Culture Shock

The Reminder: A Bus Poem

2011-02-13T10:37:00.000-08:00

A poem inspired by something I spotted on the bus the other evening. This is not a Valentine's Day poem.

THE REMINDER

In blue ink he wrote a reminder on his hand.
Not on his palm, where he might keep it concealed.
Not on the plump part below the thumb
where the ink would flow as if on vellum.
He wrote it on the top
( You might call it the back).
where the pen would have humped
over tendons and bones.
On the part of the hand where a tattoo would hurt.

He wrote: Rent Car.

Now he is riding the bus home
where he will look at his hand as he turns the key
where he will brace for her greeting:

Did you remember to rent the car?

A Christmas Carol Adaptation (Stave 2)

2010-12-25T12:52:00.000-08:00

On this Christmas day, I give you one more of the recently discovered playlets of Barnaby McScrivener. (If you are new to this blog, you may learn more about Mr. McScrivener and read the first of his Christmas carol adaptations here). Appended to the original script was a letter from one of Berlin’s leading theatrical producers, Mannheim Von Sturmroller, who wrote: “I regret that while your playlet is immensely entertaining, it cannot possibly be produced in its present form. Have you considered an adaptation of Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!? I am confident it would be quite the success in Bohemia next season.”

JINGLING ON THE HEATH

Personae Dramatis:

Percival P. Peckingwood III: A fancy man of means, dressed in the latest London fashion.

Miss Fanny Eloise Toppenham-Bacon Bright: A handsome young lady of middling birth.

Others as available.

The scene opens in the ballroom of a fine manor house, aglow with festive candles and a finely decorated holiday tree (at least 20 feet high). Two score of actors of diverse ages and amplitude are seen dancing and gamboling merrily, while a chamber orchestra plays a jaunty tune of the day. Another lively group plays a game of “Pope in the Pulpit,” while a gaggle of young children cavorts through a rousing round of “That’s My Frigate!” A particolored Greyhound (an Irish Wolfhound or Moldavian Lurcher are acceptable substitutes) adorned with deer antlers crosses the stage, to the amusement of the party-goers. In the corner of the ballroom, a dwarf from the Isle of Borneo demonstrates the mystic art of Tam-Tam. The aroma of figgy pudding wafts over the audience.

The scene having been set, the entire set rotates slowly on an immense turntable until we find ourselves, miraculously, on the exterior of the country estate. The party continues, now seen only in glimpses behind fogged windows. We hear muted sounds of merriment. Snow begins to fall, gradually becoming heavier as the action proceeds throughout the play (ultimately reaching a depth of no less than two hands). A dozen carolers enter, singing joyously. The front door is opened by a footman wearing a Welsh wig who invites the carolers to join the party. They enter, accompanied by great cheers and huzzahs. After the carolers have entered, our two protagonists emerge, dressed in Victorian finery, bundled against the bitter cold. The play begins.

Percival:
[pointing off stage]
It’s just over there, waiting for us. Let us not tarry. If you are quite ready, milady, we shall climb aboard and begin the merriment.

Fanny:
[joyously clapping her hands]
Oh, what delightful fun! I’ve never done this before.

Percival:
It certainly will be jolly. Methinks you’ll be laughing all the way.

Fanny:
[Suddenly concerned]
Oh my! Where in heaven is the other horse?

Percival:
[Confused]
Whatsoever do you mean?

Fanny:
I see only one horse. Don’t sleighs usually require two horses?

Percival:
No. I don’t believe so. I’ve always used just one.

Fanny:
[Gesturing broadly in the direction of unseen fields]
Pray tell, what about the fields?

Percival:
Yes, the fields. Now, what about them?

Fanny:
We will be traipsing across fields, is that not so?

Percival:
[A little annoyed]
Well, of course there will be fields to cross. That’s really the entire point.

Fanny:
But will we not need two horses to pull us across these fields? What I mean is, to pull us at a reasonable pace. A dashing pace? It seems to me that one horse will be fine for favorable conditions, but crossing fields?

Percival:
Ho, ho! Now I understand! I am such a silly ass. I see that you wish to move at a brisk pace. Yes, of course. A dashing pace it shall be!

Fanny:
Dear sir, there is no need for you to apologize. It is I who was being obtuse!

Percival:
You are far too gracious. Let me explain: You see, this sleigh is especially designed for just one horse.

Fanny:
Yes, I do see that now.

Percival:
You will also note that this horse is both lean and lank. These are adequate attributes for a speedy jaunt through the snow.

Fanny:
[looks closer]
Oh my! What about its tail?

Percival:
Tail?

Fanny:
He doesn’t seem to have one.

Percival:
Not a long one, no.

Fanny:
That seems dreadfully odd.

Percival:
It’s a question of fashion, my dear. His tail has been bobbed, you see. Moreover, I’ve bestowed bells upon it. Such is the rage in London. I find the style raises my spirits quite high. I expect you will find the same.

Fanny:
I am ever so sorry to doubt you, sweet Percival. It’s just…

Percival:
Yes, dear?

Fanny:
It’s just … oh dear … I fear the poor beast will …

Percival:
Will what?

Fanny:
Well, that misfortune will be his lot. What with the bobbed tail and the silly bells.

Percival;
My dear Miss Bright, what possible harm could befall us?

Fanny:
My greatest fear is that we will become entrapped in a bank of snow. I shudder to imagine an even more dismal outcome!

Percival:
And what might that be?

Fanny:
That our conveyance will be upsot, and we shall be tos’t upon the icy drifts. Moreover, that I shall never wed a proper gentleman.

Percival:
Oh, you supercilious little scamp! T’is not the season for such imagined concerns. Let’s be away. The faster we journey, the quicker we will again be snug and cozy near the welcoming hearth. I have been led to understand that we will be partaking in a wee bit of wassailing upon our return.

Fanny:
[Sighing, resigned]
Away then.
Across the fields.
I shall endeavor to laugh the entire way.

Percival:
That’s my girl.

END OF PLAY

A Christmas Carol Adaptation

2010-12-24T09:55:00.000-08:00

Alas, no theater company in Portland has mounted a production of the Charles Dickens holiday chestnut, A Christmas Carol, this year. Nor is any company producing an evening of playlets written by Mr. Dickens' contemporary, Barnaby McScrivener (pictured at right). Indeed, no theater company has ever produced a play by Mr. McScrivener, despite his having been at the cutting-edge of his generation's carol-based stage adaptation movement.

Recently, I was delighted to discover a rich trove (is there any other kind of trove?) of Mr. McScrivener's wee theatrical gems tucked away in a moldering trunk for over a century. These dramatic arts niblets tell simple stories--nay, morality tales--drawn from popular holiday carols.

So, without further ado, I invite you to gather the family by a crackling fire, fill your nog mugs, and enjoy one of Mr. McScrivener's Christmas Carol playlets. Better yet, host a staged reading for all your friends. (Please silence your cell phones now.)

Christmastime: It’s Coming

Personae Dramatis:
Abelard McChuffery II: A portly fellow with muttonchops.
Milton Harcourt Fishpicket, Esq: A thin, reedy, elderly man with common features.

Note to Directors: Do not rush the conversation. Pauses should carry as much dramatic freight as the very words themselves.

Setting:
A country road. Snowdrifts. We hear the whistling of the wind and the occasional honking of geese. It is evening and bitter cold. The drear light should fade gradually through the course of the play.

The lights rise on two men wearing ratty overcoats, heavy work boots, and fur hats. They are cold. One of them, Milton, is staring off stage. He leans forward, squinting toward a distant spot.

MILTON:
Do you see that?

ABELARD:
What?

MILTON:
The geese.
Over there.
Look at them.

ABELARD:
Yeah.
Canadian Geese.
What about them?

MILTON:
Canada Geese.

ABELARD:
What?

MILTON:
They’re Canada Geese, not Canadian.

ABELARD:
No kidding?
That doesn’t sound right.

MILTON:
It is.
You can look it up.
Canada Geese.

ABELARD:
I will.
What about them?

MILTON:
Fat.
Can’t you see that?
[looks again, and points]
You can see that, can’t you?

ABELARD:
What are you talking about?

MILTON:
[pointing insistently]
The geese… over there.

ABELARD:
I hadn’t noticed.
What about them?

MILTON:
They’re getting’ fat.
[He looks more closely]
Fatter.
Yeah, they’re fatter than they used to be.

ABELARD:
You’re right.
They are getting fat.
Fatter.

MILTON:
You’ve seen them before?

ABELARD:
Sure I have.
But never that fat.
They really are quite fat ... for geese.
You know what that means don't you?

MILTON:
No. What?

ABELARD:
Christmastime is coming.

MILTON:
What’s that got to do with it?

ABELARD:
You said the geese are getting fat. And they are. That’s what.

MILTON:
Yeah?

ABELARD:
They get ...
They get fatter.
Geese do.

MILTON:
Geese? When?

ABELARD:
You know, when Christmas is coming.
When it’s Christmastime.
When Christmastime is...well...when it’s coming.

MILTON:
That makes no sense.
You’d think they would be getting thinner.
All that flying.
Migrating.
All that migrating.
[turning to Abelard]
Hey, how did you know about the fat thing?

ABELARD:
[shrugs]
I don’t know.
It’s just something I heard.
Something I heard about geese.

MILTON:
I guess.
I just think it’s weird.
I don’t like it.
I don't like it at all.

ABELARD:
I get that.
Nobody likes fat Canadian geese.

MILTON:
Canada Geese.

ABELARD:
You sure?

[Milton shrugs. They stand in silence for a full minute, getting colder--stamping feet, rubbing their arms and hands, etc. The sound of honking geese recedes in the distance while they continue to look offstage]

ABELARD:
Say, Milton, have you got a penny?

MILTON:
What?

ABELARD:
A penny.

MILTON:
I thought you said something else.

ABELARD:
No. I said "penny."
Do you have one?
[he gets no response]
Milton?

MILTON:
[annoyed]
Why? Why do you want…
What was it again?
A penny?

ABELARD:
I’ve always wanted one.
More would be nice, but one is what I need.
Have you got one?

MILTON:
[He starts to check his pockets]
I might. Just a second.
[He searches quite a while]

ABELARD:
No hurry.

[Milton keeps searching, pulling diverse items from his pockets. A parasol, a live dove, and an anvil should be among the items retrieved. Eventually Milton collects a handful of coins, which he examines carefully.]

MILTON:
Sorry, I don’t have one after all.
[He puts the coins back in his pockets]
Will anything else do?
[He pulls a banana from his coat pocket and shows it to Abelard]
Fresh fruit?

ABELARD:
[Thinks about it]
A ha’penny?

MILTON:
What’s that?

ABELARD:
I think it’s half a penny.

MILTON:
There’s no such thing.

ABELARD:
Just look.
Humor me.

[Milton searches his pockets until he has a handful of coins again. He sorts through them one-by-one]

MILTON:
Quarter…quarter…nickel…dime…peso…another quarter…Canada dime…
[surprised]
Hey, what ho?

[Milton holds up a small coin, then searches frantically through his pockets until he finds a jeweler’s loupe, which he uses to examine the coin.]

I’ll be damned!
It says half penny.
I thought it would be like…you know…
like cut in half or something.
But it's not.
Do you still want it?

ABELARD:
It’ll do.
If you don’t have a whole penny, that is.

MILTON:
Okay then. It's yours.

ABELARD:
[removes his hat and holds it open, shaking it at Milton].
Put it in the hat.

MILTON:
What?

ABELARD:
I think you’re supposed to put the ha’penny in the hat.

MILTON:
In that hat?
Okay, old man.

[He tosses the coin in the hat. We hear it striking several coins already in the hat.]

ABELARD:
God bless you.

MILTON:
Is that all?

ABELARD:
I think so.
It’s getting dark.

MILTON:
You're right.
It is getting dark.
Hey, Abelard?

ABLELARD:
What, Milton?

MILTON:
I lied.

ABELARD:
About what?

MILTON:
The penny.
I lied about the penny.
I had one.

ABELARD:
I know.

MILTON:
You knew?

ABELARD:
I knew.

MILTON:
Do you mind saying it again anyway?

ABELARD:
What?

MILTON:
That thing you said.

ABELARD:
God bless you?

MILTON:
That's it.
You too.
God bless you.
[He looks out into the field again]
Canada Geese?
[shakes his head, chuckling]
No kidding.

[Fade to dark]

END OF PLAY

NEXT UP: The Jingle Caper

Let's Travel Awhile

2010-12-04T13:04:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, National Geographic Traveler published a profile of our city under the clever (by which I mean, "vapid") title, “Portland Reigns”.

The article was one of many paeans to Portland peppering the national press lately. The breathless pace and gushy tone spurred me to write a parody of bad travel writing. I tried to follow a few simple rules:

• If one adjective helps, two or three are even better.
• Stereotypes and generalizations are always a good choice.
• When in doubt, grasp onto a cliché as if your life depends on it.
• Keep your thesaurus handy...ermm…accessibly situated.

My parody kept getting longer and longer, until it was so ridiculously long (for a blog post) that I lost track of where I was going or how to bring it to a merciful end. I toyed with cutting or serializing it. Then I decided to just publish it. Now it’s in your hands. Savor.

East Chesterburg:
An Old-World City Perched on Tomorrow’s Rim

This resplendent metropolis gets just about everything right: From the friendly natives to the homebrewed deliciousness that embraces every visitor.

Here in the self-proclaimed “City that Can,” restaurants pride themselves in serving locally-prepared meals, and every barkeep is quick with a jovial anecdote that will, one day, become a part of your own tribal lore. Local crafts and an innovative commitment to “green” living are worn like a comfortable flannel suit in autumn, and are as reassuring as a bowl of warm applesauce. What’s more, this is a city that does not hesitate to flaunt its funky charms, just as its residents feel no qualms in sporting billed caps, no matter the weather. Add a flair for the ubiquitous and verdant, and you’ve got a vacation-in-the-making for all but the most hard-hearted of hard-core adventurers.

East Chesterburg isn’t the first place you’ll compare to Paris, but it’s not likely to be the last either--and that says a lot. It’s among a handful of American towns that has managed to pair civic engagement with a soupcon of down-home bonhomie that will have you saying both “oui!” and “whee!” From its trendy downtown nightlife scene to the downscale bohemian haunts that typify the North Gulch Arts District, this is a town that welcomes everyone with the warmth of a Golden Retriever’s tongue.

Starting on the Right Foot

We launch our East Chesterburg adventure with a hearty breakfast at Tiny Harpo’s—a charming diner occupying a prime spot in the heart of the town’s bustling business arrondissement. Before entering this petite boîte, be sure to pause for a moment to listen to the autoharp player on the corner. Sing along if you must. You’ll be delighted to leave a small tip in his open case.

As we wipe the steam from our glasses, we’re greeted by a proprietor who can only be described as brobdingnagian. Nobody personifies the character of an East Chesterburgian restaurateur better than the bistro’s namesake. With his trademark, “Halloo!,” and belying his 400-pound girth, he sweeps us dexterously to a cozy booth by the window, then deals a handful of menus with the speed of a Las Vegas blackjack dealer jacked up on diet pills. In short order, our winsome server fills our water glasses and makes sure we all have napkins. Keeping her promise to return with hot coffee, she takes our orders with a vivacious professionalism that feels as comfortable as a pair of broken-in huaraches.

I choose the “Tiny’s Special” – an adventuresome mélange of scrambled eggs and la saucisse de Francfort topped with a tangy hollandaise sauce. You will be well served by selecting the same, or perhaps you’ll opt for a simpler fare from a bygone era. On any given morning, many of Tiny’s patrons can be witnessed enjoying a light repast of toasted bread squares while perched on angular chairs, perfectly resplendent in parti-colored smocks, knit leggings and the customary cap tilted rakishly.

With a satisfied belch and a neighborly handshake, we emerge from Tiny’s into the rays of a sun that radiates its beams on East Chesterburg many days of the year. When you visit, you’ll want to chat with Tiffany and Amber, animated purveyors of Girl Scout Cookies outside of the Thrift & Save just around the corner. I choose a box of Thin Mints, but you would not be wrong to pick otherwise. Don’t forget to pet the puppies for sale in the box over by the shopping carts.

A Place of the Present with a Forward-Thinking History

East Chesterburg is all about sustainable, low-impact living. As a matter of both public policy and personal ethos, visitors and residents adopt organic, people-powered modes of transportation, including walking and bicycling. People here stride with a confident bounce as if effervescently buoyed, stepping with the crisp snap of a sugar pea from one of the farmer’s markets that thrive, year-round, on every vacant lot. They ride their handcrafted two-wheelers attuned to a personal soundtrack best described as a gumbo of free jazz and proto-bluegrass. Don’t be surprised to see pedallers cruising the neighborhood lanes three abreast, each snapping thumb and finger in a syncopated rhythm that brings to mind a fringed surrey frozen in time by the flash of a daguerreotype camera wielded by Matthew Brady himself.

My first post-repast stop of the day is the East Chesterburg Municipal Museum, housed in a former civic building marked with a postmodern slash of architectural frippery. Entering the museum is like stepping back in time while looking into the future through a kaleidoscope of wonder. Time your visit just right and you’ll miss the rainstorm that will pass through town just a few hours before the city rolls up its sleeves for lunch.

Lovingly curated, this museum is chockablock with refreshing artifacts that reveal more about each visitor’s character than that of those who crafted them. You’ll want to linger at each exhibit to revel in the intrinsic knowledge and inspiring message it imparts. The old-world docent dozing in the corner is Mort, and he’s been manning his station for longer than anyone cares to remember. If Mort tells you to not touch something, it’s a memory you’ll cherish for the rest of your visit. A stop at the gift shop will leave your pockets full of postcards and informative brochures. Edna, the gift shop clerk, will give you $1.55 in change and a whimsical smile that says more than you think.

Stridently Moving Forward

East Chesterburg is so thoroughly trendy these days that at times it seems past retro and outside of outré. An uncounted number of people here live in town or in the suburbs, often in houses or apartments, many with driveways and garages. No taller than most people, East Chesterburgians are not often described as diminutive, though they might be if viewed from the proper distance. A formation of Canada Geese migrating overhead might be fooled into believing that the town itself is smaller than many cities, yet it is larger than others—something not every city can claim. One could live here for a hundred years and not meet every resident at least once, though you will feel as if you have, and you will.

Already hungry for lunch, I follow the recommendation of long-time resident, Herb Vouchsafe, and borrow a red bicycle which I ride to the outskirts of town to visit a rural eatery universally beloved by local omnivores. My handlebars glint in the sunshine, eliciting appreciative waves from townsfolk picking fretless banjos and crocheting socks on rickety front stoops. A quick tinkle of the bell engenders peals of laughter from the youngsters jumping rope in each schoolyard I pass.

As often happens in this city, I find the place to which I was headed exactly where it should be. Mo’s Pig House is redolent of grease and the briny elixir of a seaside fishing shack, reminding me of the winter I hitchhiked from Amsterdam to Antwerp on a foggy morning, laden with a sodden backpack, a perplexing itch and a head full of Baudelaire. You will feel exactly the same as you peruse the written synopsis of food items and pricing that serves as a menu at Mo’s. I choose a beer-battered cheeseburger with a side of crispy sweet potato fries and tart kimchee, but you may want to try the “Pig House Sampler” – a veritable pupu platter of pork pies. The water at Mo’s is free, but a word of warning: You’ll have to remember to ask.

The rain is just returning as I finish my dainty banquet and settle the bill. Swaddled in a bee-yellow poncho, I mount my two-wheeled steed and steer northeasterly to East Chesterburg’s charmingly-named “Labor Town” – a gentrified neighborhood once home to the city’s blue collar community, now a burgeoning village where artists, musicians and writers bump elbows and trade coffee-roasting tips with retired pipefitters.

Before arriving in the district, I veer to the right for a quick visit to a local used bookstore, The Wormy Book, to meet up with the city’s leading naysayer-cum-raconteur. “I realized East Chesterburg was going to be my home within 20 minutes of first arriving at the bus depot.” says Bud Skullnick, the bookstore’s Sales Team Guide. (“We don’t use hierarchical titles here,” he explains). “It had something going on that is indescribable. I guess I couldn’t imagine myself going anywhere else,” he explains while scratching the long white beard of his personal attendant, an elderly man of Asian descent. “Moreover,” he continues, fiddling a straw boater that I soon learn is his signature look, “I decided that if I was going to live here until I die, I was determined to spend every single day agitating for something to happen.” After only one day in town, I understand the sentiment, though I would be hard-pressed to explain it.

I'm introduced to another form of East Chesterburg’s agitation when I visit Stuff Mart, a cavernous repository of purposeful materials of every imaginable description. The exterior of this emporium will delight you with its medley of whimsical objects crafted from other objects, but inside it's a $5-million-a-year business overseen by a wizened man who can only be described as avuncular. Put this shop on your bucket list because it’s a sight no visitor should miss, both for its astounding variety and because it embodies the “East Chesterburg Way.”

"We move eight tons of product a day,” reports owner, William Sherwin, burning with conviction in a vintage Motorhead T-shirt and paint-splattered carpenter pants with worn knees. "The idea is to take what some people don’t want and turn it around to sell to people who want it. If we do it right, everybody’s happy. It’s the East Chesterburg Way.”

His goal, he says, "is to create a business model that can be given away to other places." One outcome is that Stuff Mart has become a popular stopover and photo opportunity for visiting dignitaries who hope to emulate East Chesterburg’s economic success, the 16% unemployment rate and junk bond rating notwithstanding. Some weeks, Mayor Sam “Slappy” Simperson is here so often you may find him catching a little shut-eye between official visits by curling up in a quiet vestibule on the premises. When you visit, he’s sure to tell you, “People all over the world want to see this. We let them watch and learn.” He will then tweet a message to his 1,480 followers: “Just told a visitor the East Chesterburg story. Awesome!”

On the Fringe

Local business boosters have been doing their best to promote East Chesterburg with a campaign that defines the town as “The New Edgy.” Gurf Franklin, creative director of a internationally renowned ad agency, Spank Spank (formerly InterModalMedia LLC), gives me a synopsis of the multimedia presentation that sold the city leaders on the campaign. “My partner, Jambo Fripp, came up with the concept of edge-seeking,” explained Franklin as a raincloud scuttered past the multi-paned windows of the former rope factory that is the firm’s creative cauldron, known affectionately by locals as “The Old Rope Factory”. Over the course of the next two-and-a-half hours, he hammers home the concept that “humankind instinctively and continuously seeks the edge … the boundary…the outer limits… the border… the outside of the envelope… terra incognito … did I mention the border?” He grasps a saltine and snaps it in half to illustrate a point that leaves me, oddly, more curious than indifferent.

The hallmark of this boosterism is the annual East Chesterburg Alternative Fringe Festival for Transgressive and Movement/Audio-Based Arts (popularly dubbed “the Alt-Trans-Fest”), which hosts 4,287 events over 13 days, ranging from macramé workshops to community pig roasts and pet swaps. Contemporary dance companies compete with dressage enthusiasts for top honors in the “So You Think You Can Prance” extravaganza at the Veterans Exposition Hall and Natatorium, while close to 2,000 local indie bands plug in at virtually every bar, diner, bowling alley, rooftop, subterranean grotto, Masonic Lodge and tented parking lot within a fourteen mile radius of downtown East Chesterburg. You’ll be hard pressed to find a single local under the age of 40 who doesn’t clamber for the coveted all-access wristband for the Alt-Trans-Fest. These “young moderns”--a common reference to members of East Chesterburg’s flamboyant youth culture--enjoy nothing more than loud music, alternative transportation, social media, distilled or fermented beverages, and tam o’shanters. When they’re not blogging and tweeting about their experiences, they open themselves to experiential learning like breaded abalone simmering in a sizzling fry pan of garlic butter.

