechanical issues. We weren’t getting to Houston in time to get back to Portland. When given the option to stay in Florida an extra couple of days we took it.

 Polar plunge FLA

Taking the plunge.

We stayed long enough to catch the polar plunge at the bar at the Florida-Alabama state line named the Flora-Bama Bar. Polar plunges don’t seem the same when you live in Portland with its cold rivers  which mean anytime you swim you’re in for a polar plunge. Still it was a hoot to see folks spill out of the bar on New Year’s Day, some in goofy costumes, and run into the surf. Later in our visit it had cooled down by Florida standards. It was under 50 degrees with a chilly breeze.

polar bears in FLA

Global Warming Proof: Polar Bears Frolic in FLA!

We met a few people who had an interest in Portland. A lady sharing our plane fiasco, as we tried to leave the first time, remarked about how expensive Portland was becoming. She was visiting Portland on her way to Mexico. We rented a car to get back to my in-laws’ and the young lady at the rental counter lit up when we mentioned Portland. She said she wanted to visit. Knowing how much effort it takes to travel to Portland, always with the two separate plane trips, I later thought I should have told her that if she wanted to make the effort to go to a west coast city, it should be San Francisco. While probably more expensive, I see it as a tourist mecca. I just can’t get past thinking that all Portland has to offer is a chance to stumble around downtown eating Voodoo Donuts and going to a kick-ass bookstore. Okay, so I’ll never get a job with the tourist bureau. As we were leaving the second time a United Airlines worker, who changed our seats so my wife and I could sit together, told us he wanted to move to the Pacific Northwest. At that point Florida was experiencing the same rainy and cold weather. Besides he had lived on the Oregon coast for some time when his sister was in the Coast Guard. He wasn’t picky, Portland, Seattle,  it made sense if he could transfer and have a job where ever he wanted to work.

 icycles

Icy icicles, at night!

Then I was back in Portland. I felt like I was facing another year of fanatically reading up the weekly newspapers trying to make sense of what’s what. I picked up the Portland Mercury and fully appreciated the humor of Alex Falcone in his  Not Invited Back cover story. I was thinking, wow, that was really good. If only I could convince him to work for the Portland Orbit, for free. While reading one of the illustrated year-end reviews of this and that in the Willamette Week, I saw that they were saying Carrie Brownstein had ruined Portland. It took a couple more panels before I realized the piece was satire. The Best Thing I Heard This Year column mentioned bands I hope to check out like Divers, Guantanamo Baywatch, Summer Cannibals and Woolen Men. Getting back into the Portland lifestyle, we spent a Sunday buzzing around filling the refrigerator back up with preciously harvested organic food while also experiencing the rare Portland ice and snow storm that netted me two days off from my school system job, which made up for the two days we had originally planned to have to get ready for going back to work. Sure it’s back to the grind and my attempts at adulthood, which I could do anywhere, but I’m here, in Portland to have another look around and continue in my pursuit to figure it out.

Year in Review

There’s nothing like the end of the year to inspire a blogger to throw in the towel. It’s been a tough year, a challenging one too, but it also has me more optimistic about what I can do next year. A few projects that hung over my head much of the year were completed and a couple of others are so close that I may be soon done with those as well. The cycle can start up next year with new projects to start, abandon, complete etc… and of course this blog will occupy my time. Looking back over the year’s posts, I see I’ve documented some of what I experienced and it strikes me that my orbit seems a bit constricted now, revolving around the rain and a small, grungy slice of life that I tried to paint an image of in a Kerouac parody in my now infamous Turkey post. The backlog of subject matter that I plan to bring to life next year includes the Portland shoe art scene, my continued decal/sticker obsession and it looks like I’ll finally be able to write about art cars. I will also will be looking to utilize the skills of one of the world’s greatest copy editors I happen to live with. I might get a handle on my typo epidemic. With all that going on, I can only leave you with a couple of updates:

Perry’s Back!

Perry Me

It was probably 2014 when I wrote about the loss of the Perry Mason show on regular TV. For 48 years he held down a time slot in Portland until our local Fox affiliate axed him. You can now catch Perry Mason on ME TV. It’s on channel 2.3. I’m not sure exactly when TV channels started including a decimal point but it’s as good a reason as any to trade your cable cable for a set of rabbit ears. Digital TV offers great reception and great picture quality. Our local stations have sub channels that feature networks of nostalgia blasting old TV shows and movies you can catch while channel surfing. Nothing breaks the monotony of a lazy Sunday better than hearing the phrase “psychological thriller starting!” If your schedule coordinates you can watch Perry at 9am or 11:30pm on weekdays.

 

Perry Me confess 1

Hold on…about to…confess.

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Crap! I can’t believe Perry got me to say that.