Red-bearded, energetic, and wearing shoes that squeak when he walks, the director of an emerging social media aggregator, Parlay Jones, likes to call young East Chesterburgians “the next generation of generational change agents.” Himself an owner of 14 recumbent bicycles (one of which is a functional whiskey still), Jones loves nothing more than donning a distinctive hat and joining his youthful compatriots at any one of the hundreds of ubiquitous rolling food carts that crop up at every intersection in East Chesterburg, waiting to serve dripping slabs of deep-fried cuisine to a hungry workforce of cultural creatives.

"The food carts are all about choice,” Jones likes to say. “Every single generation but my own had no choice over what they ate—or even when they ate. Now we like to mix things up and live in the freedom of the moment, eating on the sidewalk because we can, even in the rain. It’s what puts us on the cutting edge of the food empowerment movement. Honestly, it’s what makes us better than every other city in the world. That, and our tam o-shanters.” Sitting on the curb eating fried potatoes topped with chorizo-hummus and siracha sauce is a rite of passage for every young person in town, and you’ll not want to not be one of them.

Adventures in Wayfinding

To navigate East Chesterburg, whether by bike or otherwise, you’ll have to master some basic geography. First, imagine the Toohoioliatte River (pronounce it “TOO-late” unless you want to be laughed at) smartly cleaving the city, east to west, with the north sector (home of the city's downtown) on one side, and the south (home of the city’s tree-lined neighborhoods) on the other. In the northwest quadrant, you’ll find the upscale Upland Heights and the trendy and fashionable Nebbish Hill neighborhoods. The southeast is divided by Clifford’s Gulch into the gritty Lower Southeast and plucky Upper Southeast boroughs. The northeast itself is divided by Sully Swale, which cuts diagonally from southeast to northwest, and is further divided by Little Creek running northeast to southwest, and Littler Creek meandering in such as way to strategically disrupt the entire street grid throughout what locals call “The Lost District.” Curiously, while Little Creek is descriptively named, Littler Creek is named after an early settler, Jacob Littler, and is, in fact, quite wide.

The north-west dividing line, which extends to both sides of the river, is the verdant Boulevard Park, a 700-acre urban retreat that stretches for 15 miles and widens to no more than 25 feet. Paralleled by Park Boulevard, Boulevard Park is a narrow expanse of East Chesterburg’s wildest, most deeply green aspects. Built single-handedly in 1895 by Charles Percy McFitts, an amateur landscape designer with spare time and a 25-foot-wide horse-drawn scraper, Boulevard Park originally served as le grande allée leading to an outer greenbelt that straddles one of the region’s many bifurcated divisions. Nearly doomed to death by bulldozer to accommodate what city planners hailed as “The Freeway to the Future,” Boulevard Park has been placed on the local registry as a “Regional Place of Significance and Meaning.”

Thanks to former mayor Burt Patsy’s acclaimed anti-encroachment campaign, East Chesterburg is now widely recognized as a breeding ground for innovative creativity in the green sector. It was Mayor Patsy who challenged all citizens of East Chesterburg to limit their propensity to expand, saying opaquely, “You have to crawl before you sprawl,” often adding his signature salute as he peddled away on a customized unicycle.

Nowadays, in new East Chesterburg developments, shops are built at street level to provide ease of pedestrian access, while charming lofts harken back to an era falling squarely between the industrial revolution and post-modern Scandinavia. Simply put, East Chesterburg’s social fabric is woven integrally with the warp and woof of a modern Valhalla perched on the precipice of a new tomorrow. There is simply no other way to describe it.

Of all the city's uber-green spaces, your favorite will be the East Chesterburg Sunken Gardens, found on the edge of the Northeast Outskirts district. The Sunken Garden provides a transformative descent into the intricacies of the spiritual landscape. "What makes a good sunken garden is the sense of sinkage it provides,” says Roxy Delacorte, the garden's Curator of Culture, Art and User Interfaces.

Delacorte and I walk, step-by-step, from the Squat Garden—one of five blending seamlessly, this one populated by colorful koi finning under the Moon Bridge—to the Splay Garden, a wondrously realistic simulacrum mimicking a representation of the hanging gardens of Pompeii as envisioned by an untrained and marginally sane artist. The gardens are known to engender quiet contemplation and repose in everyone who pauses to look. Quite literally, you will want to lie down on one of the graveled paths and take a short nap. The East Chesterburg Sunken Garden manages to accommodate hundreds of thousands of visitors a year without losing its air of solitude amidst the jostling of elbows and vigorous snapping from the Snapping Turtle Eco-Pond.

A World of Art and Culture

Becoming tiresome, I trade the tranquil Garden for the bustling streets of "The Gulch," epicenter of East Chesterburg’s thriving arts scene. This former mill district is now peppered with outlets of urban gastronomy and cultural brio, brimming with fine restaurants, jazz joints, cafés, and upscale handcraft knit boutiques. East Chesterburg’s legendary jelly and jam purveyor, Progesteron, occupies an entire city block at the vortex of the district—so large that a local ordinance mandates that each customer be issued a portable rescue beacon to be activated if lost. (You’ll want to devote an entire weekend to the world-famous Marmalade Room, but don’t miss the easily-overlooked Jellied-Seafood Annex).

On the second Wednesday of alternating months, a crush of art lovers moves at a measured pace from gallery to gallery, stopping only to pause at each waystation to absorb the ambiance and eat unpasteurized cheese. Wear black, or risk standing out as a tourist. Cross Street is noted for its edgy, post-modern electronica such as the interactive art exhibited at NERVE: A GALLERY! Press the blue button on artist Lurv Speckle’s anthropomorphic sculpture, "Deity", and prepare to be surprised to hear a loud “squonk” while being squirted in the eye with what you will hope is lemon juice. The local arts college attracts the most creative of creatives, and the streets and alleyways are rife with crafts of all sorts, from cast bronze gamelan gongs to spatulas made from repurposed motorcycle fenders. Don’t miss the display of papier mache sculptures filled with sugar-laden sweets that art-lovers attempt to burst open with decorated batons while giggling like schoolchildren at a Mexican hat dance.

My local tour guide, Webb Masterson, informs me that “the creative arts in the region explicate and inform people about specific landscapes and their transformation onto a higher plane of communal consideration." He goes on to say, “When East Chesterburg’s bootstrap industry collapsed, the community had a hard time picking itself up. In the end, it was the arts that did the picking up. It was the arts that made all the difference, not the tax on cigarettes, beer and paper napkins, though some disagree.” You’ll want to disagree, but remember: You’re just passing through.

Many of the gawkers on the Second Wednesday Art Promenade live in expensive lofts overlooking Corner Square, a comely plaza featuring a wading pool that ebbs in tidal reflux, but others come from highly individualistic neighborhoods in other sectors of the city connected to the center by a web of transportation options. Streamlined Bauhaus-inspired trolleys trundle over parallel steel rails in a mode of travel harkening to Jules Verne’s steam-age, while bus service delivers throngs of fun-seekers both willy and nilly. After your visit, you will remember being part of this “scene” for the rest of your life, and will look forward to the day when you can tell your great-grandchildren about it.

A Burgeoning Cultural Ecosystem at Work

Later that evening, I arrive at the northern edge of an unnamed neighborhood to take an upholstered seat in East Chesterburg’s newly renovated Barnhouse Theatre for a smidgeon of entertainment and culture. While named for local philanthropist, Philo T. Barnhouse, I am surprised to learn that the venue is, in fact, a former goat barn. You’ll be surprised to learn that too, after picking up a brochure that was handcrafted from a mid-century mimeograph press.

As the house lights dims, we hear a sharp intake of breath from the audience, signaling the start of a rousing rendition of the company’s long-running, runaway hit, “Hungry, Hungry, Housewives” –an unbridled musical homage to an era of laissez-faire sexual mores. When we stumble out, eyes a-glaze, we are drenched with sweat and chocolate sauce, satiated by the show’s innovative amalgam of ribald shtick and aerial ballet, accompanied by an 18-member cello orchestra and a lone flugelhorn, artfully blown. The audience at every show is fashionably eclectic—spiffy grunge to quasi-professorial—but mostly warmly predisposed to intimidation. At intermission, the crowd makes a beeline for the state-of-the-art soda dispenser for a frothy serving of a cucumber-raspberry infused vodka and cane-sugar daquirito. Like me, you’ll be glad you asked for artisan-harvested sea salt on the rim of your glass.

While enjoying the respite of intermission, we are captivated by a series of interactive monitors telling the history of East Chesterburg’s cultural renaissance. Jim Beevey, the theater's Manager of Community Engulfment notes, “We’re the only venue in town with a fully-functional wifi uplink to a cutting edge server that integrates each audience member’s feed to their personally-tailored, multi-layered choice of social media mode. It’s what the next generation of audience members crave, driven as they are to co-curate a communal cultural experience.” Beevey, a multitalented chap with a striped t-shirt peeking out from his unbuttoned charcoal jumpsuit, also produces the popular “East Chesterburg Happy Hour and Gallery Guide,” and plays jazz glockenspiel with a combo of like-minded devotees. Be sure to accept his invitation to an early morning of skeet shooting.

After the play, we retreat to a beguiling bistro in a narrow zone straddling two of East Chesterburg’s more piquant neighborhoods, Greek Town and Turk City. The Thanatos Café is famed for it’s aioli-smothered soutzoukakia, crisp flash-fried hakanakaloxia, fire-roasted phipholococcyxolitis, and blackened-xxyzysosakakia in red sauce. (The latter surprised me with its subtle blush of disomos, reminding me of the keftedes found on the island of Skiathos). After serving our food with a flamboyant flourish, our waiter leaps onto the table wielding an earthen, Mycaean stirrup jar from which issues a stream of ouzo to be caught directly in our open mouths. We laugh with abandon, then smash our soiled plates while shouting “Opa!” The savvy traveler will note that Dmitros does not work on Tuesdays.

An Animated Night of Repose

After a day bursting with urban-exploration and personal discovery, I am grateful to stumble to my lodging at the trendy DeLouche Hotel and Swim Club. The desk clerk stops the dance music long enough to offer me a complimentary nightcap of codeine-infused, boutique-distilled gin. I’m also given a choice of either a cruller filled with foamed bacon-grease (topped with shaved-beeswax curls), or a dollop of aerated whiskey-whip cream squirted from a vintage seltzer bottle onto a pewter teething spoon. I opt for the latter, but you may choose differently. The party in the lobby this evening is a gathering of East Chesterburg’s boho-riche supraclass, and won’t end until the bruise of dawn stretches across the surrounding plains like milk spilled on a granite countertop. Like me, you’ll be too tempted to join in the festivities, but you’ll resist.

Finally ensconced in my cozy room, I curl up under a yak skin throw rug emblazoned with custom-beaded Walt Whitman quotes, choose a magazine from a stack of vintage erotica stocked in each room, and watch the Sonny Liston/Cassius Clay fight playing in a continuous loop on a mid-century black-and-white television with no off button. I sleep like a baby, reminded only periodically that the DeLouche is built above the central distribution hub of East Chesterburg’s main post office, right next door to the All-Night Metalsmithing Collective and the Acme Bakery Supply Company. An old-school vending machine in the lobby offers noise-cancelling headphones for rent.

Sad Farewells and Fond Memories

Next day, I arise early and soon have my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of craft-roasted, artisan-brewed coffee at Caffe Assange, the dawn watering hole for East Chesterburg’s burgeoning community of life-style oriented creatives. We’re seated at a communal table sharing a bowl of deep-fried challah balls dusted with confectioner's sugar and porchetta crumbles (the café’s signature petite appétit dejeuner du jour), engaged in a lively debate about vegan cheeses, when founder and gastro-preneur Garth Feybart, announces that the café will be closing at noon—not just for the day, but forever. We gnash our teeth and trade email addresses with our fellow diners, vowing to meet again in other cities. When you visit East Chesterburg, you will be disappointed to find that Caffe Assange has already been replaced with something not quite as cool.

Too soon it is time for my visit to everybody’s new favorite city to come to a close. My cabbie, Herb “Toots” Thimpkin, bleets his horn to signal that I must take my bow. While all the world may be a stage, it is time for the curtain to fall on this play, and it does so with little drama. I’m not ashamed to report that I feel a tug of emotion as I say goodbye to the City that Rarely Dozes. As he drops me at the train station, Toots sums up my experience in a quietly reflective manner: "East Chesterburg revolves around things in ways we don’t understand. We throw our doors open and hope for the best. At heart, we’re just local people trying to be responsible and caring. You might want to bend at the knees when you lift that bag.”

NEXT STOP: West Chesterburg

Editor's Notes:

1) East Chesterburg is not a real town, nor is it meant to stand in for Portland, Oregon.

2) Astute readers and transcontinental pilots will note that the photograph at the top of this post is actually Lincoln, Nebraska.

3) The line about "colorful koi finning under the Moon Bridge," is directly plagiarized from the National Geographic article, where it was used in a description of Portland's Lan Su Garden. We apologize.

4) Some Portland natives do carry umbrellas. Travel writers who say otherwise are perpetuating a canard.

5) A canard is also a duck.

Long Time No See.

2010-11-29T15:57:00.000-08:00

Erstwhile friend and prolific blogger, Miss Laura of Art Scatter fame (that's not her in the picture), has chided and inveigled, nagged and cajoled about this site's lack of ...dismal record of...paucity of... that we haven't been posting anything lately.

"But blogging is so 2009!" I scream in response. "Twitter is the medium of the moment for cutting-edge provocateurs such as me. If it can't be said in 140 characters or less, you're saying too much."

But she's right. More than three months have passed without a peep out of me. So get off my back already. Here's something new:

November is National Novel Writing Month (popularly referred to as “NaNoWriMo”). If you’re so inclined, you can join thousands of other writers hellbent on cranking out at least 50,000 words over the span of thirty days. That works out to an average of 1,667 words per day...assuming you start on November 1st, which many diehards do at the stroke of midnight. If you procrastinate for the first ten days, you will have to average 2,500 words daily. So what's an extra 800+ words? On the other hand, if you wait until November 29th, you'll have to do 25,000 a day. Good luck with that.

Here’s what I’ve written so far:

CHAPTER 1

Marlowe Teablick entered the bookstore with a purposeful stride. An electronic chime sounded and the clerk looked up at him. Marlowe walked to the counter without stopping to browse at the display tables. He was full of purpose.

“Can I help you find something?” the clerk asked.

“I’m looking for something to read. What do you suggest?”

“Fiction or non-fiction?”

“Fiction. I’m planning to write a novel and I need inspiration,” explained Marlowe.

“Jonathan Franzen’s new novel is quite popular. Oprah endorsed it.” The clerk handed him a copy. “This one is autographed.”

Marlowe read the back cover and flipped through the book quickly. “These chapters are too long,” he said, handing the book back to the clerk. “I like short chapters so I can reach a stopping place when I get sleepy.”

“I understand,” said the clerk. “Perhaps you would enjoy a thriller.”

“That sounds good,” Marlowe answered. “I liked that DaVinci Code book and how Dan Brown ended each chapter with a cliffhanger. It made me want to keep reading.”

“Then I think you’ll really like this!” shouted the clerk as he pulled out a gleaming, 9mm Glock 17 and pointed it at Marlowe's head.

CHAPTER 2

Marlowe woke up in a bathtub full of ice...

Now, if you'll excuse me, I better get busy with the rest of it.

Notes:

1) You will find me on Twitter: @mightytoycannon

2) The second photo isn't Miss Laura either.

Notes on a Protest Song.

2010-08-13T14:54:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was directed to a ridiculous song protesting the proposed mosque near Ground Zero. The song is so over-the-top, I wondered if it was a parody written by the creators of South Park and "Team America." No, it was written by musician, songwriter and producer, Trade Martin, who has lots of real credits to his name, including a Grammy for producing albums for BB King. You can watch it here, then read my open letter to Mr. Martin.

An Open Letter to Trade Martin,

Dear Mr. Martin:

I watched a video of your song, WE'VE GOT TO STOP THE MOSQUE AT GROUND ZERO. It made me laugh, but I don’t think that was your goal. It also reminded that there are bigots like you in the world. But let’s set aside your jingoistic politics for a moment and talk about songwriting.

You open with these lines:

We’ve got freedom of religion, I understand,
But Ground Zero is one location where a mosque shouldn’t stand.

(1) The phrase “I understand” is both weak and misleading. Right away we know that a “but” is coming. What you’re saying is, “I accept that some of you care about freedom of religion, but too bad.” I don’t think you really understand anything about it at all. Be bold, Trade. Say what you mean. Like this:

Your freedom of religion is getting’ in my way.
A Mosque at Ground Zero will totally ruin my day.

(2) In my book, rhyming “understand” with “stand” is cheating. If you’re locked into “I understand,” perhaps the second line can read, “A mosque at Ground Zero is something that should be banned.” (Better yet: “shit canned”).

(3) The phrase “but Ground Zero is one location” is awkward. You’ve twisted the sentence around just to get the right number of beats and a rhyme at the end. Keep it simple: “A mosque shouldn’t stand at Ground Zero.” I suggest "hero" as the rhyme for "zero."

Enough of that couplet. Let’s look at some more lines from your song:

Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred place and that’s a cold hard fact.

(1) Did you forget that non-Americans died in the attack too? That may not be important to you.

(2) You do realize that “attack” and “fact” don’t rhyme, right? I’m sensing a pattern here. I suggest you try a little harder.

(3) “Cold hard fact” is a cliché. I suspect that you have a weakness for clichés.

We can fix both of those problems with a few changes. May I suggest the following?

Thousands of innocents were viciously attacked.
Now it’s time for all of us to fight the bastards back.

Did you like the addition of “viciously” and “bastards.” I thought you would. By the way, if you ever decide to protest street vendors selling hot dogs near Ground Zero, you could use this:

Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred location, not a place to get a snack.

Moving on, let’s look at another set of lines:

It’s a painful memory in our minds.
Our hearts keep breaking when we envision that tragic time.

(1) Is it necessary to give our painful memories a location? Where else would our memories be, if not in our minds? Oh. Muscle memory. Never mind.

(2) I hate to be a broken record, but rhyming “minds” with “time” is a stretch. Forget it. I give up. I’m not going to win on this point.

(3) Kudos for having the listener “envision” that terrible time. So much classier than just remembering it or thinking about it.

Moving on:

God help us retain the honor and trust,
For all the families that have suffered so damn much.

(1) I said I’d stop complaining about the weak rhymes, but “trust” and “much”? You can do better, Trade.

(2) Your church-going listeners might be troubled by “damn much” showing up so close to families, especially suffering families. Watch the salty language.

(3) A few alternatives to consider:

God help us retain the honor and trust
As we go out and find some heads to bust.

God help us retain the trust and honor
Of all of those Americans who are now goners.

God help us, the trust and honor to retain
For all the families who’ve got suffering in their brains.

(That last one might need some tweaking).

Final section, then I’ll let you get back to your songwriting:

If we let them build it, can’t you see,
They’ll turn 9/11 into a mockery.

(1) Moving the “can’t you see” to the end of the line is an old songwriting trick to get to the easy rhyme, but it sounds unnatural. It’s like saying, “I love you so much, don’t you know?” Or “You are my sweetheart, I do declare.”

(2) Bravo on rhyming “can’t you see” with “mockery.” You might get the hang of this yet.

(3) I might have gone with something like this:

Can’t you see, we can’t let them build it.
'Cause there’s hole at Ground Zero and we haven’t yet filled it.

One last thing: After the song ends and the credits show, we hear a recording of George W. Bush shouting in the megaphone with his infamous taunt, “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you.”

The video editor repeats the final “hears you” over and over until it starts to sound like Bush is saying “air Jew, air Jew, air Jew.” Is there a hidden message there?

For God's Sake! Let's talk about arts education.

2010-07-09T20:01:00.000-07:00

Two things I try to avoid in my blog posts:

1) Serious stuff.

2) God stuff.

Allow me to deviate briefly from this policy.

In the latest edition of her weekly e-mail message, the Executive Director of the Theatre Communications Group, Teresa Eyring, raised questions about President Obama’s educational reform programs, noting growing concern about the Administration’s narrow focus on math, science, testing and accountability.

Ms. Eyring’s post included a link to a letter that the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA sent to the President. (The group claims to represent 36 Christian communions with a combined membership of 45 million persons in more than 100,000 congregations across the nation; i.e., a lot of Christians).

The letter began by stating the group's common conviction “that the church is called to speak for justice in public education.” It went on to affirm “that our society’s provision of public education—publicly funded, universally available, and accountable to the public—while imperfect, is essential for ensuring that all children are served.”

Despite the prevailing theological tone, these folks make damned good sense. God bless 'em. You can read the entire letter if you want, or you can save time by letting me excerpt the important sections. The first statement is what caught my attention and had me saying, "Yeah! Right on!"

We reject the language of business for discussing public education.

Not only has the language of the marketplace entered discussions of school governance and management, but we also notice that the language of business accountability is used to talk about education, a human endeavor of caring...We worry that our society has come to view what is good as what can be measured and compared... The relentless focus on testing basic skills has diminished our attention to the humanities, the social studies, the arts, and child and adolescent development.

We value public school educators.

Our biblical heritage and our theology teach us that we live in community, not solely in the marketplace. As we strive to move our imperfect world closer to the realm of God, we recognize that we are all responsible for making sure that public schools, as primary civic institutions, embody our love for one another. We are called to create institutions that serve families and children with hospitality. We are called to work as citizens for the resources that will support a climate of trust and community within each public school. We are also called to value those whose vocation is teaching... Wholesale scapegoating of public school teachers is an ugly and unfortunate development in federal policy.

Full Disclosure: I am the product of the public education system. I am also the product of parents who were educators in public schools. Also, my grandmother was an educator. My sister too. Oh, friends as well.

Independence Day Reloaded (And Recycled)

2010-07-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

One year ago, Sarah Palin quit her post as Governor of Alaska. Her inane resignation speech inspired me to adopt her voice in a rewrite of the Declaration of Independence. I republish the results here for your holiday amusement:

Don’t you know that sometimes we the people have got to do what we got to do. We can't keep playing the politics as usual game by stickin’ with each other just because that's the way the big powers want it to be. Sometimes you have to strike out on your own, listening to your heart and praying for guidance.

But, yes, you need to explain to the people so they understand why you’re doing that and all. Though--this is funny--my mother has a sign in her scullery that says, "Don’t bother explaining yourself. Your friends don’t need it, and King George won’t listen!" Now that's what I call a self-evident truth! {wink}

Anyhoo, here’s what I’m thinking and being guided by the good Lord to say. First thing: Everybody, even the little guy from a real town or farm is just as equal as a big-time Philadelphian or Londoner. Even Bartholomew the Ironmonger has got to have rights like Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. And Energy! People have a right to energy independence too.

To hold on to these rights as tightly as I'm holding my beautiful son Trig, you sometimes have to let government take care of things. But that doesn’t mean you have to accept politics as usual. And you need the people that you’re governing to agree to that and all. Because that's what this is really about. The people. And that’s not government interference they want! No sir.

But, you know -- and I want to say this straight to my fellow colonists and not have it filtered by the towncrier and those broadside printers. (And Lord knows that Benjamin Franklin guy with his sayings and his 'gotcha games'). So let it be said, when government gets big and corrupt, sometimes you need to pass the ball and play a different kind of game by standing up. I choose to stand up. I'm not wired to sit down and hit my head against the wall.

Life is too short to plod along and listen to the people who say, "Just quiet down and pay your excise taxes" or tell you to just "go with the flow." Nah, only dead fish go with the flow. I choose to fight. I fight for you so we can build up! National security and small government. Saying no to the big interests and standing up for freedom and our troops. We need to support our troops and all that they have ultimately sacrificed with their blood. We need to say "No more tyranny!" to King George so we can progress this nation along the path that Jesus wants us to progress it on.

Thomas Jefferson wrote a few things about this same thing and is doing that politics thing of getting other powerful interests to sign it. You just know, don't you, that he's going to use that fancy way of talking like they do in Virginia. That kind of talk is all just words and everything. I wanted to tell you straight, without all the sugar coating and the “whereas” and “wherefores” which get in the way of telling you what people need to hear.

So there, I’ve said it. Some of you will question the timing of my declaration. Sure, I could have waited until summer was over, but jiminy-cricket, it’s the Fourth of July people! This is the day God intended us to declare our independence. So now Todd and my wonderful family are going to roast some meats and put on a Chinese gunpowder display. Thank you.

Bang! Boom! Bang!

2010-06-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

The Fourth of July will be here in five days. That means it's time time for fireworks to start erupting prematurely.

I imagine this conversation has already started:

"Dude! I just drove to Vancouver and spent $200 on fireworks!"

"Cool. I can't wait until the Fourth of July is here."

"Me neither. I suppose we could light off a few tonight."

"Righteous! Let's do it!"

"I mean after it's dark and everything."

"That's cool. I can wait until dark."

"Well, just a few right now wouldn't hurt. I got plenty. Maybe just the loud ones. I'm gonna save the sparkly ones for nighttime."

"All right! Got a lighter?"

"Yeah. Hand me a beer first."

Today's Oregonian was graced by a full page ad for fireworks placed by an outfit named "The Bomber Brothers."

At the top of the ad is this warning:

Products in this ad are for sale and use in Washington only."

In the middle of the ad is this reminder:

No July 5th sales this year. Don't forget to stock up!

Let that be a warning to you.

In honor of Independence Day, I’ve taken the liberty (get it?) of categorizing the various product names from this morning’s ad. I only made up one of them.

JINGOISTIC:

American Rhythm
American Intensity
The Whole Empire
Wave with Pride

SOCIOPATHIC:

Fear No Evil
Utter Chaos
Loyal to None
Gangster

MENTAL HEALTH RELATED:

Mr. Happy
Crazy Excited on Steroids
Hopped Up
Cuckoo
Impossible Dream

NATURE RELATED:

Lady Bugs
Small Bees
Killer Bees
Yellow Jackets
Green Hornets
Ground Bloom Flowers
Magic Crystal

MILITARY THEMED:

Attack Vehicle
Black Hawk Helicopter
Victory Celebration
Parachute Battalion
Secret Weapon
Buzz Bomb

FONT RELATED

Arial (sic) Assault

DESCRIPTIVE (in order of intensity):

Flicker
Kaleidoscope
Pop Goes the Fountain
Fireworks Fiesta
Fast & Furious
Big Finish
One Bad Mother
One Bad Mother-in-Law
Holy @%&$, It’s LOUD!

IMPRESSIONISTIC:

Blue Stars
Desert at Night
Garden in Spring
Rouen Cathedral, Symphony in Grey and Rose

Aborted Blog Posts: Edition #1

2010-06-15T20:56:00.000-07:00

This long-form blogging is hard compared to the wham-bam world of Twitter with its 140 character constraints. It's easy to start a blog post. Finishing one is a different colored horse.

As I've been cleaning out my cluttered computer recently, I've been finding document files with cryptic titles. Upon opening some, I've rediscovered the beginnings of blog posts that I never finished. Ideas that never cohered. Writing prompts that prompted nothing. Drafts that eventually bored me. I have decided to post some of these without further editing or explanation. Here's the first one:

Despite an outward air of youthful sprightliness, and discounting the elan with which I embrace modern ways, I’m getting old. I’m reminded of this fact when I lumber down the stairs in the morning in a cruel parody of Walter Brennan. The reference to Walter Brennan confirms my condition.

I probably started than on my last birthday. I don't remember where I planned to go with it. I suspect that I was sidetracked while looking for a YouTube clip of Walter Brennan, like this one from the fabulous Howard Hawks film "To Have and Have Not" starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall:

Or maybe this fun compilation from "Rio Bravo" with John Wayne:

The Oregon Telephone Herald Co.-- It's Information, Inspiration and Amusement

2010-06-12T08:41:00.000-07:00

Recent research indicates that the proliferation of cell phone signals may be causing bee populations to dwindle (also known as “Colony Collapse Disorder”).

What? Man-made activity wreaking environmental havoc? In this modern age of technological wonder and universal high-mindedness? I don't want to believe it.

Is a dying bee colony the new version of the canary in the coal mine? Could our modern communication demands be creating unintended consequences?

This could be a serious problem:

No Bees = No Pollination = No Food = We All Die.

Okay, so that would be bad. But wouldn’t it be worse if we couldn’t use our cell phones and wireless connections to tell each other how we’re feeling about it?

We’ve grown accustomed to technology connecting us with our world by providing a fat pipeline of information, entertainment and, increasingly, social interaction. But at what cost?

Two years ago, in an article in The Atlantic titled, "Is Google Making Us Stupid," Nicholas Carr questioned whether the internet was not only changing our habits, but actually rewiring our brains. He starts the story this way:

Over the past few years I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory. My mind isn’t going—so far as I can tell—but it’s changing. I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I’m reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle.

Full disclosure: I didn't read the whole article because it was in The Atlantic and I just don't have that kind of attention span.

Carr expands on the article in a newly published book, "The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to our Brains." In his review of Carr's book for the New York Times, Jonah Lehrer put our anxiety about techonology into historical context:

Socrates started what may have been the first technology scare. In the 'Phaedrus,' he lamented the invention of books, which 'create forgetfulness' in the soul. Instead of remembering for themselves, Socrates warned, new readers were blindly trusting in 'external written characters.' The library was ruining the mind."

Which brings me to what I really wanted to do with this blog post. Several months ago, while surfing the interwebs, serendipity led me to a fascinating bit of Portland history involving early forms of media and communication.

Nearly a century ago, the Oregon Telephone Herald Company sought to deliver news and entertainment to subscribers via dedicated telephone lines. The advertisements promised to deliver, “Music, Songs, Parts of Play from Theatres, and our own special artists every Evening from 6 to 12 P.M., also the World’s and local news as it happens 8 A.M. to Midnight.”

“Demonstration parlors,” at which prospective subscribers could listen to transmissions, were set up in Portland, including one at the Hotel Multnomah and another in the 7th floor restroom at Meier & Frank, of all places.

The first practical system of telephone-based news and entertainment had been established in Budapest, Hungary in the 1893. Two years later, an article in Harper’s Weekly was critical, arguing that the city, “must be the finest place for illiterate, blind, bedridden, and incurably lazy people in the world. It would not appear, however, that a telephone newspaper is of value as time-saving device, or that it is any less devastating to the faculties than a modern journal which distributes its news in the ordinary way.”

A story titled, "The Pleasure Telephone," in the September 1898 issue of The Strand painted a rosier picture: “It will make millions merry who have never been merry before, and will democratize, if we may so write, many of the social luxuries of the rich. Those who object to the environment of the stage will be able to enjoy the theatre at home, and the fashionable concert will be looked forward to as eagerly by the poor as by their wealthy neighbours. The humblest cottage will be in immediate contact with the city, and the ‘private wire’ will make all classes kin."

(My favorite line: "Those who object to the environment of the stage will be able to enjoy the theatre at home...").

The entrepreneurs who tried to bring this new form of media to Portland failed. That failure could be blamed on technological limitations; amplifiers to boost the signal high enough to transmit by wire over distances had not been invented yet. Perhaps they were simply unable to bring the idea "to scale" with enough subscribers to cover the costs of building the infrastructure needed. A decade or so later, radios were in common use and the mega-media moguls were beginning to lick their lips and rub their hands together rapaciously.

Here we are, just a century later, tucking magical, miniature marvels of mass media into our pockets so we can be in touch at every possible moment. What's next?

Hat Tip to: earlyradiohistory.us for the background and advertisements for the Oregon Telephone Herald Co.

Make is Now

2010-06-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

Spotted this morning taped to light poles in downtown Portland:

Dear Portland,

Thank you for saving the Made in Oregon sign. We heard you want to put your name on it. Before you do, consider an option that changes only one letter.

Make in Oregon.

Oregon is for makers. From food and beverages to bikes and clothing to art and music, Oregon makes. Oregon makes wool and cheese and berries and memories.

The sign should be a symbol of who we are, not just where we are. By changing its tense, we put Portland in the present while highlighting Oregon as the state that makes things.

Made is past. Make is now.

makeinoregon.com

This is how it might look:

Whaddya think? Is it better than the hideous neon rose that Commissioner Randy Leonard insisted be planted on top of the Oregon Visitor Center on the Waterfront?

I stole that photo from the Portland Mercury, but they won't care because they like all the attention.

Bourbon Jockey: The Documentary Proof

2010-05-25T18:02:00.001-07:00

Last week, I participated in a form of collaborative creative engagement that contributed to building cultural community. In lay terms: I played music with a band in a bar for beer.

My fellow music-makers and I (a.k.a. Bourbon Jockey) appeared at Roots Organic Brewing Company in Southeast Portland. We were the evening headliners, as evidenced by our name written prominently on the chalkboard by the door.

We had fun. We helped the establishment move some beer. The people who left when we started to play were planning to leave anyway, and good riddance to them. We kept the volume to a level that allowed amiable conversation by those who were willing to shout at each other. Friends, family and strangers mixed. No fights broke out.

In addition to myself (intrepid front man), Matthew Jones (on upright bass) and Alan Cole (on other guitar), we were accompanied by a young fellow we call “Conga Dave” on account of not knowing his full name. When we last played at Roots, Alan left the stage in the middle of a tune, announcing “I’m going to see if they have a conga drum somewhere.” He rooted around a storage closet and retrieved said drum, then called one of his Lewis & Clark students up on stage to join us. With that simple act, Bourbon Jockey acquired a drummer. We invited Conga Dave to play along last week, though we neglected to confirm whether the closet at Roots still contained a conga drum. It didn’t, so Dave improvised with a few buckets, a shaker and a tambourine played with his foot. In the parlance of musicologists, he employed idiophones rather than a membranophone, but we don't need to get technical about it.

I pulled some video from the bar's security cameras for the benefit and edification of fans who were too stove up to make it out on Thursday night.

1) This first one is a Tom Waits song from whence we derived our name: “Jockey Full of Bourbon.” Sorry about my massive cabeza filling the frame.

2) This next one captures the Bourbon Jockey spirit. While we were playing, we noticed a lone fellow in the corner playing along on a concertina. He was also dressed as a pirate. We coaxed him out front to join us in an impromptu rendition of the Hank Williams classic, “Jambalaya.”

3) A little blues and testifying, with our version of the T-Bone Walker tune, "Stormy Monday" in which I blow on a harmonica and yell.

4) You're still here? Well then here's our take on "Route 66."

If you're hankering for more (and who wouldn't be?) you can find a few more videos on YouTube. Search for "Bourbon Jockey Roots Brewing" to find them. Or not.

We'll be back sometime in June, so put a hold on your entire calendar for the month. I'll keep you posted.

Bourbon Jockey Live!

2010-05-19T22:49:00.000-07:00

Did I mention that the amateur musical ensemble with which I make joyous music will be performing at Roots Organic Brewing Company on Thursday, May 20, 2010? You are invited to join the festivities anytime from 8:00 to 11:00 or so. This won't be a "concert," so don't worry about arriving on time, staying through the whole set, or even paying much attention to what we're doing. Consider our music to be a soundtrack to drinking beer and hanging out with friends.

We'll be wailing and caterwauling through an ever-growing list of songs from the Great American Honky Tonk Song Book. In honor of flooding and oil spills, we'll be singing tunes from Nashville and New Orleans. We'll cover everything from Hank Williams to Tom Waits, from Fats Domino to Fats Waller. We might even let you sing along. All are invited to become Bourbonites by joining our fan club, The Bourbon Dynasty. It'll be fun.

I usually don cowboy boots and hat for these gigs, but I'm thinking of showing up in this getup:

In case you can't read the small print, here's the oh-so-sexy ad copy:

One easy piece.

Because one is enough, when it’s you. Show where you’re headed in the ultimate fashion climax.

Fits so tight it shows all you’ve got …you’re a walking turn-on. And treats your body as well as she does.

Easy on, easy off, quick as a flick of her tongue. Sexy cool crinkle cloth for those hot nights to come. Designed with your desires in mind …she’ll eat you alive in it.

The Big Zip in 50% polyester/50% cotton. Long-sleeved in rust, blue or black. Short-sleeved in natural, blue or camel.

Are you man enough to fill it?

$45

Of Your Assistance I Implore

2010-05-16T12:48:00.000-07:00

Dearest fellow,

I humbly seek your most urgent attention for a matter of most import. To my attention has come news that a musical group of note by which is known as “Bourbon Jockey” will be performing at your city at the soonest Thursday night from this date. It has been my dream of my lifetime to enjoy such musical pleasure in the city of Portland Orgon.

My late-uncle, who was most fortunate to be Minister of Foreign Culture in the nation of Nigeria before his recent death, wished me to have this absurd pleasure. Having wished that for me and to assure such would take place, he placed a sum of $3,000,000 million US dollars in a secret account. This sum to be used to travel me to listen to your Bourbon Jockey, of which I am biggest fan, on May 20, 2010 at Roots Organic Brewing Company.

Having demised unfortunately of an accident, my uncle failed to leave instructions regarding the sending of this money to my account for the purpose of hearing Bourbon Jockey. My remaining relatives which are of evil intention have made to block me from my due right to this sum. More so, I am locked in a closet and prevented from all person contact except by the internets.

Of favor to me and in interest of your enjoyment of fine music, I am implore you to visit the Bourbon Jockey performance on May 20, 2010. It is of my knowledge that Bourbon Jockey makes western music of roots variety for the enjoyment of the people and the drinking of the beer.

I ask of your assistance to please attend this most important event for to write to me describing its wonders after its completion. This way I will have enjoyment too. Also, it would be of true assistance to also send me your bank account number and all codes which are necessary for making it of access to me.

For learning more, one may read of the famous Bourbon Jockey in this writing of blog from many months ago.

Sincerely and with honest hope,

Mrs. Martha Kwesi Ubunde

WHO: BOURBON JOCKEY featuring Mighty Toy Cannon

WHEN: Thursday, May 20, 2010. From 8:00-ish to Whenever-ish

WHERE: Roots Organic Brewing Co., 1530 SE 7th, Portland OR

HOW: By the plucking of stringed instruments, vocalization and blowing of reeds.

WHY: Why not? You know you want to.

WHO, EXACTLY, IS BOURBON JOCKEY?

Ross McKeen (aka Mighty Toy Cannon): Vocal, Guitar, Harmonica
Matthew Jones (aka Mr. Jones): Bass
Alan Jones (aka The Perfesser): Guitar and harmony vocals
+ Mystery Guest Percussionist known only as Conga Dave

The turnaround king turns Portland around.

2010-05-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I joined a few hundred colleagues to hear Michael Kaiser, President of the Kennedy Center, give his “Arts In Crisis” talk – a sermon he’s been delivering on a nationwide tour over the past year. Portland was stop number 55 on the gospel circuit, with Portland Center Stage’s Gerding Theatre standing in for the big white tent.

The stop before Portland? Pierre, South Dakota, population 13,000. (Bonus Points for correct pronunciation of Pierre).

Kaiser has been hailed as “the turnaround king” and called a “transformational leader” based on his record of pulling the fat out of the fire for several struggling arts companies. In his talks, his books, and on his blog, he’s been urging arts leaders to keep investing in producing great, exciting art, rather than allowing the challenges of the recession turn us into boring cowards. We also need to continue investing in marketing (“institutional marketing” in particular). "You can't save your way to financial health," he argues.

One of the event's hosts, the Oregon Arts Commission, encouraged me to blog about it, recognizing my tremendous reach as a thought leader. They didn’t know that I would spend a full 45 minutes coming up with the following:

Michael Kaiser is recognized throughout the universe as the gold standard of gurus. He is both the real deal and the beau ideal—an exemplar of expertise and a paragon of perspicacity. There is no other way to describe him other than by using words like nonpareil, or words that mean the same thing. Some may disagree, but none will dispute that he is arguably the apotheosis of arts administration."

My point being that I don’t know what I’m doing.

Then I remember that I’m not a journalist. I’m an aggregator. My job is to point you in the direction of my betters. In this case (as is often the case) there’s none better than Lisa Radon, one of Portland’s finest arts journalists. Lisa tweeted throughout the talk with one hand while taking notes with another and waving to admirers with another. You can read her smart blog post summarizing Kaiser's talk here. Rumor has it that a video of the talk will be available, as will something they want me to believe is actually called a “podcast.”

Honestly, I went to the event with the stainless steel pump that is my heart primed with liquified natural gas. I prepared for the session by stretching my eye-rolling muscles and practicing my deep sigh technique. I jotted a few crib notes to remind me of choice interjections I might want to shout, such as:

"You wish!"
"In what parallel universe?"
"That's a smart observation. NOT!"
"Yeah...right."

Instead, I was transformed. Well, “transformed” is a little strong. Inspired and a motivated may be better adjectives. When I have the time, I might think about writing more on the topic.

The colleagues with whom I spoke afterwards shared the warm glow. One well-respected arts leader (fictional) went so far as to say, "The only thing that would have made the event more inspiring is if Kaiser were Justin Bieber and we were 12 year old girls."

Here are pictures of Michael Kaiser and Justin Bieber making secret hand gestures to their respective fans.

Beltane

2010-04-30T16:01:00.000-07:00

Growing up, my family has always had a May Day tradition. It was taught to me and my sisters by our mother, she and her sister learned it from their mother, and I suspect my grandmother was taught it from her mother as well. I am now teaching it to my sons. I didn’t realize it until recently, but this tradition of ours is steeped in Beltane ritual.

In our family, we call May 1st “Dew Day.” According to folklore, the dew on May 1st has magical properties. When we wake in the morning, we do not say a word until we go outside and wash our faces in the fresh dew. This is supposed to bring one year of health and luck; and (especially for young women) a clear complexion.

I can’t find any fixed reference to silence in the morning on May Day. Perhaps it was a concoction by my grandmother for a few extra moments of peace and quiet. Nonetheless, it has become a part of our tradition. As children we used to place notes at our bedsides and on the bathroom mirror to remind ourselves not to talk and risk breaking the spell.

It is interesting to me that preceding generations in my rather conservative family would honor a Beltane ritual. Pagans, they are not. And for them to have chosen a ritual that is closely associated with a celebration of fertility is even more astounding. I wonder if they even knew.

Beltane is celebrated around May 1st, the midway point between the vernal equinox and the summer solstice. In ancient times, it marked the arrival of summer with celebrations of new life, rebirth, and fertility. Beltane is celebrated throughout the world and while customs may vary somewhat, much of the ritual and celebration remains the same.

The most popular belief among pagans is that the word Beltane means “bale fire.” Even today bale fires are lit all over Ireland and England on May eve, just as they were in the past. The Beltane fires were huge fires to welcome back the sun for the light half of the year. The smoke and ashes also offered luck, purification, and protection (especially for crops and livestock).

Celebrations include frolicking through the countryside, maypole dancing, leaping over fires to ensure fertility, circling the fire three times (sun-wise) for good luck in the coming year, feasting, music, gathering flowers, and lovers going A-Maying (traditionally, into the woods for a night of passion).

I love that our small family ritual is rooted in such rich history. So tomorrow when we rise, I will silently gather my children and lead them outside to the chilly morning air and the fresh dew. We’ll wash our faces in the grass, breathe in the earthiness of early morning, and wander through the garden welcoming new growth.

New Poet Laureate Named (and it's not who I thought it might be)

2010-04-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

This just arrived as an e-mail message from the Oregon Arts Commission. I'm poaching it here so I can link to it since I can't find a press release online yet.

Governor Appoints Paulann Petersen as Oregon’s Sixth Poet Laureate

(Salem) – Governor Ted Kulongoski has named Paulann Petersen of Portland to a two-year appointment as poet laureate of Oregon. Petersen will be Oregon’s sixth poet laureate since 1921 when Edwin Markham first took the post. She succeeds Lawson Fusao Inada of Medford, who held the post since 2006.

“Paulann Petersen is the perfect choice to serve as Oregon’s poet laureate,” said Governor Kulongoski. “Her wonderful poetry and her commitment to sharing her craft with the people of Oregon through her teaching and service exemplify the kind person that is ideal to serve in this position.”

Paulann Petersen was born and raised in Oregon and spent half of her adult life in Klamath Falls. She is a widely published poet, with four collections – The Wild Awake (2002), Blood-Silk (2004), A Bride of Narrow Escape (2006) and Kindle (2008) – and several chapbooks to her credit. Petersen has received several awards, including Stanford University’s Wallace Stegner Fellowship in Poetry, two Carolyn Kizer Poetry Awards, and Literary Art’s Stewart Holbrook Award for Outstanding Contributions to Oregon’s Literary Life.

Petersen is a committed teacher who has taught high school English and led dozens of workshops schools libraries, colleges, and writer’s conferences across Oregon. Petersen is an active board member of the Friends of William Stafford, Oregon’s fourth poet laureate, and organized the William Stafford Birthday Celebration each January. That celebration has now expanded to 58 events, 40 of them in Oregon.

In February, the Oregon Cultural Trust and partners solicited nominations in a public process. A committee of writers, poets and cultural leaders considered 17 nominations submitted from around the state for the post. The poet laureate position is a collaborative project of the state’s five statewide cultural partners, Oregon Arts Commission, Oregon Heritage Commission, Oregon Historical Society, Oregon Humanities and State Historic Preservation Office, with funding from the Oregon Cultural Trust. The position is funded with a stipend of $10,000 per year for the poet laureate’s work, with an additional $10,000 available to support the laureate’s travel and other expenses.

Editorial Note: I particularly like this one:

Miracle

The wonder isn't that lightning
strikes where it does, but that it doesn't
strike everywhere. Specifically me.
It isn't the frequency of car crashes,
but their infrequency. Traffic flicks along
in its speed and perplexity, each move,
each surge a potential disaster.

The heart beats out its strange
litany of the enormously possible,
never excluding disease and stricture.
Why does my blood run so easy and warm?
This is the wonder: me approaching
the traffic light just turned yellow,
my foot pressing my trust down
into the brake, the car in agreement
coming steady steady to a stop.

—Paulann Petersen

From Prairie Schooner, Volume 73, No. 2, and
A Bride of Narrow Escape, Cloudbank Books, 2005.

UPDATE: The Oregonian's Jeff Baker takes the reporting of this story a step further by writing something original about it, rather than regurgitating the press release. You can find his story here.

You're going to feel a slight prick

2010-04-23T13:42:00.000-07:00

I first wrote about this over a year ago, but the big, giant acupuncture needles that Adam Kuby has designed to bring attention to certain aspects of our fair city are about to be installed. Three Portland Acupuncture Project needles are being installed this weekend at Mt. Tabor Reservoir, Kelly Point Park, and Tom McCall Waterfront Park just south of the Hawthorne Bridge. (I've always loved that bridge.) They will remain for about two months before being moved to other locations.

No word on when the Voodoo Doll Project begins.

Talking regional arts funding

2010-04-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, I participated in a discussion of a regional arts funding plan. Here's a video synopsis of what I heard.

I'm kidding, of course, and promise to write about it in a more serious tone soon.

TV Turnoff Week

2010-04-19T21:51:00.000-07:00

It’s National TV Turnoff Week. I’ve got to admit, when I read this announcement to my husband today, we both sort or shrugged and said, “Eh, that’s not really us.”