Another World for Fabric World

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When I first addressed the sad, demise of Fabric World, I was happy, at least some readers were attracted to that post. Fabric World remains a lost world to me, but I got a sense of the place from people who had shopped there and responded to my writing. I snapped a photo late one afternoon when I noticed rumbles of activity going on with the old store front. We’re talking serious rumbles–what exactly is happening when half the walls need to be chopped out? A recent trip down Lombard revealed enlarged posters on the wooden barriers exclaiming “New Re-Development” so it’s clear to see that Fabric World has left the building. It’s hard to know what type of business will fit that space. It’s difficult, too, sometimes, to stop the car, park it and investigate what the giant signs are squawking about to clue us all in but in the middle of Christmas mania I did just that. See what you make of this sign.

Re-development

More will be revealed in the new year but it amazed me that 30 seconds into my annual Christmas trip to Powell’s Bookstore I witnessed two major infractions. The driver of a pick up truck at a stop light opened his door and dumped some fast food trash into the middle of the street. Then two fancy/expensive cars failed to use their turn signals. It reminded me that pollution makes both Indians and bloggers cry. It also leads me to believe I’ll be crankier than ever in the next year. The folks below sure have a way of calming me down and making me happy so I’ll leave with their image, along with some sweet peppermints.

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Happy Holidays to each and everyone of you! See you on the other side in 2016.

“Hey Lady, Up Yours”

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On day two of what had been called Stormpocalypse (a four-day forecast of heavy rain) by some around Portland, at least on Facebook, I started my day with enough optimism to forgo using my rain pants for my bike commute. The all night rain had dissipated, the morning was clear and the rain pants are bulky and unfashionable. I didn’t think to pack them for the ride home.

I watched the afternoon rain and knew I was in for a wet ride home. There was nothing I could do but grin and bear it. So I trudged onward with heavy, soaked pants. I kept my spirits up listening to the podcast Death, Sex and Money. I come back to this one and usually binge on multiple episodes. People talk about their lives, failures, trials and tribulations with a refreshing honesty. I thought I had problems, how about a woman who grew up with an abusive, alcoholic father. She went on to have a 40 year career on Sesame Street. It wasn’t exactly light subject matter to have swirling in my head but it did end up involving a kid’s show. On the other hand, there wasn’t anything from my work day that had me down. I was only dealing with the miserable commute. I was focused on getting home and drying off.

In my rain-stained, fogged up glasses, podcast blaring in my head, my pants wetter than if I wore them swimming, I had to navigate the bike/walking path going through Kenton Park. A woman seemed to be walking in the middle of the path. I was moving toward her and trying to figure out how I was going to get around her. As sad and soggy as I was slowing down was not a consideration. From what I could see, she seemed to be thinking I was going to run her over. She gave me a look of disgust and indignant rage. I could only think such a minor inconvenience wouldn’t have been an issue if she followed common sense rules for traffic patterns which at the very least favor walking/driving/biking on one side of the road or even the other. She might have side-stepped me or made a decision to move out of my way but neither of us could navigate this bike/pedestrian dance. I didn’t break my stride either, but the look she gave me annoyed me to my deepest core as I swerved around her.

As I rode on, I realized something needed to be said. Returning from my day working at a school, I realized there was one more lesson to teach. I thought quick and wondered if I needed to chase her down and get in her face or yell at her from where I had stopped my bike which was now about 100 yards away. I wanted her to consider that when it’s raining and nasty outside rain-soaked bike commuters need a break. I decided on my second choice and found myself yelling, “Hey lady, up yours!”

Pathetic. I know. I’m not even sure it felt good, especially since the lady didn’t turn around or appear to hear me. My improvised insult may have been the direct result of listening to a podcast about Sonia Manzano from Sesame Street which might have inspired me to keep it clean. Besides who really needs to be cussing in the park. I felt stupid, angry, aggressive, but at least gave myself credit for trying. A day of work followed by a watery slog home and a feeling that I received a lack of compassion from a fellow citizen created a need for me to let off some steam that could not even be heard in a downpour.

Sometimes you have to try to make your point even when it’s pointless.

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Uncredited image jacked from the internet.

TriMet Tales: The Final Chapter Part 1

trimet tales photo

The go-to blog post subject matter when you’re desperate, out of time, suffering from a hectic, unending work week–with my sixth straight work day spent proctoring an LSAT exam at the law school—has me turning to the subject matter of public transportation which has a never ending supply of tragicomic, people watching opportunities.

Two people having a discussion is usually fine. Two people having a one-sided heated discussion on a crowded Max train becomes exasperating. I listened to a woman trash the good name of her man for what seemed like hours in uncomfortable lecture time but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes. This was talk of a personal nature when the lady managed to list her significant other’s faults, berate him up one end and down the other all while complaining about her health and talking about a seizure condition. It made me wonder it people just don’t understand that anyone within earshot can listen to their personal conversation or diatribe, in this case, if it’s delivered in a public space. There’s also the consideration that maybe we want the option of not listening. I know it’s times like these that call for ear buds and filling my head with any other sound possible.