We are a bit behind the times. Just a few years ago, my mother-in–law accused us of living in the 1950s. It’s only in the last two years that we’ve gotten cell phones and rid ourselves of ridiculously slow dial-up. And so far we’ve avoided the manacles of cable TV.

I do however see the effects of TV on my children—my 4-year-old, Gabe, in particular. Like us, he doesn’t watch often, maybe one or two hours a week. But not a day goes by that he doesn’t ask if he can watch TV or play computer games online. And when I say, “No,” he responds, “What? No screen time AT ALL?!?” As if I were denying him food, light, friendship. He starts first thing in the morning and will ask several times throughout the course of the day. Of course, the more he asks, the more likely my answer will be “no.” I’m perverse that way.

So I can see how it could be a problem; especially in a family where TV watching is more the norm. I was curious to read some statistics from the Center for Screen-Time Awareness:

INTERESTING FACTS ABOUT TV
• Number of 30-second commercials seen in a year by an average child: 20,000
• Number of minutes per week that parents spend in meaningful conversation with their children: 38.5
• Number of minutes per week that the average child watches television: 1,680
• Percentage of children ages 6-17 who have TV's in their bedrooms: 50
• Percentage of day care centers that use TV during a typical day: 70
• Hours per year the average American youth spends in school: 900 hours
• Hours per year the average American youth watches television: 1500
• Percentage of Americans that regularly watch television while eating dinner: 66

This doesn’t make me feel smug. I get it. This was my family growing up. I remember how awkward it felt on the rare night my mother would insist on turning off the TV during dinner. How we all stared at our plates, our hands, or out the window. Not really knowing how—or even wanting—to deal with each other. It’s a tough habit to break. (And while I’m not big on TV, I waste way more time on the computer than I care to admit.)

We live in a time-crunched culture. But some of our biggest time-eaters are our computer, TV, and phone screens. What could our lives be like without these distractions?

SOME ALTERNATIVE ACTIVITIES FOR CHILDREN AND FAMILIES
1. Volunteer in a school to teach reading, math, computer skills.
2. Learn to play the guitar or other musical instrument.
3. Attend community concerts.
4. Organize a community clean-up.
5. Put together a puzzle.
6. Visit the library. Borrow a book. Attend library activities.
7. Go ice skating or roller skating.
8. Listen to the radio.
9. Visit the zoo.
10. Paint a picture, a mural or a room.
11. Attend a high school sporting event.
12. Find out about your area's community center or park's activities.
13. Go swimming. Join a community swim team.
14. Read a book aloud to your younger sister/brother.
15. Plan a picnic or barbecue.
16. Go bird watching.
17. Volunteer for a community organization or charity.
18. Play with your pet.
19. Go dancing.
20. Write a letter to a friend or relative.
21. Learn to cook.
22. Plant a flower, vegetable or herb garden.
23. Read magazines or newspapers.
24. Plan a slumber party.
25. Start a neighborhood basketball, soccer, or kickball game.
26. Go camping (even if it's just in the backyard!).
27. Join a choir.
28. Go through your closets and clothes. Donate surplus items to Goodwill, the Salvation Army or a local rummage sale.
29. Start a diary/journal.
30. Go to a museum.
31. Take a nature hike. Collect seeds and leaves. Make a collage with the materials you collected and post it on the refrigerator.
32. Play cards.
33. Start a community exercise group that power walks, runs, or bikes.
34. Read a story to your younger brother or sister.
35. Get out the family photo album. Research your family history.
36. Go listen to a local band.
37. Make crafts to give as gifts.
38. Make up a story and write it down.
39. Learn to say simple phrases in a few different languages.
40. Ask an older family member to tell you a story about his or her childhood. Write about it.
41. Learn some new riddles or jokes.
42. Bake two batches of cookies; one for your family and one for a neighbor.
43. Watch the night sky through binoculars; identify the different constellations. Observe the moon.
44. Visit a local bookstore.
45. Go to a movie with your family or friends.
46. Walk to work or school.
47. Start a kids bowling league.
48. Train for a 5K race.
49. Teach a neighbor about a computer program.
50. Go fishing.
51. Begin a family project.
52. Just BE.

"I really didn't like TV-Turnoff Week except that I did notice
that my grades went up and I was in a good mood all week."
—Second grader Drew Henderson, Donora, PA

It’s TV Turnoff Week. What are you going to do with yourself?

Catching up on National Poetry Month

2010-04-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

Jenny Wren’s recent post reminded me that April is National Poetry Month. On the long list of responsibilities about which Culture Shock has been remiss, the failure to honor poesy this month ranks near the top. Let’s see if we can remedy this situation just a bit.

Someone somewhere in the recent sometime (and probably on Twitter) led me to the following bit of rhyme by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. From my extensive research (i.e., Wikipedia), I learned that the poet was a feminist firebrand around the start of the 20th century, writing such radical ideas:

It is not that women are really smaller-minded, weaker-minded, more timid and vacillating, but that whosoever, man or woman, lives always in a small, dark place, is always guarded, protected, directed and restrained, will become inevitably narrowed and weakened by it."

Her poem “A Conservative” is timely in this season of teabaggery. It's more fun if you read it out loud with feeling.

A CONSERVATIVE
Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935)

The garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly,
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, "What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store:" -
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.

Cried he, "My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur - a joy to view -
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!"

At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
"You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!

"I do not want to fly," said he,
"I only want to squirm!"
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm:
"I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!"

O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this, -
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.

Welcome to Portland: Hamlet on the Willamette

2010-04-17T08:19:00.000-07:00

I find perverse pleasure in reading bad travel writing. The worst of the genre leans on the crutches of stereotype and generality.

The writer doesn’t say, “One rainy day in Portland, I watched a guy with a tattoo on his face listening to a trumpet player.”

Rather, he writes, “Don’t be surprised to bump into a Portlander with a tattooed face during your visit, especially if you pause (and you should) to listen to one of the many troubadours dotting the street corners in this perpetually soggy city some wags have taken to calling the Town of a Thousand Mariachis.”

Even the estimable local writer, Caryn Brooks, succumbed in a recent article she wrote for TIME, “Portland: 10 Things to Do in 24 Hours”, opening with: “Portlanders are perhaps the most self-satisfied city tribe in the whole United States. To pass for one of them (and who wouldn't want to?), here's a tip: do not carry an umbrella.”

My dear wife was born and raised in Portland and its environs. She carries an umbrella as often as she bristles at the cliché that Oregonians eschew such protection.

While not a travel story, a recent article on Portland in “'The Economist” typified the outsider view of our burg. The title? A New Model: Is Oregon's metropolis a leader among American cities or just strange?

I imagine the editor making the assignment thusly: “Give me 1,000 words on that Pacific Northwest city. No, not Seattle, the other one. Be sure to mention the gay mayor and bicycles. Make is sound like a nice place, but don’t give them any reason to feel more smug than they already are.”

My favorite sentence pops up at the start, when the writer mentions other cities to which Portland is compared, concluding:

Others pick Zurich, which, like Portland, has a view of snow-capped mountains, orderly (bordering on staid) streets with trams, even the same peculiar fondness for direct democracy and tolerance of assisted suicide.

Other choice selections are:

“The locals, in fact, enjoy feeling odd: ‘Keep Portland weird’, say bumper stickers on the city’s cars, which all seem to be hybrid-electric vehicles.”

“In Portland, ‘business casual’ means wearing a fleece.”

“... places like Portland, San Francisco and Boston have become ‘elite cities’, attractive to the young and single, especially those with trust funds, but beyond the reach of middle-class families who want a house with a lawn. Indeed Portland, for all its history of Western grit, is remarkably white, young and childless.”

“That is not to belittle Portland’s vision. It is a sophisticated and forward-looking place. Which other city can boast that its main attraction is a bustling independent book store (Powell’s) and that medical students can go from one part of their campus to another by gondola, taking their bikes with them?”

Here's the beginning of a little story I have woven from these fragments:

Chester stepped from the tram, glanced at the snow-capped mountains and pondered his peculiar fondness for direct democracy and tolerance of assisted suicide. As he crossed the street, one of the city’s cars roared past him. “Odd,” he thought. “That car seemed to be a hybrid-electric, but it wasn’t.” He chuckled at the bumper sticker that read, “Keep Portland Weird.” Though it appeared on every hybrid-electric in the city, the sentiment still made him feel odd--in a good way.

Chester had dressed in business-casual that morning. Donning a fleece made him feel Western and gritty, though he was a remarkably white, young and childless man. He hoped that the fleece’s pungent aroma of wool and lanolin wouldn’t overpower the trust fund manager he was to meet.

The stranger had called the day before, saying, “I don’t mean to belittle your vision. I like a sophisticated and forward thinking man.” The man proposed meeting at a bustling independent bookstore. “You’ll have no problem recognizing me; I’ll be the only one arriving by gondola who’s not a medical student with a bike."

Dear Blog...

2010-04-14T17:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog,
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I’ve meant to…honest. Please don’t feel bad. It’s not you; it’s me. My other life just keeps getting in the way. I think of you often—and with affection too.

There are so many things I’ve wanted to tell you: how April is the cruelest month, my impressions of Complexions Contemporary Ballet (and Wayne McGregor before that, and Hubbard before that…), and that I like New York in June (how about you?).

But I didn’t write any of those things. I wasn’t being a very good sharer. I’ll try to be better. Pinky promise. Starting right now. Here’s a poem that I’ve always loved:

You Begin
by Margaret Atwood

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.

Sincerely,
Jenny Wren

Happy Arts Advocacy Day

2010-04-13T15:47:00.000-07:00

Today is National Arts Advocacy Day. Let's practice our march chants:

Now's the time to advocate

If you think the arts are great!

Hey Hey, Ho Ho!

We love the arts, and we want mo!

What would we do in these here parts,

If we didn't have the arts?

We love music, we love dance

Why can't we give art a chance!

Now, because that exercise has exhausted my creative potential, go read my brilliant blog post from last year, Growing the Pie, in which I argue that we need new messages to advocate for the arts. Also, I used the phrase "the chafing makes its presence known" which I have added to my growing list of prospective band names.

If that's not enough for you, go to RACC's advocacy page and learn how to write letters to your "electeds" (to adopt the nomenclature of the Industro-Politico-Lobby folks).

Trivia: If you stick toothpicks in an advocate and suspend it in water, it will grow a vine. Or am I thinking of avocados?

Time for Petty in Pink to Go

2010-03-22T08:02:00.000-07:00

I promise we'll actually write something for Culture Shock very soon. Perhaps something insightful about the historic Health Care Reform vote. Perhaps something sillier. In the meantime, the post about "Petty in Pink" has to go. Enjoy this little dance number while you wait.

Hat tip to Michael Buchino for having shared this video on Twitter, where you can find me more often than here, tweeting as @mightytoycannon

Petty in Pink

2010-02-18T12:09:00.000-08:00

Despite all of the amazing art that I come across every day, most of you know that I still love me some Broadway musicals. I say "despite" because no matter how good the book, the score, the costumes and the scenery, Broadway musicals still feel like a guilty pleasure when compared to some of the other things I like, such as Shakespeare. Or Shaw. Or Mad Men.

Not that I can stomach just anything you put on the stage, mind you. Last month's Xanadu, for example, was a travesty from start to finish. But you knew that already. And movies that get made into musicals tend to have a rough go; Young Frankenstein closed after only a few months.. although (here comes that guilty pleasure thing again), I enjoyed it for what it was. So what about the latest offering from Broadway Across America: Legally Blonde, The Musical?

I saw Legally Blonde on Broadway a few years ago after calling to ask a friend which of a few remaining productions that were up on the TKTS boards I should see. He recommended this, and I liked it just fine. It could be, in fact, one of the best meaningless productions I have ever seen.

But I couldn't muster the energy to see it again the other night despite the Opera's generous offer of complimentary tickets, so I offered them to Rob who took his 14-year old son Taylor. I told Rob that he'd have to write a review for this blog to justify the comps, careful to explain the ethics of these situations and that we as all-powerful THEATER CRITICS are under no obligation to actually enjoy the piece. Rob hasn't been inspired quite enough to put together a thorough narrative of his experience, but he does offer these quick observations below, which, given the short attention span of most musical-goers anyway, should suffice just fine.

So without further ado: Rob's and Taylor's Excellent Review:

The best way to describe Tuesday night’s performance of Legally Blonde, the Musical is a pink parade of silly fun.

Becky Gulsvig’s performance as Elle Woods was very strong, and Natalie Joy Johnson’s performance as Paulette was brilliant. But the male leads Jeff Mclean (Warner) and DB Bonds (Emmett) paled in comparison.

The show moved at rapid fire pace including multiple seamless set changes.

The songs were fun. The dancing was great.

The dogs were very well trained, especially Rufus who would bark on queue without a verbal command.

And there you have it. I couldn't have said it better myself. And thank goodness for well-trained dogs, right? If substantive reviews of less-than-substantive productions are more your style, check out Grant Butler's fine piece.

Legally Blonde closes Sunday.

UPDATE at 5:20PM: Blogorrhea just posted some complementary compliments as well. Read Mead.
.

A Walk in the Park

2010-02-17T15:07:00.000-08:00

The other day, feeling a bit frustrated that we hardly ever get out much anymore, Scott and I decided to pack up the kids and go for a hike. Right off the bat we have different ideas about what constitutes a proper hike. Scott is of the school that it is not a real hike unless you are several hours away from the city in an area remote enough to ensure that you do not see any other people at all. That’s how we used to hike and camp—before we had kids.

But now with two children, ages 1 and 4, I would prefer to keep things easy, close, and simple. I really just want to get out of the house for a few hours, move our bodies, and breathe some fresh air. Usually, this debate stops us dead in our tracks and we end up going nowhere. But this time, Scott accedes to my request for simplicity and we decide to check out Tryon Creek State Park (a mere 20 minutes from Portland).

We plan to leave first thing in the morning. But we forget that with kids in the picture, if you are not powerfully motivated and on a tight schedule, time slips by at ever-increasing speeds. A relaxed cup of coffee (or three), feed the kids, get them dressed, deal with a few meltdowns, Scott reads the paper, I check my work email and respond to a few things…before we know it, it is 10:30 am. We begin to feel a bit stressed about losing the day, so we rush everyone toward the door. Everything packed? Sippy cup—check! Snack for the baby—check! Diapers, wipes, baby carrier—check, check, check. Let’s go!

But before we can leave, Gabe reminds us that we’d promised to make hot cocoa for the hike. Argh! “Can’t we skip it this time? Have some when we get back?” Nope, a promise is a promise. So we make the cocoa, find a thermos, and get everyone buckled up in the car.

Yes! “Scott, we’re doing it! We’re out! Isn’t this great?” We begin to make plans for a nice post-hike lunch and maybe a stop to a fish market where we can pick up something for dinner. “Hey, maybe we could even get a pint! This will all work out…so long as Levi takes his morning nap while we’re hiking.”

We get to the trailhead and can’t believe how quick and easy it was to get there. But the parking lot is pretty full and there aren’t any spaces left. Fortunately, we see cars parked along the shoulder and there is plenty of room for us. Scott parallel parks into an opening and promptly backs the car into a tree. Normally he is a superb parallel-parker; however “that tree just appeared out of nowhere.”

Ok, the car’s dented. It’s our first major dent in the five years we’ve owned it. “It’s a bummer, but it could be worse,” I say. “No, that’s really pretty bad,” he replies. “Well, anyway, we’re here now and we’re gonna have fun. Let’s just let it go.” But I can see he’s going to think about it for a good, long time.

I put the baby in the carrier on my back and we start walking. “Now just go to sleep, Levi. Night, night.” It’s already well past his nap time and we can tell he’s super-tired. The hike is lovely, though crowded. Scott gives me an “I told you so” look and I pretend to ignore it.

Gabe loves the hike and runs this way and that proclaiming everything, “Beautiful!” and “Glorious!” Levi loves the hike too. He loves it so much he doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss a single thing. “We really should do this more often,” Scott says. After about 45 minutes, we decide to stop on a wet log for a cocoa break.

Gabe wants to stay there and drink cocoa all day. We watch a worm slowly crawling across the path. Whenever someone comes by, Gabe or I position ourselves to protect the worm. After about 20 minutes, he’s almost across, when Scott decides to get something from the bag. He walks across the path and…SPLAT!...steps right on our worm friend. “Oops.”

Levi decides he is not only tired, but cranky. We quickly finish our drinks, pack up again and head back toward the trailhead—very quickly, because by now Levi is having a full-on meltdown.

“Ok, let’s revise the plan,” I say, as we trot along, “If Levi naps in the car on the way back, we might still be able to go out for lunch. I bet he’ll crash as soon as we get him in his car seat.”

We get to the trailhead and people are beginning to stare. By now we’re practically sprinting, with poor Gabe struggling along behind. We find the car and I buckle the kids in while Scott takes another long look at the dent. Then we’re on our way. Levi is still crying.

As we approach I-5 and are motoring down the ramp, we realize the highway is at a standstill. Not even crawling, just stopped dead. We’re stuck. We sit on the ramp for a good five minutes before the traffic begins a slow crawl (about 10 feet a minute). Levi continues to cry, and cry, and cry—for the whole hour it takes us to get home.

We skip lunch, skip the fish store, and skip the pint that Scott and I now need so desperately. Once home, I rush Levi to his crib and he immediately falls asleep, sucking on his fingers.

Scott asks Gabe what he thought about the hike:
“Good. But I did NOT like the car ride home.”
“Yeah, neither did I.”

“What was your favorite part, Gabe?” I ask. “The cocoa!” he replies. Oh.

Gabe goes upstairs to play and Scott and I collapse on the couch.
“Why do we even bother?” I ask. No answer.

[Pause] “Want to try it again next week?”
“Ok.”

A day in the life ...

2010-02-15T17:05:00.000-08:00

To avoid putting words in your mouth, your part in today's playlet will be voiced by Charlie Brown's teacher.

[LIGHTS COME UP ON A STREET CORNER]

ME: Oh, hi! It's been awhile.

YOU: Wah wah, wah wah wah.

ME: I know, I've been busy for the past week.

YOU: Wah wah!

ME: That long? Wow, a month sure goes by fast.

YOU: Wah wah wah?

ME: Not much. You know, stuff ... keeping busy.

YOU: Wah wha?

ME: Well we saw a great production of "Hamlet" at Coho last week. Oh, we also saw Avatar. Finally! The last ones in the world to see it.

YOU: Wha wah?

ME: Today? Today I had to work, even though it's President's Day. That sucks. But I did see five guys walking around in President masks today. Here, look: I took a picture on my cell phone.

YOU: Wah wha wha wha?

ME: The second guy who looks like a black John Kerry? I think that's supposed to be Obama.

YOU: Wah wah wha.

ME: Right back atcha. Hey, I gotta get back to work.

[LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK]

The Fundred Comes to PDX

2010-02-11T09:55:00.000-08:00

Super-talented artist and political activist Mel Chin is bringing his Fundred Dollar Bill Project to Portland this Friday, May 12 at 12:30pm.

The Fundred Dollar Bill is a national project that is engaging 3 million kids across the country. Kids draw original interpretations of the US $100 bill, and a veggie-oil powered armored truck arrives to pick them up. The truck will drive across the country and end in Washington DC, where Mel will request that Congress exchange the Fundreds for real funding to detoxify lead polluted soil in New Orleans.

How cool is that?

Free and Open to All Ages
St Mary's Academy
1615 Southwest 5th Avenue in Portland
Friday, May 12 at 12:30pm.
www.stmaryspdx.org

The Governor's Speech

2010-01-25T14:47:00.000-08:00

As promised:

REMARKS BY GOVERNOR TED KULONGOSKI
In accepting the Americans for the Arts Public Leadership Award
Thursday, January 21, 2010

Thank you Senator Merkley for your introduction – and for the outstanding job you are doing in Washington for the people of Oregon. These are difficult times for our state – but they would be a lot more difficult without your voice and vote in the United States Senate. I also want to thank Bob Lynch and Americans for the Arts for selecting me to receive your Public Leadership in the Arts award.

Oregon – like most other states – is facing painful budget choices. I frequently remind people that 90-percent of our state’s budget goes to just three things: Schools, public safety, and human services.

Where does that leave public funding for art and culture? For the shortsighted, it leaves them on the cutting room floor. But I believe passionately that art and culture are not luxuries to be supported in good times – and frills to be discarded in difficult times. They are essential at all times.

By the standards of many states – Oregon is not the most financially prosperous. But we would never trade financial wealth for our wonderful quality of life. It is who we are as a people – and why we work so hard to protect our natural beauty. Art and culture are part of that beauty and are equally important to Oregon’s quality of life. This is as it should be. In creativity – we find hope. In artistry – we find our shared humanity. And what is too often overlooked – by investing in our cultural assets, we invest in jobs and economic renewal.

I often compare the human mind without art – to a room without furniture. The room exists – but it is empty of joy and inspiration. This is why I created CHAMP – to reinvest in culture, history, art, movies, preservation and public broadcasting, and in doing so to enrich the human mind.

I’m very proud to receive this award. And I think it is a credit not just to me – but to Oregon’s entire creative community, from practicing artists and cultural institutions, to business leaders, to legislators from both parties.

But I have a confession: When I was a young man growing up, I didn’t know much about the arts – and didn’t see them as relevant to my life. When I came home from overseas after serving in the Marines, I went to work in a steel mill. I thought that would be my life. But I met a woman who was in college – and she told me that as a condition of our marriage I would have to go to college too.

I enrolled at the University of Missouri on the GI Bill, and for reasons I don’t fully remember or understand – I took an art class. Then a second art class. And then a third art class. I didn’t just learn to appreciate the arts – I learned I needed the arts. The arts made me a more open and curious person – with greater promise and hope for the future.

I realized that the arts are a path to opportunity. This is my greatest motivation for supporting cultural re-investment – to give children in Oregon the same opportunities I had. That means giving them the chance to enjoy, practice and learn about art.

Andre Malraux, the French writer and essayist, once said, “Art is a revolt against fate.” To which I would add: So is investing in art. For children – public investment in the arts will open doors. Change lives. Raise sights. And hand to them an even better future than was handed to us. For those of us in positions of public leadership, there is no greater responsibility – or achievement – than that.

Thank you.

Report from Washington

2010-01-22T08:34:00.000-08:00

As many of you have seen, Governor Ted Kulongoski received an Arts Leadership award yesterday morning at a joint gathering of the US Conference of Mayors and Americans for the Arts. I’ll post a copy of his speech as soon as I can get my virtual fingers on it, but suffice it to say that our governor charmed and impressed the crowd -- a room that included such luminaries as NEA Chairman Rocco Landesman, one of my favorite arts advocates Miami Mayor Manny Diaz, and former NBA Star Kevin Johnson. I mean Sacramento Mayor Kevin Johnson.

My boss Eloise and I were lucky to attend the breakfast in our roles with Americans for the Arts, she with the US Urban Arts Federation and me with AFTA’s Private Sector Council. And being the fine Oregonians that we are, the governor’s people seated us right up front… which means that you, dear reader, get some up-close-and-personal photographs.

Ever since rumors started percolating a few weeks ago that Gov. Kulongoski would receive this prestigious award – one goes to a Governor and one goes to a Mayor every year – many in the arts community were surprised and perhaps underwhelmed at the suggestion that Oregon was doing something better than 49 other states. Better when a desperate legislature stole $1.8 million from the Oregon Cultural Trust to help balance the state’s budget? Better when the state’s overall investment in the arts translates to relative pittance for the average arts organization?

But I can say, with both my skepticism and my professional responsibilities in check, that Oregon has fared much better than many states over the past 7 years, and that Gov. Kulongoski did in fact outperform most if not all of his peers during this Great Recession. The bar, as they say, is low, but Oregon somehow managed to jump over it while many states grappled whether to limbo clumsily beneath, or knock it to the ground entirely. The governor quietly ensured that the arts were not “left on the cutting room floor,” even in this god-awful economy, and although most people thought that his pet program CHAMP had no chance of being renewed this biennium, $5 million in new funds (in 2009!) was indeed secured for culture, heritage, arts, movies and preservation. Also worth noting, the Tax Credit for Culture, scheduled to sunset in 2010, was quietly renewed for another four years. (Perhaps the citizen outrage and media attention surrounding the aforementioned theft had something to do with everyone’s willingness to give this little present to the Trust.)

Nationally, state funding for the arts has fallen 19% over the last 6 years, and some state arts councils have been stripped down to nothing. Neither the governor nor Senator Jeff Merkley (who introduced the governor this morning) mentioned this in his remarks, but Oregon has managed to move in the other direction, clawing its way up from last place to 33rd in state funding for the arts per capita during the governor’s tenure.

Of course only those of us with perennial loser syndrome would even think of celebrating that we’re #33 (hooya!). We can and must do better. So I appreciated the Governor’s self-deprecation when he quoted Israeili politician Golda Meir in accepting the award: “Don’t be humble, you’re not that great.” But no matter how unimpressive as our situation may be right now, there probably isn’t a governor in Oregon’s 150-history who has done as much for the arts.

So: my sincere congratulations and appreciation to Governor Kulongoski. Now, who’s next? And will he or she be able to take it to the next level?

An American Hero Speaks

2010-01-16T11:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the first anniversary of Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger’s dazzling landing of Flight 1549 in (on?) New York’s Hudson River.

The 155 passengers and crew members who had been on that flight celebrated the milestone aboard a ferry boat. Much has happened to that blessed band in the year since the miracle on the Hudson. For one, two people who met on the flight are now dating. For another, Barbara Walters selected Captain Sully as one of her Ten Most Fascinating People of the year. (Also named: Lady Gaga).

For me the anniversary was an opportunity to dust off a story I wrote shortly after the event. I was prompted by a photo of the plane floating on the river with a crowd of folks standing on its wings. I tried to imagine what that would have been like.

I never got around to finishing the story, and eventually it seemed silly to post it. It was no longer timely and fresh after everyone's attention had moved on to more important news, such as Michael Jackson and the Balloon Boy. I was afraid it was so much packaged bologna on the shelf of a shabby convenience store, long past its pull date. Now that we're at an anniversary, you're in luck.

OBSERVATIONS OF AN AMERICAN HERO

I was standing ankle-deep in the Hudson River thinking about a dirty martini. At that moment, what I wanted badly was some cold gin poured right to the rim of the glass. A splash of olive juice to muddy things up would be nice. I suppose my hankering for that particular beverage was inspired by the chill of the green water and the chunks of ice swirling around my feet. It didn’t help that I could see the neon lights of a bar from where I was standing. My dilemma was how to get to there from where I was at the time, which was on an airplane wing in the middle of a fucking river. My feet were turning numb as hell.

We were drifting downstream, rocked by the wakes of passing boats. You can't tell when you're standing on the side watching crap float by, but that river really moves along. You try standing on wet aluminum in your stocking feet while bobbing up and down, then you’ll know what I had to deal with. I was wishing I’d slipped my shoes back on before I climbed over all those seats to get to the emergency door. A cut on my knee was stinging and I wondered what diseases were finding their way into me and who was going to be responsible if I got cancer in my knee. I must have scraped it on that kid’s headgear on my way out.

You want to know the worst part? The lady holding the baby who was yelling hysterically three feet from my ear. The lady, not the baby. The baby was asleep or already dead. I thought, “Look lady, we get that you’re scared. Now shut the hell up.” I suppose I could have gone over and said something comforting. Or let her cry on my shoulder. She looked high maintenance though. I know the type and it’s not worth it.

To my left, some fat guy was clutching tight to his seat cushion looking like he wanted to cry or barf. On my right was the old dude who sat next to me in the terminal before the flight loaded up. I swear he just sat down next to me, sucking his teeth and talking about how great “The Da Vinci Code” is. I had to fake a phone call to get him to stop yapping. Now here he was, out on the wing muttering prayers and probably wishing he hadn’t spent his final hours on earth reading that book.

Jesus Christ, it was cold out there. You don’t know.

A big yellow raft bumped up against us, full of sorry people you wouldn’t want to sit next to under the best conditions. The back end of the raft sagged and was taking on greasy water. As much as I was ready to get the hell out of there, I didn’t want to get my ass wet sitting in that boat. The fat guy made a jump for it and disappeared in the murk. A few seconds later, he lunges up gasping and flopping like a marlin at the end of a gaff. A bunch of guys on the raft grabbed him under the arms and hauled him in like a manatee. Practically sunk the whole thing. Friends for life now, I guess.

I saw that the bastard was still holding on to his seat cushion even though he was in the raft. I’m pretty sure it was my seat cushion. Does that seem fair to you? When all I had out there on the wing was my garment bag, a rolly bag and my laptop? I yelled at him to toss me the cushion, but he pretended not to hear me.

I told myself to stay calm, even when the wing tilted and people were grabbing each other. I figured I’d be okay because things always work out for me. I’m like the curious cat: Always getting killed but landing on my feet because of all the extra lives and everything. My mother, bless her heart, always says to me, “I’m surprised you’re not dead already.”

I wasn’t going to start blubbering about the situation. By the way, that’s what the news people call events like this– “a situation”. I could see their vans with the satellite dishes and bright lights on poles clustering up along the seawall like seagulls waiting for the fish guts to be tossed out. You know they were hoping to get a big story and I guess they did. That kind of thing is golden to news people. “TRAGEDY ON THE HUDSON.” I’ll bet they already had the graphics and theme music ready to roll three minutes after we were in the water. God knows they had plenty of time to work on the story. We must have been standing there for hours. What the hell were our so-called rescuers doing that whole time?

Let me be clear: This was no tragedy. A tragedy is Bear Stearns collapsing and watching your year-end bonus vaporize. Tragedy is watching them tow your Ferrari because Bernie Madoff lost his mojo and your savings. Tragedy is having to fly home to Charlotte and explaining to your old man why he has to move his crap out of your former bedroom until you get back on your feet and, no, the basement den won’t work because you’re allergic to mildew and your mother comes down to run the laundry at 2:00 in the morning rather than putting her head in the oven.

Between the smell of jet fuel and the normal stink of the Hudson, I was starting to feel nauseous...or is it nauseated? I can never remember and screw it anyway, I’ll tell my story my way. Maybe I was just hungry. I sure as hell was cold with the water coming up above my knees.

When we spotted a ferryboat headed our way everyone started cheering until they figured out they planned to rescue the people on the other wing first. Then it got quiet. It looked like we were getting screwed like those Katrina people at the Dome.

When the boat finally came around to our side, I spotted this dignified looking dude in a pilot costume standing at the railing. The gunwale? Whatever. He’s got a clipboard in his hand and he’s counting passengers as they get pulled off the wing. Somebody yells, “We just pulled six more out of that raft, Captain” and he checks something off like it’s a shopping list on that clipboard.

“Only twelve more and we’ve found them all!” the Captain yells back. I do a quick headcount, and see there are a dozen of us still on the wing. Did that include the baby? Whatever. Our nightmare was almost over.

I’m standing there watching all this and thinking I should be taking pictures. I wished I’d taken some inside the plane while we were ditching because those would be worth something. Anyway, there was no point because my iPhone was toast as soon as the water reached my waist.

I think it was heroic to be the last one rescued, though that wasn't my choice. Every time I tried to get on the boat that Captain guy –you know the one I’m talking about? Mister Moustache? Sully?—anyway, he keeps pushing me back like he doesn’t want anything to do with me. Like I’m some piece of garbage floating in that river. I’m shouting like hell and telling him what I think, but he keeps pushing me aside and letting other people on first. Then he yells something like, “Okay, that’s it!” and the damned boat starts to pull away. I’m still on the goddamn wing thinking, “Hold on a second, you’re forgetting somebody here.” I’m not one to be disregarded.

Some of the other passengers are shouting and pointing. I see the pilot dude shrug his shoulders and the boat finally comes back to get me. When I'm on board I see people crowding around the captain trying to shake his hand and hug him. I just want to know if they’re planning to put us up in a hotel for the night and are we getting a refund, but he won’t even talk to me.

Are we heroes? Sometimes I’m not sure if that’s a fair characterization. But then I remember that something bad happened to us and we survived, so I guess that’s what being a hero is. I’m hoping to be able to talk about it more on the Today Show if they’ll invite me. I've got some ideas for a book too.

What's He Building In There?

2010-01-12T21:11:00.000-08:00

Last week, a colleague and I were yapping about the latest whittling at the Oregonian. Like lots of other folks, we speculated about the future of the Fourth Estate in general and the diminution of local arts coverage in particular. You see, in the latest round of paring, long-time arts writer and editor, Barry Johnson, accepted management’s buy-out offer, opting to dive into the brave new world of whatever.

The arts community (whatever that is) generally agrees that Mr. Johnson’s departure is a loss for the Oregonian and for civilization, though we’re confident that his next endeavor will be bright and shiny and smart. To divine what that next project may be we’ve been parsing his comments on Twitter, Facebook and elsewhere. We’re seeing hints of some kind of nonprofit arts journalism enterprise. We’re waiting … our breaths bated. As we learn more, we’ll keep you posted.

My colleague concluded our speculative conversation about Mr. Johnson’s plans by saying, “It’s like that Tom Wait’s song …” This is the song (really more of a poem)to which she referred:

Zuzu's Petals

2010-01-04T21:42:00.001-08:00

Dear Loyal Readers,

I am grateful for the words of support and encouragement you shared in response to my recent post questioning the future of blogging and, more to the point, of continuing Culture Shock.

As I read your comments, it dawned on me that I had just played the oldest attention-grabbing ploy in the book, though that was not my plan. Here is a little skit --a parable of sorts--showing how it all went down.

ME [mascara streaking my face]: Waaah! I don’t know what I’m going to do. What’s the point anyway? You don’t really care anymore. You! Just! Don’t! Care!

YOU [acting concerned]: Don’t be a silly goose, we love you still. You’re great. We’ll always love you.

ME: You’re just saying that. You don’t really believe it.

YOU: No, really. We love you. You’re the tops.

ME: But what if you end up liking Twitter and Facebook better and stop paying attention to me?

YOU: Sure, Twitter and Facebook are cute and fun and … spontaneous … but you have … personality … and depth.

ME: Waaah! I wouldn’t blame you if you hate me and hope I just go away… I know I haven’t been there for you as much as I used to.

YOU: It's okay, frequency isn’t important. You know we’ll be here waiting … when you’re ready.

ME: I just don’t know. Sometimes I think you’d be better off without me. Sometimes I wonder whether I should just end it all. Then you would be really sorry.

CHESTER: Hello, Mighty Toy Cannon.

ME: Say … w-w-what’s going on here anyway? Who the heck are you?

CHESTER: Why, I’m Chester, your guardian angel, of course. I’ve been sent here to show you what the world would be like if there wasn’t a Culture Shock.

ME: W-w-wait just a gol’ darned second there. I’m not having any of that. I think I’m just going to throw a rock at the old Granville house ...[singing] ... by the light of the silvery moon.

CHESTER: What does that have to do with this scenario?

ME: W-well, I just don't know if the reader will get the subtlety of the shift in this narrative. Anyway, I-I just can’t face being cooped up for the rest of my life writing a blog after everybody else in this crazy wide world has gone on to other things. Gee whiz, w-what’s the point of that?

CHESTER [chuckling]: You might as well be asking what is the point of anything. C’mon. Let me show you around. You can help me earn my wings.

ME: I-I don’t know about that. Heck, how do I know you’re not some crazy old coot?

CHESTER: Look, over there. Can you see old man Gower tweeting on his iPhone as he crosses the street. He doesn’t see that bus bearing down on him. If only he’d stayed at work a little while longer reading one of those really long posts of yours.

[Sound FX of crashing]

ME: W-what do you know-- isn’t that Violet walking this way? What the heck happened to her face? She used to be such a looker.

CHESTER: Without Culture Shock to occupy her attention, Violet had to read other blogs. One time she got so bored she dozed off and broke her nose on the edge of her laptop.

ME: Yowza. That’s gotta hurt. Say, let’s go into that bank and tell Mr. Potter just what we think of him.

CHESTER [chuckling]: Oh, you just don’t understand do you? Mr. Potter isn’t the town banker anymore.

ME: W-well, why the heck not?

CHESTER: It’s really quite simple. Without the persuasive political commentary provided by Culture Shock during the last election, John McCain won by a landslide. As the GOP’s top fundraiser, Mr. Potter was rewarded with an ambassadorship to Luxembourg. Of course, all the banks collapsed anyway.

ME: Well, I’ll be darned. Isn’t that the bee’s knees. Did our blogging really make that much of a difference?

CHESTER: Honestly? No. But I’m trying to make a point here...

ME: You sure as heck made the point with me! You can bet I'm going to keep blogging just as much as I can. Zuzu's petals! Zuzu's petals!

[Sound FX of bells ringing]

Scala & Kolacny Brothers

2010-01-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

So I may be behind the curve on this one, but I’ve just discovered the Scala Girl Choir from Belgium. Founded by the two Kolacny Brothers, the choir features fabulous voices and unique covers of pop songs such as Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day”, Radiohead’s “Creep”, and the Divinyls “I Touch Myself” (yeah, baby).

Here’s a video of them covering U2’s “With or Without You”:

Be There or Be Square

2010-01-02T21:17:00.000-08:00

Ladies & Gentlemen
Aficionados of Fine Music and Satisfying Beer
Members of the Press

Step forward and prepare to be dazzled, stunned and stupefied as The Mighty Toy Cannon and the members of the acclaimed musical ensemble, Bourbon Jockey, regale you with feats of vocal virtuosity and strumming of stringed instruments in a manner most astonishing. Step back, there's no need to push, shove or jostle--there will be plenty of room for all of you without raising a ruckus.

Should you choose to partake of a Bourbon Jockey performance, you will be transported on a journey down lost highways and dusty byways of America where you will meet truck drivers, libertine women and deadbeat desperados in the throes of drunken sorrow. Accompanied by the joyous amalgam of melody, harmony and rhythm, you will be besotted by tales of heartbreak and redemption, hope and despair. The bass notes will rumble deep in your bowels whilst the high notes shall pierce the veil of heaven and wrap you as if by the gossamer wings of the very angels themselves.

FEAR NOT brave spectator! The burden of sadness and introspection thus launched in your heart and mind may be soothed by quaffing ales concocted through the alchemical magic of the artisans of Roots Organic Brewing Company of Southeast Portland, Oregon and poured with the steady hand of attentive servers dedicated to ministering to your needs and lubricating your parched throat with AMBROSIA.

How much would you expect to pay for an evening of entertainment that lifts the soul while edifying in such a potent fashion? What price the opportunity to hear stirring tales of sin and transgression without suffering the searing heat of BRIMSTONE upon your own reddened cheeks?

Would you not gladly drop a treasury note adorned with the visage of Andrew Jackson into a collection plate for such a privilege? Would you not swoon upon being informed that the only cost of this extravaganza is the humble sacrifice of a token contribution--that is to say that the entry fee is just one thin dime? Two nickels are enough to swing aside the turnstile and afford you the opportunity to partake in the dulcet tones of this renowned ensemble of chamber players steeped in the vernacular of American roots music.

Would you not be further stunned to learn that this meager fee --one-tenth of an American dollar!--were to be fully and unconditionally rebated to you immediately, such that the true cost of this once-in-a-lifetime event is NOT A SINGLE PENNY (as long as you fully commit in your heart within the next ten minutes)?

Yes, you have not misheard us, ladies and gentlemen. But let us repeat this message for the weak-minded and slow of hearing: For the price of a small portion of your leisure and sporting time, you can experience one of the most FASCINATING and CURIOUS musical experiences of the year—indeed of your entire lifetime. Many years hence, your great-grandchildren will gather around your deathbed imploring you to sacrifice your FINAL breath to tell them about the night you heard Mighty Toy Cannon and Bourbon Jockey perform at Roots Organic Brewing Company in the early weeks of the year of Two Aught Ten. Can you fathom the ignomy of admitting to your progeny that you stayed home that evening to watch television?

Don’t take our word for it, heed the insights of others who have bathed in the euphonious river of glorious sound produced by this remarkable conspiracy of musical genius:

“I liked it. It was fun, I guess. The beer was real good. The band looked like they were having fun. I have to get up early tomorrow morning,” said one delighted spectator as he left the venue in the middle of Bourbon Jockey’s penultimate public performance last year.

“They seem to be having a good time up there,” reported another audience member as she plugged her ears, presumably to forestall an overload of joyous goodwill.

Another dumbstruck listener said, “I don’t know what to say. I guess I'll fall back on something my daddy always used to say, ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ I mean, who am I to define what’s good? Look, I could tell you that it wasn’t horrible, but that’s really all I feel comfortable saying right now. Why are you writing this down? I liked the beer and the servers were nice. The band did seem to be having fun, and it’s not like I had anything better to do.”

One long-time fan proffers this advice: “Try to get there early in the set because the singer seems to forget the lyrics the later it gets. Unless you like a lot of humming, you might want to arrive before they’re all drunk, though there’s a better choice of seats after the first fifteen minutes.”

If you doubt the wisdom of your neighbors and common citizens, listen to what the experts have to say. Ethnomusicologist Humphrey Von Humphrey said this after listening to an acetate recording of Bourbon Jockey:

Their harmonies are wholly unique, not only within our traditional concepts of western music but, verily, to the entirety of world culture. Their choices of harmonic intervals – and their apparent ease in shifting those intervals at a microtonal level from moment-to-moment is astonishing. I can safely say that I’ve never heard anything quite like it. The jarring and unexpected microtonal dissonance carries into their instrumental work as well. I’m telling you that it is physically impossible to get that particular sound unless you intentionally fail to tune your instruments relative to each other. Of course, that would be crazy!

Another thing that intrigues me – perhaps 'baffles' is a better term-- is the band's artistic strategies with regard to shifting rhythmic patterns and its curious selection of tempo changes. As an ensemble, they display an uncanny knack for randomly speeding, then slowing the tempo– sometimes even within the traditional verse/chorus form. It’s simply remarkable that they all manage to end each song at approximately the same time—and here I’m talking about ending within at least two measures of each other. I’m reminded of the keening and wailing that accompanies the funeral rites of some tribal cultures, particularly the Oomaomao people who are, as a race, totally deaf.

In an unpublished review, a noted cultural critic declared, "It's as if T-Bone Walker and Hank Williams had a baby. And that baby was born with withered arms and something wrong with its soft palate and was raised by, gosh I don't know, Patsy Cline. And maybe it has a hugely swollen tongue or something. Oh, and the baby is drunk too. Forget the baby analogy ... it's more like if Howling Wolf and George Jones were arm wrestling while Fats Domino and Fats Waller argued over which one of the two was fatter. Never mind. There's just a lot going on during a Bourbon Jockey concert and these are grown men who should know better."

Important Details:

Bourbon Jockey
Thursday, January 7, 2009

--starting at 8:00 pm going until they tire--
Roots Organic Brewing Company

1530 SE 7th Avenue, Portland Oregon
No Admission Fee, Cover Charge or other Consideration

Free Membership in the Bourbon Dynasty

(the exclusive Fan Club of Bourbon Jockey)

Recommended Dress: Classy Dungarees/Tube Tops

Bourbon Jockey is:

Ross McKeen (aka The Mighty Toy Cannon): Singin’, guitar slingin’ and harmonica blowin'.
Alan Cole (aka The Perfesser): Six string fireworks and harmony yelpin'.
Matthew Jones (aka Matthew): Upright bass thumpin' and gravitas.

A Treatise on Blogging and the Future of Culture Shock

2010-01-02T13:04:00.001-08:00

Just about a year ago, I began to read “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,” the florid, digressive mid-18th century novel by Laurence Sterne. (That's Mr. Sterne in the picture). Originally published in nine volumes, the book is considered unreadable by some and a work of comic genius by others. I planned to treat the book as a year-long reading project. I confess that I have not finished the project … yet.

The book’s most distinctive characteristic is the narrator’s tendency to meander in his telling--backwards and forwards in time, and rambling from topic to topic. The book is also full of idiosyncratic punctuation and eccentric typographic insertions. For example, following the death scene of a key character Sterne ends the chapter with a page printed with only a solid black field. Later, he leaves another page blank, encouraging readers to use it to illustrate their own conceptions of the character he has described.

But this isn’t a blog post about Tristram Shandy. Rather, it is a post about blogging. I’ll get back to Mr. Shandy in a few moments.

Our readers may have noticed the paucity of posts on Culture Shock over the past few months. We seem to have lost our verve.

Let’s start by blaming Newton’s first law of motion; also known as the law of inertia, it states that “an object in motion will stay in motion and an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by an external force.” In my case, a busy autumn was the external force that slowed my writing momentum to a halt. Getting back up to speed has felt like pushing a waterbed from a hotel balcony; i.e., seems like a fun idea, but getting it over the railing is hard.

Next, I’m going to blame Twitter. If you are a Twitternaut, you will now find me squeezing the pith into 140 juicy characters (or less) at a time as @MightyToyCannon. I won’t bore you by descanting about the allure of the tweet, other than to say that participating in this new social media circus has absorbed a portion of the mental capacity I once devoted to musing on Culture Shock. It has also constricted considerably what was already a narrow attention span. Side note: David Carr, cultural reporter and media critic for the New York Times recently wrote an insightful piece about the power of Twitter. (Mr. Carr tweets as @carr2n, and is also the author of the memoir, “Night of the Gun,” which was one of many books I did complete this past year).

Then there is new extracurricular activity that is eating up my time and creative capacities. After an eighteen-month hiatus, the little musical combo of which I am a part has reunited. Portland’s most ill-prepared honky tonk band, Bourbon Jockey, will be performing on January 7th at Roots Organic Brewing Company. I will be the leader of said band. On the assumption that all of you will be attending and will want to be entertained, we’ve been rehearsing weekly (or weakly). I’ll tell you more about that in another post anon.

All of this excuse-making is a preamble to reporting on a recent email exchange between myself and my colleague, Culture Jock, in which we considered whether this joint venture has reached the end of its life cycle. Is blogging as a communications platform already collapsing under the onslaught of new modes such as Twitter and Facebook? Is blogging a narcissistic indulgence? A passing fad? In the struggle to keep pace with the unremitting feed of tweets and status reports, does anyone have the time (or interest) in reading someone else’s personal musings? What are we ABOUT for God’s sake?

None of the authors on Culture Shock have paid much attention to our purported theme of providing “keen observations about art and life in Portland, Oregon.” Rather, we carom about in both style and content. Sure, we have disseminated cultural news, posted critical reviews and even gotten out a scoop or two, but let’s be honest: We’re amateur hacks. I am bemused to think that anyone would consider Culture Shock to be a part of the new “citizen journalist” movement or a reputable source of reporting from Portland’s cultural front. One other thing: Sometimes our day jobs keep us from telling you things we would like to be telling you.

We could ask our audience what you want from Culture Shock, but I predict these results: 94% of our readers won’t have read this far, 2% will have an opinion but won’t comment, another 2% will shrug their shoulders, and the final 1% will say, “Keep going!”

Since I started posting on Culture Shock, I’ve willed myself not to worry whether we have an audience. I am grateful to know that I have a least a few fans (other than my mother), and I write with you in mind. But I pass this advice along to any neophyte blogger: Only do it for yourself. You will do more to make the world a better place by putting a lower wattage light bulb in your refrigerator than you will by blogging.