There was a point when the woman decided to move to the center of the train. I appreciated this break from her talking until moments later the woman began having a seizure. I have no idea if her getting riled up caused the seizure but I appreciated the people who rushed into action. Someone contacted the train operator while someone else called 911. I was equally impressed and annoyed by the commotion. The train remained at the next stop. We waited.

I kept thinking if the woman had opted for a nice quiet train ride, she might have controlled her rage. She could have taken time to outline her talking points to better take her mate to task in the privacy of their living quarters and possibly avoided her stress and maybe even the seizure. After this experience, I came across some first aid information that explained that not all seizures require medical attention. Seizures can be scary for those having them and those observing them alike, and not being a doctor or even that good at first aid, I would not be in the position to make the call or not make the call for help. Ultimately I was not delayed for long. Ambulance services were quick to respond. Soon the train was on its way and I chalked this medical melodrama up to another side note in my history of riding the TriMet rails.

2010 mid summer 017

As always we salute the rants:

http://rantingsofatrimetbusdriver.blogspot.com/?m=1

The Turkey of St. Johns (Part 1?)

At Thanksgiving time this year I’ve found myself working in the St. Johns area. This had me thinking about a turkey I once saw living in a front yard in that neighborhood. The bird seemed to be big and white with multicolored feathers in its back. This was years ago. In my murky memory I tried to figure out what I was doing when I saw the turkey. This might have helped me pinpoint where the turkey had lived. Maybe it was a trip to the dentist that took me past the turkey’s home. The name of the street escapes me, but I do recall the turkey lived close to a corner market that looked like a house. I had to wonder if the turkey was a pet. I suppose any animal that can be tamed in some fashion and express some form of affection has pet potential. Then again the turkey may have been raised for Thanksgiving dinner. I never had a conversation with the turkey or anyone related to the turkey to figure this out.

Phunhouse turkey

Turkey display at Phun House.

At this point, I decided to take a trip back in time, in a way, to find the turkey. I found myself on  streets that seemed as familiar as unfamiliar – wet leaves, multi-color Portland houses, the pastel green paint jobs jumping out in the dusky afternoon. The sidewalks, empty.  Early Christmas decorations intermingled with remainders of Halloween . . .  but I couldn’t pinpoint where I had seen the turkey. As my hands grew cold, I gave up. I could have biked around in circles for hours and not found any evidence. On my way home it occurred to me that the dead memories Portland Facebook page would be a good resource. I posted:

Anyone familiar with a turkey that lived or lives in the front yard of a Portsmouth or St. John neighborhood house in North Portland? It had a pen in a yard with a chain link fence. I remember a corner market that looked like a house was in the area. Any cross streets or general location would be helpful. Thanks.

I got some much appreciated responses. There was a funny comment insinuating that I was on the hunt for a free range turkey that could be more easily purchased at Zuppan’s Market. A specific location of N Wall and N Houghton was mentioned so I made plans to return. One thing I was unsure about was whether the turkey had been in the Portsmouth or St. Johns neighborhood. I’m still not clear of the boundaries but I’m going with St. Johns because it has a better ring to it.

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A turkey lived around here.

I went back to N Wall and N Houghton. It was on the way home from work. The night before I looked on google maps. Using street view, nothing but the corner market looked familiar. I had to laugh about Easy Street being in the area. I liked the idea of a turkey living on Easy St. Really the idea of anyone living on Easy Street is humorous. My return to the location where I had seen a turkey living in someone’s front yard was a reminder of how much things change. The corner market had been spruced up with new paint and was now a marijuana store. I rode up and down the street in that area looking for the chain link fence from my memory. There was nothing that looked like the living quarters of a turkey.

turkey street sign (1)

You can get pot here but not a turkey pot pie.

I could convince myself that the turkey moved away with the family that had taken care of him or her. Any other theory would have bummed me out. Regardless, the turkey of St. Johns doesn’t seem to be around any longer. I’m confident that someday I’ll learn the story of the turkey of St. Johns. I’ve seen other animals in Portland: coyotes on the streets, a rabbit and a couple of cockatiels sharing a chicken coop on N. Killingsworth, I even know the legend of the White Rabbit. I’ll write about that someday. While this might seem on the level of having had a Big Foot sighting, I swear I saw a turkey hanging around in a front yard, waddling, chilling and enjoying life. That memory is the only evidence I have for now.

So in Portland when the sun goes down I ride on an old broken down sidewalk-bike trail watching gray skies roll over industrial warehouse buildings and sense the daydreaming to escape the mundane, and in St. Johns I know now the children must be crying in a neighborhood where they let children cry if they can’t get them to be quiet, and as the stars’ll arrive and don’t you know God is John Cena? the afternoon sun shadows and streaks her rays across the slope, which brings on a night that caresses the earth, envelopes the rivers, holds the peaks and folds the brain creases in and nobody, nobody knows what happened or at least no one is giving up the memory escaped in the continued passing of time, I think of the St. Johns turkey, I think of the old St. Johns turkey I never found, I think of the St. Johns turkey.

Sun streak

Enough turkey talk, time to shop.