For me, the value of writing for Culture Shock is in the act of writing itself. For once, I am writing for the fun of it, not for the business of it. I am experimenting and playing around. I am testing out different voices. It's a lark, but because the final step is to click a button that reads “PUBLISH” I am stepping beyond scribbles in a secret journal. I am forcing myself to put my writing out into the public realm and getting over the fear of doing so. I am committing. As a bonus, I get to say that I am a published writer.

Given all that, I’ve decided that I want to keep going with this. You can expect to read more from me in 2010, though I’m not going to set any target for frequency of postings. Whether other co-authors join me, I leave to them. (A few of them have retreated to the coast over the holiday weekend, so may be hatching their own plot while I write this). Perhaps we’ll unveil a “rebranding” and change our format in the upcoming weeks. I'm ready to suggest that we change the tagline to something like:

An olio of observation, a mishmash of miscellany, and a hodgepodge of humor.

Now let’s get back to Tristram Shandy, who I think would have been a blogger had the technology existed in the 18th century. This passage from an early chapter in the book describes how I feel about my own blogging:

You must have a little patience. I have undertaken, you see, to write not only my life, but my opinions also; hoping and expecting that your knowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am, by the one, would give you a better relish for the other: As you proceed further with me, the slight acquaintance which is now beginning betwixt us, will grow into familiarity ; and that, unless one of us is in fault, will terminate in friendship. ---- O diem præclarum ! ---- then nothing which has touched me will be thought trifling in its nature, or tedious in its telling. Therefore, my dear friend and companion, if you should think me somewhat sparing of my narrative on my first setting out, -- bear with me, -- and let me go on, and tell my story my own way : ---- or if I should seem now and then to trifle upon the road, ---- or should sometimes put on a fool's cap with a bell to it, for a moment or two as we pass along, -- don't fly off, -- but rather courteously give me credit for a little more wisdom than appears upon my outside ; -- and as we jogg on, either laugh with me, or at me, or in short, do any thing, ---- only keep your temper.

May the Next Decade Bring You Joy

2009-12-31T22:46:00.001-08:00

Assuming that we still have any, our regular readers will remember that I posted a little video to celebrate the start of 2009. They may also remember that I reposted the same video on July 1, 2009 to commemorate the start of a new fiscal year. Well, here it is again with a few edits to bring it up to date.

I hope to spend some more time with you in the new year. A few of my Culture Shock colleagues and I have been discussing the present sorry state of our little forum and its future--i.e., "What's with the paucity of posts?" and "Are we still up to the task?" So, you might see a little navel-gazing taking place here in the next few days. Perhaps a "re-branding" or some such thing. Until then, drive safely.

Christmas Eve Greetings

2009-12-24T07:05:00.000-08:00

SANTA: Okay everybody. Let’s settle down and focus if we can. I know you’re all busy with the toy building and the present wrapping and the reindeer care …

KRISPIN: Husbandry.

SANTA: Excuse me, what did you say?

KRISPIN: It’s called Reindeer Husbandry. You called it reindeer care, but last year we agreed to call it husbandry.

SANTA: Did we? I thought we were calling your division the “Reindeer Caretaking Team”? At least that’s what I’ve been saying all year.

KRISPIN: That was the year before. We changed it at last year’s retreat. Before that it was "Livestock Nurturance". It's more than just playing games, you know.

SANTA: Okay then. My bad. Ho Ho. Anyhow … we only hold this strategic planning retreat once a year so let’s git ‘er done and we can get on with the Christmas party. Some of you look like you could use a little mulled wine soon. Mrs. Claus will give each of you one drink ticket and a bonus cookie when we wrap up this session. The first drink is on us; after that, it’s a no-host bar this year.

ELVES: [General groaning]

SANTA: Your management team and the Elf Resources Department are hoping that all of you, the single most important asset for our brand, can give us fresh ideas for our new mission statement. I want this little exercise to be participatory. We want the process to ... what's the phrase the consultants used? ... to build community. So just start throwing out your ideas and I’ll write them on this flip chart. Ready?

DINGLE: You forgot to say that no idea is a bad idea. Before we brainstorm, you’re supposed to lay out the ground rules. You’re supposed to tell us that we’re not to judge the ideas while we’re brainstorming …

SANTA: You’re right. My mistake. Let’s move along with that in mind.

DINGLE: Respect too. We’re supposed to respect each other.

SANTA: That’s right. Thank you, young elf.

DINGLE: My name is Dingle and we’re also supposed to respect something else.

FRIBBLE: The Process! We need to respect the Process. And trust it.

SANTA: Okay. First: No idea is a bad idea. Second: We respect each other and the process. Can we get started now?

CHEEVER: What’s the old mission statement? Maybe we should start with that?

SANTA: Does anyone want to recite our mission statement for us? Anyone at all?

GRIMMEL: Something about “We of the North Pole endeavor to maximize holiday cheer and, blah blah blah, effectuate joyous spirits in a posture of goodwill and harmonious tidings?”

CHEEVER: What’s a tiding? Isn’t it supposed to be “gladtidings”? ‘Cause just plain “tidings” doesn’t really make sense to me.

BJORNG: “Husbandry” is a sexist term. I just want to register an objection.

FRIBBLE: Shouldn’t a mission statement be something short and easy to remember? How about this: We bring joy!

DINGLE: That’s a slogan, not a mission statement. This isn’t about marketing, it’s about informing our stakeholders what we do and what are core values are.

FRIBBLE: Whoa, hold on! We’re not supposed to analyze and criticize while we’re brainstorming.

DINGLE: Sorry, but some ideas are just stupid and there’s no point in writing them down. Anyway, if we can’t agree on what a mission statement is, how are we going to write one?

SANTA: Okay now hold on little fellow. Let’s take a step back and start over again. Let’s think about this from a strategic perspective.

GRIMMEL: What does that even mean?

SANTA: What I'm saying is let’s look at the big picture and think outside of the box for a few minutes. What is our purpose? Why are we doing what we do? That’s what we need to communicate.

CHEEVER: I suppose we make shit and you give it all away. Seems pretty simple to me.

SANTA: Yes, yes. But isn’t it more than that?

DRABBO: I know, I know! We make dreams come true for little boys and girls!

DINGLE: Maybe we should say, “We TRY to make dreams come true.” Shouldn’t we be careful about managing expectations. I mean, we can’t make every dream come true. Didn’t Legal have a problem with this a few years back?

CHEEVER: Strive. We strive to make dreams come true. "Strive" sounds better than “try.”

SANTA: Okay, I’m writing that down. Are you all okay with “strive”? Never mind, I’ll write down “strive” and “try” and we can decide later.

FRIBBLE: How about “Operation Strike Back”? There’s a war on Christmas, you know.

DINGLE: May I say again that Fribble’s ideas are incredibly inane and off the point?

GRIMMEL: Can we add something like, “In an atmosphere of personal respect and dignity?”

SANTA: Well that’s a given, isn’t it?

GRIMMEL: You think? You want take a look at these blisters, old man? You want to talk about adjusting our quotas for a minute?

SANTA: Ho ho! Somebody’s going on the naughty list with that attitude.

BJORNG: “Endeavor” sounds even better than “strive.”

DOOLAP: How about this: In a spirit of generosity and in an environment of respect, we implement strategic and sustainable initiatives with the goal of growing a global sense of joy.

FREEBAG: I like it! Can we add “while fostering a deepening sense of unity amongst the citizens of all nations, creeds and orientations.”

DOOLAP: “Among” or “amongst”?

FREEBAG: I don’t really care. Whichever is right.

BJORNG: What about “forge”?

FREEBAG: What about it?

BJORNG: I just think we should talk about how we forge things. Maybe we can forge a vision. So let me try: In a spirit of generosity and in an environment of respect … I think we should say “mutual respect” … we forge a vision in which we strive to implement strategic and sustainable … wait … strategic, sustainable and cutting-edge initiatives with the goal of growing a global sense of joy while fostering a deepening sense of unity among the citizens of all nations, creeds and orientations.

SANTA: Okay, that’s a good start. I think the management team can take it from here and give it a little polish. We could spend all day hammering out the specific language, but Mrs. Claus is signaling that it’s time to move on to the next agenda item. Okay, give me a show of hands for who wants to be a part of the new Social Media Team?

Book Review in a Questioning Vein

2009-12-21T17:22:00.000-08:00

Have you read Padgett Powell’s new book, Interrogative Mood: A Novel? Are you at least aware of it, perhaps from having read an article about Mr. Powell in the October 18, 2009 edition of the New York Times Magazine? Do I need to remind you that each of the book’s sentences is a question? If this is the first time you’ve heard of the book, have I piqued your curiosity, or are you rolling your eyes, thinking, “For God’s sake! What a silly idea?" If I hadn’t capitalized “God” in that last question, would you have been offended? In a typical day, what is the ratio by which you are offended relative to not being offended? Can you live with that?

Have you already guessed how the rest of this book review is going to go? Do you agree with Ernest Hemingway’s statement that “parody is the last refuge of the frustrated writer?” Or are you confusing that with Brendan Gill’s observation that “parody is homage gone sour?” If I had left out the first names of those authors, would you have asked, “Who’s that?” with regard to Gill, but not Hemingway? Is there a chance you would have asked, “Which Hemingway?” In a fist fight, who do you think would win, Hemingway or Gill? What if Hemingway wielded a shotgun and Gill was armed with nothing but a rolled up copy of the New Yorker? Are you picturing this scenario?

Are you still with me? How many sentences of this review do you think I wrote before realizing that my approach is utterly unoriginal and--if we’re being honest with each other--trite? Can you explain why I insist on pushing forward in this vein? Would you think less of me if I had misspelled it “vane”? Would calling this review a pastiche be a fair characterization, or is that too highfalutin? Have you ever called something highfalutin? Have you had enough of this? What else have you had enough of in your life?

Are you amused or annoyed by non sequiturs? Do you find it disconcerting when a question such as “Are you familiar with the sport of kite fighting?” is juxtaposed with one such as “Do you think of there being a proper point in your debilitation as you age at which you should, if you can, kill yourself?” Would you laugh if the very next sentence is, “Do you have any experience with boils?” When was the last time you used the word "juxtapose"?

Do the questions we pose to others reveal secrets about ourselves? Have you ever had to stuff a dead body in a trunk? Did you see what I just did there? Are you telling us everything? Do you display misanthropic tendencies, by which I mean would you nod your head in agreement upon reading this series of questions: "Do the people you do not wish to talk to far exceed the number you do wish to talk to? Do you have much to say to even those to whom you do wish to speak? Do you know where it went wrong with you"?

Presuming you know such things, who taught you the cocktail party strategy of asking questions to draw people into conversation? Or are you more apt to think, “Enough about you, let’s talk about me?” Are you an actor? Do you quibble over the difference between strategy and tactic? If an author, over the course of 164 pages, asks thousands of questions, many of which are quite personal and blunt, would you have a clear portrait of him by the end of the book, even though he hasn't answered any questions himself? Would you be able to guess the author’s age based on the content of his questions, or in what region he lives? Do you talk about regionalism in the company of friends?

What do you think of this paragraph, which appears on page 27?

If your family had a cat, and the neighbor across the street had a cardinal in a cage, presumably because it could not live in the wild, and your family’s cat tormented the cardinal to death by leaping at and striking the cage, would you feel bad about it all your life? Is feeling bad about something all one’s life anything to particularly feel bad about? Are we redeemed by regret? Do you like going into very cold water? When was the last time you wielded a slingshot? Are you any good? Do you remember Buster Brown shoes? Are you afraid of geese with red carbuncular heads? Can you ski on water? On snow? Are you prepared for the end?

Did you notice how the author, in the midst of a rather bizarre hypothetical situation slipped in that simple line: "Are we redeemed by regret?" How careful do you suppose he was in selecting "carbuncular" as an adjective and can you think of any choice that would have been better?

How about this self-referential paragraph from page 70?

Is there anything you’d like to ask me? Are you curious to know what I’ll do with the answers you’ve given me? Do you think I can make some kind of meaningful “profile” of you? Could you, or someone, do you think, make such a profile of me from the questions I have asked you? If we had these profiles, could we not relax and let them do the work of living for us and take our true selves on a long vacation? Isn’t it the case that certain people are already on to this trick of posting their profiles on duty while simultaneously living private underground lives? Can you recognize these profile soldiers by a certain dismissive calm, a kind of gentle smile about them when other are getting petty? Is in fact the character of the profile-façade person not that which is called wise? And is the person who is congruent with his daily self and who has no remote self regarded as shallow?

Does that last paragraph give you a hint of what to expect from this book? Might it help you understand why I liked this book so much? Are you more inclined to read the book now that you've read this post, or less so? If you have or will read "Interrogative Mood: A Novel?" will you let me know whether you ended up liking or disliking the narrator? Will knowing that I liked the narrator influence you? Would you lie to me?

On a related topic, do you remember that I wrote a review of Willy Vlautin’s book “Motel Life” in parodic form nearly a year ago, and that the Oregonian's arts and culture critic at the time, Barry Johnson, called it “the best book review of the new year...?” Do you realize that Mr. Johnson has not (to my knowledge) called another book review "the best of the year?" Also, are you aware that Mr. Johnson no longer writes for the Oregonian? Help me here, but doesn't that mean that I can now claim bragging rights for writing the best book review of 2009 according to Barry Johnson of the Oregonian, even though 2009 is not yet over?

May I ask just one more question? How can you not laugh at a sentence like this:

"If one man suggests to a second that he resembled Ted Kennedy, and the second in protest said, 'I ain’t got no outside gorilla,' what would his remark mean?"

Random Quote

2009-12-16T13:07:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend, I finished reading Padgett Powell's novel, "A Woman Named Drown." Here's a quote:

It seems to me that people are ready to hear things never heard before so long as they are not frightened for their physical safety or worried that listening may cost them money.

Discuss among yourselves.

A Winter’s Ride

2009-12-09T11:28:00.000-08:00

I rode my bike to work this morning. I usually do. But today is different—there is a bright blue sky; crisp, clear air and it is 18 degrees outside. I thought I was prepared: lots of layers, extra socks, a thick scarf, and my super-warmest gloves. And I felt pretty good…for the first seven minutes. Then the cold began to creep in and my body responded: numb fingertips; tingly toes; aching cheeks; short, sharp breaths. “Keep moving, keep moving….”

Often, when the weather turns there is a comradeship, a solidarity among the bikers and pedestrians who brave the elements. Not today. A deep silence filled the spaces between car engines and squeaky brakes. No smiles. We each suffered our own personal endurance test (especially the guy with the drooping pants and exposed butt crack).

But I made it and am now cozying up to the space heater beneath my desk. I’m feeling lucky to be one of the warm ones; someone with a destination—a home, an office, a warm place in which to regroup. I’ll ride home tonight, and again tomorrow. Because these little moments of discomfort serve to remind me how comfortable I really am.

Show Me the Money!

2009-12-08T17:30:00.000-08:00

Today, the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) announced that it will distribute just under $27 million in grants to 1,207 projects. Included in those numbers are 994 projects ($23,828,500) in the “Access to Artistic Excellence” category. According to the NEA press release, 1,697 eligible applications were submitted seeking funds for the creation and presentation of work in a variety of disciplines--a 22 percent increase over the prior year. For those keeping track, that means that just under 59% of the requests were funded (though many may have received a smaller grant than requested).

NEA Chair, Rocco Landesman stated that these grants will support “projects that have great works of art at the heart of them; that work to inspire and transport audiences and visitors; and that create and retain opportunities for artists and arts workers to be a part of this country's real economy."

With ten Oregon arts organizations receiving grants totaling $232,500, that works out to be just about 1 percent of the total. According to population estimates from the U.S. Census (2008), Oregon has 1.2 percent of the nation’s population. Seems to me, we got screwed out of .2 percent of what's due. But let's not quibble over rounding errors. You might note that six of the ten Oregon projects are to theater companies.

Here’s the list of Oregon's awardess, with project descriptions from the NEA. On behalf of Culture Shock, I extend a hearty congratulations to all of them:

Miracle Theatre Company
Category: Theater
$15,000
To support the West Coast premiere of El Quijote by Santiago García, based on the early 17th-century novel Don Quixote by Cervantes. Artistic Director Olga Sanchez will direct the piece.

Oregon Children's Theatre Company
Category: Theater
$20,000
To support the adaptation and premiere of Small Steps by Louis Sachar. The play will be a sequel to Sachar's novel Holes, which also was successfully adapted for the stage.

Oregon Shakespeare Festival Association
Category: Theater
$50,000
To support the development and world premiere production of American Night, a new piece by the theater ensemble Culture Clash to be directed by Jo Bonney. The project will be the first production in the company's American Revolutions: the United States History Cycle, a decade-long public dialogue, commissioning, and production initiative.

Portland Center Stage
Category: Theater
$15,000
To support the 12th annual JAW (Just Add Water): Playwrights Festival. The festival supports playwrights in the development of new works to enhance the repertoire of the American theater.

Third Rail Repertory Theatre
Category: Theater
$10,000
To support a final workshop and world premiere production of The Gray Sisters by Craig Wright. The production will be directed by Producing Artistic Director Slayden Scott Yarbrough and performed by company members.

White Bird
Category: Dance
$25,000
To support the presentation of dance companies in the White Bird Uncaged series. The project will include master classes and lecture-demonstrations.

Portland Art Museum (on behalf of Northwest Film Center)
Category: Media Arts
$35,000
To support the Northwest Film and Video Festival and its tour throughout the Northwest. The festival showcases new work by media artists living in Alaska, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.

Eugene Symphony Association, Inc.
Category: Music
$12,500
To support American Encounters: Steven Stucky. The series will include performances of Stucky's recent compositions, a radio broadcast, and educational activities by the composer.

Artists Repertory Theatre (aka Artists Rep)
Category: Musical Theatre
$20,000
To support the development and production of Gracie and the Atom by Portland playwright and composer Christine McKinley. The production will be promoted through the theater's education and outreach program Actors to Go, which features student matinees, artists in classrooms, and post-show discussions.

Portland Opera Association Inc.
Category: Opera
$20,000
To support new productions of a chamber opera triple-bill comprising Leonard Bernstein's Trouble in Tahiti and Monteverdi's one-act operas Il Ballo Delle Ingrate and Il Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda. The artists will include the Portland Opera Studio Artists (POSA) and the POSA Chamber Opera.

Portland Taiko
Category: Presenting
$10,000
To support the development and presentation of Ten Tiny Taiko Dances. The series of new works will be created in collaboration with invited choreographers, musicians, and performance artists.

Although the organization is based in Vancouver, there’s one more project that touches Oregon:

Confluences (aka The Confluence Project)
Category: Design
$32,000
To support a landscape art installation by artist/architect Maya Lin at Celilo State Park. The installation will be located near The Dalles, Oregon, where one of North America's largest waterfalls was once located.

One final note: This post is an example of the new citizen's journalism that will soon be crushing "legacy media," which is what we're supposed to be calling that old fashioned stuff like newspapers. Frankly, I don't see why we need real reporters anyway. All I had to do was extract text from a press release, pull a list from a website, and do a quick Google search for census data. Any idiot could do it.

National Novel Writing Month Ends

2009-11-30T22:53:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 1: The Challenge Begins

Chester rattled the ice in his glass and slurped the last few drops of gin. “I believe I’ll have just a nip more,” he said to the bartender. “Then I’m going to get serious about this.”

The bartender poured a stiff shot. “What are you working on now?”

“Just a little thing that I suspect is unfamilar to a working stiff such as yourself. It’s called a novel. A book of narrative fiction. My magnum opus.” Chester took a deep drink and sighed with pleasure. He wiped a few stray drops from the keyboard of his laptop.

“Yeah right,” the bartender said, wiping the bar with a dirty rag. “And I’m going to build a rocket ship in my basement. I wish you luck, my good man.”

“It’s not a question of luck. It’s about commitment and follow-through. That and having a target. Over the month of November, I’m going to write an entire novel, or at least 50,000 words of one. You see, there’s this thing called National Novel Writing Month. People just like me--and some ordinary people too--are going to write complete novels in just thirty days. All I need to do is focus and keeping plugging away at it. 1,500 to 2,000 words a day ought to do it. I'm feeling really good about this.”

"Say, when was the last time you wrote anything for that ... what's it called? ...that blog thing you do?"

"This is different. I'm not going to worry about the quality of the writing. I'm just going to write and write and write," Chester said as he turned back to his keyboard.

“Then I better leave you alone to get started. It’s already past midnight and time waits for no man,” said the bartender pointing at the clock and shaking his head. "By the way, consider me skeptical."

“I'll consider you tipless. Besides, who says I haven’t started? I’ll have you know I’ve written well over two hundred words already.”

“That’s great. Sorry to be a doubter. Ready for another drink?”

“Just one more. Then I really need to get busy.”

THE END

Crushed

2009-11-22T16:15:00.000-08:00

Twilight, or more specifically New Moon, is everywhere you look these days. I keep hearing how hunky these actors are and how so many teens (and probably their moms too) are screaming in the theaters whenever one of them takes off his shirt. It’s got me thinking about teen crushes. How powerful they can be: all consuming and passionate.

We tend to feel this way about people that we don’t know very well—or don’t know at all in the case of celebrities. Familiarity truly does breed contempt? In any case, by not knowing someone well, we are able to create a blank slate on which we can spin our fantasies and illusions. We allow our imaginations to shape the world just the way we want it. We envision best friends, lovers even; perfect in every way.

It brings me back to one of my own crushes (which, I confess, lingers to this day). I have long had a thing for David Bowie. It is not his physical attributes that interest me. Rather it’s a core fascination that encompasses his music and, from what I’ve gleaned in interviews, the way he interprets the world. And even though he is who he is, and I am who I am, with worlds of difference between us, I can’t help but feel that we are bound in some odd way.

I’m listening to David Bowie right now. The album is “Aladdin Sane”, and particularly the song “Time”. It reminds me of a dream I once had about Bowie when I was 14 years old.

I look at my watch; it says 9:25,
And I think, ‘Oh God, I’m still alive’.
We should be on by now.

In this dream, Bowie contacted me and we agreed to meet on a certain bridge in Hackensack, on a certain date in August, at 9:25 am. The dream was incredibly vivid. It was so striking that it just had to be a real message. David Bowie was somehow reaching out, and what I thought to be a one-sided crush, was possibly something deeper, crossing the bounds of time and space. I knew I had to go. How could I not?

You—are not a victim.
You—just scream with boredom.
You—are not evicting time.

I thought about the dream all summer. I knew I was probably feeding into my own fantasies; creating something out of nothing. But what was the harm? It made me happy—that ought to count for something. And what if it truly was real? As the designated date approached, I mulled my own sanity vs. my teenage desperation for something greater and more magnificent than what I had.

Ultimately, I did not go to the bridge that day. Perhaps David Bowie did. Perhaps he waited awhile, hardly knowing himself why he was there, before shrugging his shoulders and moving on. I might have missed the opportunity of a lifetime. But in the end, I decided that some things are best left to the imagination.

Perhaps you’re smiling now,
Smiling through this darkness,
When all I have to give
Is guilt for dreaming.
We should be on by now.

Lost Portland

2009-11-22T14:31:00.001-08:00

I promise to write something for Culture Shock soon. Really. Right now I'm sitting in the lobby of the Newmark Theatre while close to 900 kids and their adults watch Willy Wonka trying to find someone who will inherit his chocolate factory. Spoiler Alert: It's Charlie.

In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of SW Broadway and Salmon, today and circa 1954. That's the Heathman Hotel you're looking at. A Rexall Store filled the corner spot where Cacao now has a little shop. I presume that the drugstore also occupied what is now the Heathman's lobby as well as a good portion of its bar and restaurant. Of course, we all know that the Paramount sign was changed to read "Portland" when the old vaudeville hall was renovated to create the Schnitzer Auditorium (a.k.a., the Arlene).

For more vintage Portland photos, I recommend searching Flickr for "Portland vintage" and this historic photo archive.

ADDENDUM: I just found the photo below of Broadway from the same mid-1950s era,but shot from the reverse angle. That's still the Heathman with the Rexall drugstore in the corner on the left side of the photo. The building across the street from the Heathman apparently was the "Northwest School of Commerce." The building now houses John Helmer Haberdasher, which I hope will always be there because every town needs a haberdashery. A bit down the street on the left is the old Fox theater (now the new Fox Tower). The Fox Theatre's art deco box office is reportedly being stored by the Oregon Historical Society. When I arrived in Portland, the theater was closed but not yet torn down. And, of course, that's the Jackson Tower on the right side with the clock tower.

I owe this latest find to the blog Lost Oregon--a fabulous source of ephmera and local history maintained by John Chilson. I love this kind of stuff.

Cover Artist

2009-11-17T18:54:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to local artist Christine Bourdette, whose work appears on the cover of Sculpture Magazine in December! The issue will soon be available in refined magazine-selling establishments everywhere.

If you are not familiar with her work, but as you might glean from this cover, Bourdette is known for using interesting materials from wood, leather and rubber to potatoes, feathers and corn. Her work has been called everything from "playful" to "unsettling," two of my favorite descriptions in the arts, so naturally I am very fond of her work. She's also a great community collaborator, having developed projects with choreographers Mary Oslund, Minh Tran and Kristy Edmunds, and filmmakers Jim Blashfield and Joanna Priestley over the last several years.

Congratulations, Christine! For more information on the artist, visit the Elizabeth Leach Gallery website.

Even MORE shameless promotion

2009-11-11T13:06:00.000-08:00

The Willamette Week just issued its annual Give!Guide, featuring 79 nonprofits doing great work in the community. The Give!Guide is an insert in this week's edition of the WW, but they've also created a website with lots of information about the listed organizations and the capacity to process donations directly. If you want to donate through the Give!Guide, you can select one or many organizations and make a donation online in a single transaction. ALL donated funds go to the designated organizations.

This year, the Give!Guide includes ten arts organizations – more than ever before. I like all of them:

Independent Publishing Resource Center
Literary Arts
Live Wire Radio
Newspace for Photography
Northwest Dance Project
NW Documentary
PDX Pop Now!
White Bird
Wordstock
Oregon Children’s Theatre

My particular favorite is Oregon Children’s Theatre. (Full disclosure: As my employer, Oregon Children’s Theatre is largely responsible for the fact that I haven’t been posting on Culture Shock lately). We’re proud to be in such august company. Of course, the Give!Guide also highlights organizations dedicated to social action, the environment, wellness, youth, animals and education.

The Give!Guide has three primary goals:

1) To encourage people 18-35 to get involved in philanthropy;
2) To attract new donors and/or volunteers to these causes; and,
3) To provide publicity and exposure for a variety of local non-profits.

To encourage giving, the Willamette Week has sprinkled in a lot of great incentives and rewards. On top of those, Oregon Children’s Theatre will be giving away ticket coupons and invitations to shop at the adidas Village Store with a 50% discount off retail prices. Also, the Collins Foundation will be matching all new contributions Oregon Children’s Theatre receives through the Give!Guide.

Shameless Promotion Edition

2009-11-06T15:33:00.000-08:00

Excuse me while I plug Oregon Children’s Theatre, the performing arts company with which I am associated.

Tickets for the season opener, “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” are flying out the door like winged crepes at the annual All You Can Eat Flying Hotcake Festival . OCT’s Artistic Director, Stan Foote, has loaded the show with fun gags and whiz-bang effects. The characters are familiar yet distinct from what you remember from the two famous movie adaptations. The set is a knock-out, as are the incredible costumes created by Sarah Gahagan (equal to her Drammy Award-winning costumes for last year’s “James and the Giant Peach”). Two 5:00 shows have been added on November 14th and 21st.

Read the Oregonian review, which called it a "sweet dream of a production." We also loved this review from NW Kids, including an interview with a six year old audience member.

Tonight is opening night for the thespians from OCT's Young Professionals program. A cast of ten talented teenagers will perform “Dis/Troy” in the company's black box studio at the Galleria. The play by Yokanaan Kearns is a contemporary adaptation of Homer’s Iliad that blends silly humor with lots of physical action. This production features some kick-ass fight scenes choreographed by John Armour, the aptly named fight director who has been responsible for much of the violence and mayhem you may have seen on Portland’s stages over the years. The production is directed by OCT’s own Marcella Crowson, who manages the Educational Theatre Program in partnership with Kaiser Permanente. Theater folks in town know and love her from her time as a stage manager for many productions at Portland Center Stage. Marci describes “Dis/Troy” as “not your eighth-grade teacher’s version of the Iliad.”

The show plays this weekend and next, with 7:00 p.m. performances on Friday and Saturday and Sunday matinees at 2:00. Location: Galleria, 600 SW 10th Avenue, Third Floor. $5-10 Admission. Box Office: 503-228-9571. “Dis/Troy” will also be performed in the rotunda of Hatfield Hall (1111 SW Broadway) as part of the PCPA’s “Brown Bag Lunch Series.” That show will be free.

On Monday, November 9th (7:00-8:30) Marketplace Money and Oregon Public Broadcasting will be taping an episode titled, “Financial Futures: Talking money with your tykes, tweens and teens,” in the Winningstad Theatre. What does that have to do with OCT? As part of the reporting on kids and money, the show’s host, Tess Vigeland, will talk to the young actors from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and from OCT's youth improv troupe, Impulse. Folks from Live Wire! Radio will be on deck as well. More information, including how to get tickets can be found here.

Speaking of money: OCT just learned that it will receive a $20,000 grant from the National Endowment for the Arts in support of its commission and production of a stage adaptation of "Small Steps." Novelist Louis Sachar has been working with Stan Foote to adapt his sequel to "Holes" for the stage. The play will feature original music by Karl Mansfield. I'll tell you more about it later. The money from the NEA is very helpful for the project, but so is the validation that the company is playing in the big leagues.

We're Back!

2009-11-05T16:45:00.000-08:00

Where the hell have I been all this time?

I haven’t posted since October 18th. October was Culture Shock’s leanest month in … well, in months. At 11:55 pm on October 31st, I began a post about my Halloween night tour of Lone Fir Cemetery. I thought I'd finish writing it the next day and it would still appear as an October entry. I never finished it. That's a lie. I never started it. All I did was upload this picture:

By the way, that's not even a picture I took. I found it on the internet.

How embarrassing and pathetic. I hang my head in shame. Here is a pictoral representation of how I feel:

I wish I could tell you that I secured a lucrative publishing deal that prevents me from writing anything for free anymore. Or that my commitment to reducing greenhouse gas emissions prevents me from turning on the computer. Perhaps you thought I’d accepted Culture Shock’s generous buy-out offer and taken early retirement. Have you been worried that I’ve been stricken by swine flu?

The simple truth is I lost the momentum. The mojo wasn't there. Lassitude. Plus the start of the arts season, which means everything in my life is much busier. I’ll try to do better, but no promises. Now get off my case.

While we’re on the blogging beat, I have a few items to report:

Barry Johnson, friend of Culture Shock and one of this town’s most astute cultural observers and pontificators, has announced that he will be leaving the Oregonian next month. Sadly, our local daily rag continues to shed talent. Barry has opted for the paper's latest buy-out offer and plans to seek a new path in cultural journalism. We look forward to reading his insights in whatever form he chooses to share them. For our Facebooking friends, you can sign up to join “Oregonians for More Barry Johnson.” As for the Oregonian, we hope it finds a way out of its death spiral.

Tomorrow night, I’ll be attending Portland Opera’s opening night of the Philip Glass opera, Orphée. Unfortunately I won't be there as a member of the bloggercorps the Opera has recruited to generate on-the-spot commentary. That crew includes such weighty thinkers as Bob Hicks (of Art Scatter), Storm Large (of the Eight-Mile Wide Larges), Byron Beck (Portland’s Rona Barrett), and Cynthia Fuhrman (who?). Since I will be attending as a civilian, I’ll miss out on the drinking games (down a shot each time a musical phrase repeats). It also means I missed out on schmoozing with Philip Glass the other day, and I won’t get the backstage tour. Does it sound like I’m pouting?

The advantage is that I won’t be pressured to write anything interesting or informative. I suggest that you read what Bob Hicks has already written about Orphée (the man is doing his homework), then pretend that you read it here.

Sayonara!

2009-10-30T15:21:00.000-07:00

As The Oregonian reported today, Portland Mayor Sam Adams is heading to Japan for six days. The reasons for this diplomatic visit are many, but the paper has distilled the mayor's mission down to two key points: bring Mitsubishi's zero-emission cars to Portland, and bring Pink Martini to Japan.

Like its competitor the Nissan Leaf, which will be sold in five U.S. markets including Oregon next fall, the Mitsubishi i-MiEV is powered solely by electricity, and can be recharged from a regular home socket. The four-seater vehicle can run up to 160 kilometers (100 miles) after charging seven hours at 200 volts. While any electric car is good news in my opinion, the part that I still don't understand is how the i-MiEV, at reported retail of $47,000, can compete with the Leaf, which most industry observers say will retail for $20,000 to $30,000. And there's no word yet on whether the Mayor plans to lobby Detroit to sell Portland a staging ground for the new Chevy Volt.

Whomever we are trying to woo, perhaps Thomas Lauderdale and friends can help. The Mayor is taking several autographed copies of Pink Martini CDs as gifts for Japanese dignitaries. After all, the French are in love with them, and Pink Martini has dabbled in Japanese a fair amount.

Sympathique features “Song of the Black Lizard," taken from the soundtrack of a Japanese cult film of the same name, and Hey Eugene! includes a Japanese-language track, "Taya Tan." In a reworking of the Japanese song “Kikuchiyo to Mohshimasu” for Hang on Little Tomato, Pink Martini collaborated and recorded in Japan with Hiroshi Wada, the slide guitarist whose group originally recorded and released the song 40 years ago. Splendor in the Grass doesn't have any Japanese inspired music, so we can only hope that our Japanese friends won't take it personally that critics are calling this the best and prettiest album of them all.

The Mayor will also be giving away Japanese-inspired blown glass orbs and vases from Portland artist Andy Paiko, and framed woodblock prints (you know, the Japanese printmaking process) by Carole Zoom. For our sister City of Sapporo, the Mayor is bringing a 1985 hand-colored etching by George Johanson. It's called "Waiting for the Parade I," and captures the true character of our world-famous Rose Festival better than most glossy photos.

The Mayor's office also tells me that Portland jazz performer Patrick Lamb is playing (or, played) in Sapporo tonight, and provided tickets to the U.S. Consulate General Sapporo as a pre-thank you for the Mayor’s hosted dinner there.

Now go get us some electric cars!

The Foundation Heimlich Maneuver

2009-10-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

In announcing their October grant awards, the Meyer Memorial Trust made an interesting statement about their intentions to support Portland's five major arts organizations at roughly 1% of their budgets for the next 2-4 years.

Specifically, the Trust has just awarded $300,000 over two years to the Oregon Symphony, $260,000 over an unspecified period to the Portland Art Museum, and $200,000 to PCS over two years. Presumably the Opera's and Ballet's proposals are still pending, because the announcement came with this explanatory statement:

While 60% of MMT's funding has gone to organizations addressing rising demand for health and human services during this economically challenging time, we recognize the importance of supporting arts and culture groups, which contribute to the quality of life of our communities and region with both cultural and economic contributions.

Historically, MMT has been a relatively strong funder of Portland's five largest arts organizations, with a total of nearly $21 million collectively awarded to Portland Art Museum, Oregon Symphony, Portland Center Stage, Portland Opera, and Oregon Ballet Theatre since 1982. Foundation support has represented a larger portion of these arts organization's budgets because until recently, Oregon was ranked 53rd among states and territories (behind Guam and American Samoa) in government support of the arts per capita. (Oregon now ranks 40th.)

Two years ago, MMT and other area arts funders began to converse with Portland's five largest arts organizations to better understand their business models and what they need to achieve financial stability, in addition to artistic excellence. As a result of these discussions and a study by a nationally recognized arts consultant, MMT has determined it can most appropriately assist the groups with two years of operating support limited to approximately 1% of the organizations' operating budgets, with the possibility of an additional two years. During this period, MMT will not entertain additional proposals for operating and project support from these five groups.

Now before all of the other arts organizations start asking what about me, I would like to point out that the majors have been part of some difficult conversations over the past year with MMT and other grantmakers (including RACC) who have been concerned about the long-range sustainability of these groups. At the foundations' request, each organization has worked diligently to produce a plan that helps satisfy the concerns of trustees everywhere who are no longer willing to invest in organizations with chronic deficit problems. However, it is important to note that each organizations' debt situation is different, and granted some organizations are in worse shape than others, but suffice it to say that conservative lenders have legitimate and reasonable concerns about investing in any of these organizations right now, which is why they all had some 'splaining to do.

Imagine, if you've been the trustee of a foundation for the last 25 years, how many times you have heard an arts organization say that it has finally identified the formula for sustainability, only to fall back into a deficit a few years later, sometimes chronically so. And then they'll tell you, you all just need to give us more money, so they'll build a budget that assumes the contributions will magically come flowing in because their board is newly motivated to raise millions of dollars, only to find that a recession or a snowstorm or a death in the family prevents them from achieving their goal. OK, maybe that happens in one year, that's understandable. But if a board lets that behavior go on for two years, three, ten -- you can see how a foundation trustee could start banging his or her head against the wall and declare, Not another dime for this madness!

Fortunately for our arts organizations, the foundations wanted to be part of the solution. So they brought in technical assistance providers and convened arts organizations to let them know what they needed to do in order to satisfy their increasingly skeptical trustees. They asked them to demonstrate an ability to raise money at historically proven levels before moving toward bigger budgets. They asked them for evidence that they were taking their deficits seriously, with viable plans for repaying their debts. And they asked each board to be more aware of its organization's finances so that they could address the real problems together -- it's not helping anyone to sweep little messes under the rug and hide financial concerns in the balance sheet. These foundations did NOT ask them to cut their product, only to demonstrate that the product can be scaled match what the public is willing to pay for. I think of it as attempting the Heimlich Maneuver before jumping into CPR.

Fortunately, the arts organizations are coming through with strong and convincing cases. Which leads me to why I think this is a rising tide that will float all ships. For MMT to philosophically set aside funding at 1% of arts organizations budgets is a good start, but we don't know what happens after these 2-4 years have expired. Presumably, hopefully, arts organizations will then be able to apply for larger grants, not smaller ones, for unique needs they'll have in the years ahead, having demonstrated themselves as completely viable organizations with net assets on the rise. Meanwhile, smaller arts organizations are still applying for and receiving grants from MMT that represent a much larger percentage of their own budgets, sometimes as much as 20%, although these are highly competitive grants that are difficult for many to compete for given MMT's emphasis on social change and problem-solving. This is my biggest concern, does a small arts organization really have to solve a problem in order to be considered a vital charitable organization in our community?

But the MMT is re-evaluating their role, and for that I give them much credit. For the record I still think the Meyer Memorial Trust could and should invest much more money in the local arts community, but this statement about the major arts organizations is a critical first step. The performance of these five groups over the next five years could greatly influence the future of arts funding in Portland, and we are counting on them all to demonstrate extraordinary returns on investment rather than becoming just another black hole of arts funding. Let's consider this a pilot in MMT's own internal conversations about whether or not they should be supporting more arts organizations with general support in the future.

Gonna Fly Like an Eagle

2009-10-18T10:46:00.000-07:00

A short story inspired by recent events.

“Boy! How many times do I gotta tell you to get away from the goddamned aircraft!”

“I ain’t touchin’ it. I’m just lookin’ at it,” the boy yelled back as he kicked at a dirt clod. “Besides,” he muttered, “it’s not an aircraft, it’s just a big stupid balloon.”

“What d’you say?”

“Nothing.” The boy spit on the ground.

“You better not be talking trash about that project, boy. You know what that aircraft means, don’t you.”

“Yeah, I know … it means freedom.”

“That’s right and don’t you forget it. That aircraft you’re messin’ with is our ticket out of this shithole,” the father said as he finished his beer and tossed the can on a growing pile. He scratched his ankle where the electronic monitor had rubbed a spot raw.

The screen door slammed as the father went into the kitchen to get another beer. The boy found a stick in the brown grass and poked the side of the balloon with it. He watched the silvery surface ripple and poked it again. “Stupid balloon.”

The boy’s older brother charged into the yard and skidded his bike to a stop in a spray of dirt. He picked up a rock and chucked it at the boy. “Hey doofus! Dad’s gonna kick your ass if he sees you messing with the craft.”

“Shut your face, dickweed,” the boy yelled back, already knowing it was a mistake. “I ain’t doing nothing that’s any of your business,” he shouted as he ran toward his hiding place in the garage. He tripped on a tangled garden hose and stumbled. His brother grabbed the back of his shirt, wrestled him to the ground and pushed his face into the dirt while twisting one arm behind his back.

“I’ll tell you what my business is, you stupid asswipe,” the older boy said as he got up and kicked his brother in the ribs. Before he could kick him again, their father came out of the house with a cold beer.

“Leave the boy alone,” he yelled. “And if either of the two of you touch that thing again, you’re gonna be as sorry as you ever been.”

The older boy sped off on his bike, popping a wheelie on his way down the driveway. The father was glad to see him go. He always told himself that he loved both his boys, but he was having a hard time seeing what the point of the older one was. The younger boy still had some spunk. He was a dreamer.

The father settled into his folding camp chair with a grunt, fitted his beer can into the cup-holder and started reading the new issue of Popular Science. He liked being an inventor a whole lot more than working at the filling station. If only he could make just one great invention before his unemployment ran out ... but ever since the hovercraft project caught fire and singed his eyebrows right off, he was finding it difficult to finish things. Now that the balloon was almost ready to launch, he could feel his interest starting to wane.

His third wife was evermore giving him a hard time about his failed projects. “They oughta do one of those reality TV shows about you,” she’d said that morning. “They could call it ‘The Biggest Loser’.”

“They already got a show with that name,” he said. “It’s about fat people and I ain’t that, so why don’t you just shut your mouth, because that’s what’s fat around here.” He smiled at his quick comeback.

“Okay then, smartass,” she said. “If you’re so sure that’s the case, maybe my mouth is too fat to cook you breakfast anymore.”

“That don’t make no sense,” he said. “What’s that got to do with anything anyways?”

He was ready to argue the point, but she’d already grabbed her car keys off the counter and slammed her way out to the driveway. As the Kia’s tires squealed down the street, he was rooting around the refrigerator looking for something to eat. He found a baggie with two turkey franks in it and, after rinsing them under the kitchen tap, dipped them, one after the other, in a jar of mayonnaise and ate them cold.

Now, a few hours later, he was hungry again. “Hey! I need a little help here,” he called, hoping he could get the boy to fetch him something. The only sound was somebody’s leaf blower and his neighbor’s dog yapping. “Boy! Where the hell did you get to?”

He heaved himself out of the camp chair, tipping it over and spilling his beer. “Goddammit all to hell,” he said as he watched the beer soak into the dry ground. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his clumsy move, but the yard was empty.

Back in the kitchen, he found a can of Pringles tucked behind a sack of flour. He ate the chips in stacks of three and washed them down with a fresh beer. The television on the counter was on with the sound turned down. For a minute he watched Oprah jumping around excited about something, but by the time he got the volume turned up it was a commercial and he'd missed the story. “Shit, they should have me on Oprah. Now that would be fascinating,” he thought as he wiped the orange powder from his fingers.

The shaft of afternoon sunlight beaming through the window flickered briefly as if a cloud had passed by. The father glanced up from the television and saw a quick flash of silver. Only a moment passed before he realized what he had just witnessed.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he shouted as he banged the screen door open and ran into the yard. The 22-foot diameter helium-filled weather-balloon he had constructed out of mylar, duct tape and some old paneling from the basement was already 25 feet up in the air and rising rapidly into the bright October sky. The lengths of clothesline that had tethered it to his old Ranchero were dangling out of his reach. He watched it float away, the sun glinting from the mirrored surface.

The older boy wheeled back into the yard. “I told him to quit his messing around,” he shouted into the sky. “I knew somethin’ bad was gonna happen. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do nothing. It’s the brat’s fault.” He was pleading now, and starting to cry.

“What the hell are you talking about?” the father asked.

“He was messin’ with the tie-downs. Then he said he was gonna climb inside and fly away from here and never come back.”

The father didn’t answer. He just watched the silver craft as it became smaller and started drifting toward the south. He thought about calling for help, but who do you call when your giant balloon is drifting away with your offspring inside?

Then he thought about that storybook he’d read to the boy. It was one of those ancient stories about a father who built a set of wings out of feathers and beeswax and gave them to his boy. What was it he told that boy? Keep flying toward the sun? Yeah, that was it.

“Keep flying toward the sun, boy,” he said as he watched the balloon float out of sight. "Just like your old man, keep flying toward the sun."

***
Cue Soundtrack: Guitarist (and part-time pirate) Yngwie Malmsteen performs his soaring composition, “Icarus Dream Fanfare,” with the New Japan Philharmonic Orchestra.

Image: “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus” by Pieter Bruegel the elder (ca. 1558).

A mannish motorcycle with awesome yang power!

2009-10-16T21:16:00.000-07:00

Do you enjoy watching movies that are so bad that they’re good? I love watching a disaster movie full of bargain-basement special effects, predictable character-types and a preposterous plot. The best of the genre features a B-list character actor in a heroic role, and you just know that his agent told him, “Sure the script is corny, but you haven’t worked for months, and look what Pulp Fiction did for Travolta.”

I feel the same way about really bad writing. In my career as an arts administrator and freelance grant writer, I’ve read and edited lots of text loaded with jargon, redundancies and nouns turned into verbs. Sometimes it gets so bad that all you can do is laugh.

The other night I ran across a particularly sweet example of horrible copywriting after spotting a photo of this motorcycle called "The Wraith":

Out of curiosity, I visited the website of the motorcycle's builder, Confederate Motorcycles, where I discovered a priceless collection of pretentious copywriting. When I read a few examples out loud, my wife asked, “Are you sure this isn’t just a bad translation?”

Savor this, for example:

We are 100% focused on creating the ultimate street motorcycle experience. From the outset, this has driven our interpretation of perfect two-wheeled motoring. Real world reaction time will be world class. There will be no hint of your machine becoming unsettled. The machine will take whatever the road has in store for it with relaxed professional aplomb. There will be nothing between yourself and the fate of what your road has in store except honest world leading street motoring quality of information. Each component, down to the washers which live on your bolts, is specified for one reason only – because it is the best in the world for application upon your machine.

Let’s review some highlights:

“There will be no hint of your machine becoming unsettled.”

Are we talking about a motorcycle or a robot?

“The machine will take whatever the road has in store for it with relaxed professional aplomb.”

God knows, you don’t want to be riding a motorcycle that reacts with amateurish discomfort.

“There will be nothing between yourself and the fate of what your road has in store except honest world leading street motoring quality of information …”

I’m guessing this means you’ll feel every bump in the road.

“… down to the washers which live on your bolts …”

Daddy, what are those circle things with the holes in them? Why those are the washers which live on the bolts.

The website's description of the "P120 Fighter Combat" model starts with a statement that would make for a fine personal motto: “Clarify opaqueness and nullify hype with straight-forward true to concept certitude.”

The Fighter clarifies opaqueness and nullifies hype with straight-forward true to concept certitude. At the source is a classic right triangle. Proportion is classically derived. Scale is middle way. Bearing exudes structural permanence.Human integration deploys yang energy, vitality, and power in the most simple, pure and direct form. Geometry is optimized for the medium and/or long disciplined journey of sensory heightened motion. Torque to weight is maximized. Engine, suspension and ergonomic luxury and ease of use is optimized. Materials utilization is the finest. Individual piece and component specification is highest and best. Craft preparation and specification is uncompromised. The aesthetic is fresh, industrial, sculptural, holistic and honest. The saddle of the Fighter is your place for those outings which require extended time, geography, meditation and distance. Personal liberation will result!

Here’s the capper:

"Production of this model is limited to fifty motorcycles. 25 Roman numeral and 25 Arabic numeral models will be produced."

I sure hope I can save up $75,000 before the Roman numeral versions are all sold out!

The effete gentleman wearing the glasses in the company's artsy promotional video below is its founder, Matt Chambers. I may be wrong, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he wrote all the copy--especially the line about "awesome yang power."

Missing in Action

2009-10-15T15:32:00.000-07:00

I've been absent quite a bit from this blog lately, but that's not all. I completely missed both the TBA Festival and Wordstock. I have yet to take in Ragtime and China Design Now. And god only knows if I'll make it to the Emerald Retrospective or the Oregon Symphony anytime soon.

For what? A myriad of excuses. I haven't caught the swine flu but I think I coughed up part of my lung last weekend. I love the fall but who wants to go out in some of this weather? I'm not addicted to television but it sure is comfortable watching Glee and Mad Men from my La-z-boy recliner.

We've also been hard at work raising Work for Art dollars and overhauling the RACC website, which was no small task. Suffice it to say that spending this much time in front of the computer at work makes it really hard to spend any time in front of the computer at home, blogging or otherwise. And although this isn't the ultimate purpose of this post I would be remiss if I didn't use this paragraph to acknowledge the fine work of the design team at Davison/Blackheart, CultureShock commenter Shobiz, and the great staff at RACC for producing such a handsome site with volumes of valuable content for the arts community. Blogger's prerogative, no matter how infrequently he writes.

My related arts observation for today comes from Hilary Pfeifer, whose temporary installation "Vertical Garden" is currently featured on our homepage. She wrote to let us know that the piece, which was originally created for the Portland Building Installation Series several years ago, was recently sold to a Pixar executive in Marin. I thought you might enjoy her blog entry on installing the piece in his home, as I did. Congratulations, Hilary!

If you know any artists who are looking to get a temporary installation gig for themselves, RACC is accepting proposals through November 16.

Portland Ugly

2009-10-13T17:30:00.000-07:00

Travel + Leisure recently issued its report on “America’s Favorite Cities” – a ranking of thirty cities across the nation based on the merits of each as a travel destination. I suspect that residents in each and every one of those cities are now griping about the injustice of the scoring. The online report cleverly avoids describing the top secret research methods used to derive the scores.

I’m sorry to report that Portland fell short on many important measures. But first the good news: Once again, our rugged outdoorsy, green “brand” earned us top ratings in the following categories:

#1 Public Parks/Access to Outdoors

#1 Environmental Friendliness

#1 Summer Vacation

#1 Safety

#1 Public Transportation and Pedestrian Friendliness

We came in a respectable second place for being “Athletic/Active” and in the "Farmer’s Markets" competition. We placed third for cafes/coffee bars and scored a decent #5 ranking for “Peace and Quiet.” What’s so funny is that they didn’t give scores for “Love” and “Understanding" (yes, that is a clumsy Elvis Costello reference). We are the fourth most intelligent city.

Since we only scored tenth in the "Friendliest" category, I feel justified in saying, "Suck it, St. Louis!"

It is on the cultural front where our deepest shame is apparent. Portland landed at #19 for theater. Even Cleveland was ahead of us in the 12th place slot. Seattle only made it to #14 (behind Las Vegas at #11, even though that city received the lowest score for "Intelligence" ). Our “Classical Music” score was a middling #16, while Museum/Galleries and Historical Sites/Monuments slunk in at the bottom with scores of #23 and #24 respectively.

What really hurts is our #17 placement for “Attractive People.” Worse than the numerical score is this inane description:

“Portland’s well-documented alternative lifestyle, which may account for its [top ranking] for overall quality of life/visitor experience… may not conform to most visitors’ standards of ‘normal’ beauty.”

Translation: Portlanders are freaks.
At least we didn’t get this comment:

“Cleveland may be internationally recognized for its #1 ranking in affordability, but there’s no getting around the fact that its residents are uniformly hideous to look upon. Visitors to Cleveland may want to take advantage of the city’s #2 ranking for classical music; closing your eyes while listening to the Cleveland Orchestra provides a welcome respite from the monstrous appearance of local residents.”

Okay, so I made that one up. My point is that the one thing worse than annual city ratings by travel magazines is the writing in those magazines.

Laramie Project: Ten Years Later

2009-10-12T11:07:00.000-07:00

Tonight (October 12, 2009), Portland will be one of at least 150 cities to participate in a project to premiere “The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later, An Epilogue.”

The play is being performed on the same night on stages in all fifty states, Canada, Great Britain, Spain, Hong Kong and Australia. Portland’s edition will be a reading held in the Newmark Theatre, with a cast comprised of a “Who’s Who” of theater artists. Stan Foote, Artistic Director of Oregon Children’s Theatre is directing and Byron Beck, Portland's biggest gossip hound, will serve as narrator.

You all know the story, but here’s a recap: In October 1998, Matthew Shepard was beaten and left to die in the outskirts of Laramie, Wyoming. A month after his murder, playwright Moisés Kaufman and members of the Tectonic Theater Project traveled to Laramie, where they conducted interviews with residents. Out of those interviews, they wrote the play “The Laramie Project,” which was later made into a film. The play and film have been seen by more than 30 million people.

Ten years later, Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project returned to Laramie to conduct new interviews. How had the community changed in the intervening decade? How is the event being reinterpreted over time? In addition to re-interviewing many residents, the team interviewed Matthew Shepard’s mother, Judy Shepard, and his murderer Aaron McKinney, who is serving two consecutive life sentences. The resulting play examines how the murder continues to reverberate in the community. Tectonic Theater Project has set up an "Online Community" website to collect blog posts, videos and photos of the event.

Tonight’s performance at the Newmark will be a reading without staging. Stan has assembled a cast comprised of many of his colleagues and talented theater artists and local figures. In addition to Byron Beck, the cast is:

Allen Nause (Artistic Director, Artists Repertory Theatre)
Scott Yarbrough (Artistic Director, Third Rail Repertory)
Beth Harper (Artistic Director, Portland Actors Conservatory)
Dan Murphy (Founding General Manager, Broadway Rose Theatre)
Rose Riordan (Associate Artistic Director, Portland Center Stage)
Helen Raptis (Host of AM Northwest, KATU)
Chris Murray
Paul Glazier
Sharonlee McLean
Troy Lakey
Kelley Marchant
Kathleen Cafiero
Jake Michels
Katie Sundt

The reading is a fundraising benefit for The Matthew Shepard Foundation and Basic Rights Oregon, and is sponsored by Bling Dental. The New Century Players, based in Milwaukie, Oregon is a producing partner. The New Century Players will be presenting a three-week run of the original production of “The Laramie Project” from October 16-31st.

When: Monday October 12, 2009

Where: Newmark Theater, PCPA, 1111 SW Broadway, Portland OR 97205

General Admission: $20, Student Discount Available, $50 VIP Ticket includes entrance to BLING VIP Party at Ten 01 with food by Tabla Mediterranean Bistro.

Tickets are on sale in person at the Portland Center for the Performing Arts Box Office and all Ticketmaster outlets.

By phone: call Ticketmaster at 1-800-745-3000. Or online at www.ticketmaster.com

Saturday Semiotics (a.k.a. Signtology).

2009-10-10T08:49:00.001-07:00

Okay. I promise to actually write something this weekend. Until then, here's a little sign taped to a mirrored window facing SW 10th Avenue in downtown Portland.

Words Escape Me.

2009-10-08T21:46:00.000-07:00

I thought I might finish a blog post this evening. But then I got to thinking about NASA bombing the moon and thought, "What's the point?"

Instead, here are two photographs taken from my living room window in two different seasons.

Love Ridiculous

2009-10-04T22:49:00.001-07:00

A Cat Named Eli

2009-09-30T22:54:00.000-07:00

Fall is the dying season. A time of transition and letting go. A shifting of energy that always leaves me sad and introspective. So it is fitting, I suppose, that today marks the one year anniversary of the death of my cat Eli.

I adopted Eli and his brother Mica when they were eight weeks old. Their mama was a gorgeous Birman named Moon. Their fathers were two different tom cats. We got the call on the night they were born and visited them in their early weeks. They came home with us, shy and afraid. My job, as I saw it, was to love them and make them feel secure. Their job? To simply be cats. We’d take it from there. We bonded from the start.

At first, Eli did not know how to purr. For weeks, he’d struggle with halting little rumbles, until one day he figured it out, loud and strong. And, from then on, he purred me to sleep nearly every night.

Eli was independent, yet loved people. He was incredibly mellow, but other cats in the neighborhood knew not to mess with him. In the early days, whenever we sat near each other, I always kept a hand on the cats. It was my way of saying to them, “I'm here with you. You're safe”. Eli picked up the habit. Any time he cuddled me, which was anytime he could, he always made a point of putting a paw on my hand. If I shifted, that paw followed me.

It is easy to undervalue the relationships we form with our pets. But they are true; more honest, in fact, than many person to person relationships. I always think that these bonds with animals are all the more special and amazing because of our differences. It takes a lot to cross that language barrier and the issues of trust and love.

Mica and Eli were there with us when we bought our first house, got married, had children. They cemented our status as a family before we even realized it. They taught us to give, love purely, and savor quiet moments.

I was three months pregnant when Eli got sick. He began to hide out, taking space for himself. The vet suspected a rare form of cancer. Eli quickly lost weight and strength. I took him to a series of vet appointments, hand fed him from a syringe every few hours, weighed the decisions between his quality of life and my own selfishness, and finally took him to Dove Lewis.

Throughout all this I had my toddler in tow and I tried to prepare him: “Eli is very sick. I’m feeling really sad. I’m worried he might die. My heart is breaking.” When the vet took a look at him, now so weak and wasted away, she said, “Wow, he must have been formidable.” He was.

Dove Lewis couldn’t do much for him. We decided to take him home and put him to sleep in a place that was familiar and comfortable. The night before he died, I woke to a thud in the bathroom. It was Eli, trying to climb into the tub to drink from the tap. I picked him up and lay him down near the faucet. He had a long drink. Then he wet himself. I cleaned him up, carefully dried him, and wrapped him in towels. We lay down together on the bathroom floor. I curled my hand around him and he purred for the first time in days.

The next day, I held him as he died. The last wisp of breath left his body and I felt him let go. I had to let go too.

Now it’s been a year. I have a six month old that Eli never met. My toddler is now four; his memories of Eli beginning to fade. I still have Mica, who cuddles me every night. And I have memories of a dear, dear friend. A cat named Eli.

Household Tips Edition

2009-09-30T17:34:00.000-07:00

You know what Culture Shock has been missing? A regular feature in which we share household tips, that's what.

This afternoon, Courtenay Hameister (@wisenheimer on Twitter), funny writer and host of Live Wire Radio (everybody’s favorite Portland-centric radio show), tweeted this admission: “Just had Miracle Whip for the first time in years, and while ‘miracle’ is a bit of an oversell, it was deliciously tangy.”

That reminded me of having once read that the “miracle” in Miracle Whip is its many uses beyond sandwich and salad lubricant. A quick Google search located several nifty ideas, which I’ve edited just a teeny bit.

Removing dead skin from the feet

Rub a generous amount of Miracle Whip all over your feet with a soft washcloth to remove tired, dead skin. Let the Miracle Whip set for five minutes and rinse off with warm water. Do not reuse the Miracle Whip. Not effective on gangrenous flesh.

Polishing metals

Rub a generous amount of Miracle Whip onto your metals including candleholders, brass lamps, brass knuckles, car bumpers, sink fixtures, metallic gizmos, firearms, robots and jewelry. Leave the Miracle Whip on your metal surface for twenty minutes and wipe with a soft cloth while cooing softly.

Remove cigarette smoke stains from walls

Rub a generous amount of Miracle Whip all over your walls to remove cigarette smoke stains. Rub Miracle Whip all over yourself while doing this. Let the Miracle Whip set for one hour on the wall. Wipe away with a soft buffing cloth. Be sure to leave your windows open so that the odor of the Miracle Whip doesn't overtake your home. Your walls will be restored to their natural, smoke-free beauty. Rub leftover Miracle Whip on your smoke-stained teeth and buff with soft pumice stone.

Condition your Hair

Apply a generous amount of Miracle Whip once a day to condition and shine your hair. Leave the Miracle Whip in your hair for forty-five minutes. Garnish with parsley for a fresh look. Rinse the Miracle Whip from your hair thoroughly and wash with your usual shampoo, or not.

Remove Chewing Gum

If you're ever unfortunate enough to get chewing gum in your hair or your child's hair, just apply a generous amount of Miracle Whip to loosen it (the gum, not the hair...well, maybe the hair). Be sure to discard the gum!

Use as a facial

Apply Miracle Whip to your face and leave it on for about 30 minutes before rinsing it off with warm water, followed by a cool water rinse. This will moisturize your face while restoring it to its natural, smoke-free beauty.

Remove head lice

Apply Miracle Whip to your scalp and the roots of your hair. Apply it to the edges in front, the sides and the back. Place a plastic hair bag (not a bag of plastic hair) over your hair and leave it on for one hour. Rinse the Miracle Whip from your hair using a comb and warm water. Then wash your hair twice to remove the residue from the Miracle Whip. You can also add a few drops of peppermint oil into your shampoo to mask the smell of shame. Repeat this procedure every ten days, or ten times daily depending on your supply of Miracle Whip.

Okay, that gives us 20 posts for the month of September--a respectable number. Goodnight.

Who's on Top?

2009-09-30T11:53:00.000-07:00

OregonBusiness magazine just released its ranking of the Top 100 Nonprofits to work for in Oregon. I didn't make it to the award ceremony last night, but received the rankings this morning.

The organization with which I am associated, Oregon Children’s Theatre, ranked 26th in the “Small Company” category (with a score of 479.2). Woohoo! We're 26th!

Broadway Rose Theatre beat us at 21st place in the same group (score of 485.7); however, as a musical theater company it has the advantage of lots of happy singing and dancing to boost morale. Our friends at Portland Center Stage reached 30th place in the “Large” category (more than 75 employees) with a score of just under 411. I believe that means we kicked their asses, and I don't care who knows it. Oregon Shakespeare Festival brought up the rear in that category at 33rd place (score of 406.2).

Our other friends at the Regional Arts and Culture Council placed 9th in the “Medium” category (24-74 employees) with a respectable score of nearly 474. The table provided by OregonBusiness describes RACC’s purpose as providing “pre-natal to end-of-life social services to low-income people.” That sounds about right since they support artists.

The only other arts group in the rankings was Caldera, scoring 9th in the small category with score of 499.3 -- very well done.

Who ranked at the very top? Susan G. Komen for the Cure, OR/SWW Affiliate in the large category with a score of 520.7; Idealist.org in the middle group at 519.4; and, Oregon Rehabilitation carrying the small group (with a whopping score of 537.7).

Wordstock Cometh.

2009-09-30T09:37:00.001-07:00

Wordstock, Portland’s annual bookapalooza and literastravaganza, gets rolling in a little over a week from now. The festival's list of authors and workshops is as long as … well I’m not feeling particularly literate this morning.

If you don’t have the scratch to buy your way in, you could try to win a ticket by entering the festival’s Twitter Haiku contest.

This week (through October 2), if you twitter a haiku about Wordstock, Wordstock authors, or any one of its partner events, you will be entered into the contest. You can find the rules here. Be sure to include @wordstockfest and the hashtag, #WSHaiku, so the good folks at the festival can find them.

Remember, a haiku typically has three lines totaling 17 syllables (five,seven,five). Here’s a haiku to help you remember.

Start with only five.
Mix in seven more to taste.
Add five more to end.

I’ve already submitted a few entries:

I like free tickets
to Wordstock or monster trucks.
The key word is “free.”

To win free tickets
it is wise to seem earnest.
Compliments help too.

Did not volunteer.
Too cheap to buy a ticket.
Will doggerel do?

Tickets to Woodstock?
Oh man, that is so far out!
Word, not Wood? I’m cool.

Hot librarians.
Bearded dudes with meerschaum pipes.
It’s Wordstock. Again.

Great literature;
Erudite authors galore;
Books up the ying yang.

If my haikus don't get me a ticket, maybe the Wordstock people will give me a pass in exchange for blogging about it. It can't hurt to ask.

Robot Report! #4

2009-09-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

I just read a report on the invention of a stabbing robot that works through mind control. (Invented in Japan, in case you hadn’t guessed). The good news? It didn’t win the robot gladiator competition. Apparently to win that, your robot has to have a larger repertoire than moving forward, rotating to the right and stabbing.

Here’s the winning robot, OmniZero.9. In addition to sporting flapping blades on its arms, it can be used as a chair--unless you're worried about the flapping blade thing.

Inspired by all this, I’ve written the chorus for a new song:

I’m building a stabbing robot with advanced circuitry
And one of these days I’m going to set that robot free.
He’ll be loaded up with sensors that sense the things you do
And if you try to do me wrong, he’s coming after you.

Inappropriate Tweets and Facebook Status Reports.

2009-09-29T21:01:00.001-07:00

Culture Shock has fallen woefully off the pace this month; therefore, I've decided to tap the Strategic Blog Post Reserve (S.B.P.R.) tonight, even though doing so requires me to dredge up material that should continue festering in the dark corners of my hard drive.

The S.B.P.R. includes posts that are:

(1) ill-conceived;

(2) poorly written;

(3) irrelevant;

(4) boring; and/or

(5) offensive to the delicate sensibilities of our readers.

This post displays all of the weaknesses cited, but I won't let that stop me.

If you're a user of Facebook or Twitter you've certainly run across status reports or tweets that are cryptic or nonsensical.

And then there are the reports that are ripe for salacious misinterpretation. Over the past few months, I've been making note of Facebook status reports and Twitter tweets that could be double entendres, especially if read with a wink and a smirk. Perhaps some of our readers will recognize their own words (names changed to protect the innocent, etc.) among the following:

(1) June is making Ginger Peach Blackberry Pandowdy with my honey.

(2) Jack got in twelve holes before the storm came through.

(3) Mary just had an equipment malfunction.

(4) Let the flooring begin!

(5) Wonderful evening for a ride. Warm but not too hot.

(6) Bill has already gotten a little behind at work this morning.

(7) Jim is back in the heat of it.

(8) Man, I could really use a swift and ball winder.

(9) Mike just divested himself of an onerous burden.

(10) Joe is going to spend the day waxing his car.

(11) Headed to the Polish festival!

(12) I think I have to spackle a wall now... ug.

(13) I wanted to see what would happen if you stripped the fanciness away, and just did it on a bare stage with chairs.*

* That last one was courtesy of Portland Center Stage's artistic director, Chris Coleman, tweeting in response to a question about his staging of "Ragtime" -- which just opened this past weekend.

Please feel free to add your own to the list.

Excuses, excuses.

2009-09-28T22:21:00.000-07:00

You may have gathered that I’ve been busy lately, or consumed by lassitude. My posts have been infrequent and uncharacteristically terse. Heck, I haven't even had time to comment on other people's posts (though I have been reading them).

If you were thinking that I was engaged in a top secret espionage mission in Bhutan, you would be wrong. It’s just that I have a day job that has required a little attention these past few weeks. Much of that work has been fun and engaging; some has been challenging and not so much fun. In case you were wondering, the Oregon Children’s Theatre costume sale was a rousing success. The best news is that (as far as I can tell), the organization's staff has not yet written to the board of directors demanding that my performance be reviewed (as was the case for the Oregon Ballet Theatre's executive director).

A smidgeon of my time and creative energy has been dissipated by resuming the rock and roll lifestyle that I put aside when one of my musical compatriots headed to Europe on sabbatical last year (tough life). Upon returning to Portland, he cajoled the bass player and me into resuming what we ambitiously call “rehearsing” on Wednesday nights. We discovered that our year-long hiatus did nothing to improve the quality of our work as an ensemble, nor did our skills degrade appreciably. We were able to plow through the old play list with enough aplomb to convince us that could be ready for a public reunion in the near future.

Be warned: Sometime in the next four to eight weeks, expect to be pressured into dropping by a local boîte to be tortured by our unique brand of honky-tonk caterwauling. You may be surprised to find me sporting the Michael "What a Fool Believes" McDonald look:

We Report, You Decide

2009-09-25T14:08:00.000-07:00

In case you missed it, Willamette Week has launched a new Q&A section called "Dr. Know." The good doctor kicked off his inaugural edition on Wednesday by addressing several of our citizens' most burning questions, including one addressing the phallic appearance of many of Portland's public artworks.

In his investigative response, Dr. Know collected some salient input from an unidentified source at RACC -- and no, I'm not the Deep Throat in question. I can't say as I have ever thought of public art in that way, but we do want to give you the opportunity to see for yourself what all the excitement is about.

Pod

Friendship Circle

Tikitotmoniki

Stack Stalk

Baobab

Araminta

Here at Culture Shock, we believe in equal opportunity, so perhaps next week we could focus on the other end of the anatomical spectrum, beginning with Big Pipe Portal which was dedicated just yesterday.

EXPOSED! The True Mighty Toy Cannon Revealed

2009-09-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

Did I mention that Oregon Children's Theatre is having a huge costume sale this weekend? The staff has finished sorting through the inventory and attaching prices. Frankly, I think most of the prices are ridiculously low, but what are you going to do?

If you don't want to miss out on the best items, you really MUST drop in for the Sneak Peek event after work on Friday. For a mere $10 entry donation (kids free), you'll not only get first crack at the merchandise, but you'll have access to the all-important free beer, wine and munchies, and can snap your fingers to the cool sounds of a live jazz band. I'll be there, looking suave in my new hairpiece:

Big Pipe Portal

2009-09-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

That big pipe that they’ve been digging underneath us for years still remains a bit of a mystery to most of us. How big is this big pipe anyway? Where does it run, exactly? And what’s with the news that it might not be big enough after all to keep all of the poop out of our rivers?

To help answer some of these questions (2 out of 3 ain’t bad), Environmental Services and RACC invested the percent-for-art funds that were generated by this project into an educational public sculpture and mini-interpretive center on Swan Island. Rhiza, whose other works you have seen on the Eastbank Esplanade, was commissioned to bring the pipe above ground in an artful way, and it all gets dedicated in a public ceremony on Thursday, September 24th from 4:30 to 6:30. Should you decide to come and have a look, you’ll be invited to travel 165 feet underground to see the inner workings of the Big Pipe from inside the Swan Island Pump Station. The Bristlecones will make music and parade around above ground, and there might even be cookies and lemonade.

4299 N Port Cetner Way, just south of the FedEx truck parking lot.

And now for something completely different ...

2009-09-18T20:48:00.000-07:00

On some Friday evenings, after a long week of toiling in the fields, what I really need is a cool drink and time to surf the interwebs in the search for inanity. Here's what I found tonight, courtesy of the blog, Don't Judge My Hair, a journal of epic hairstyles. You're welcome.

Massive Costume Sale!

2009-09-17T17:03:00.000-07:00

I try to avoid shilling for the arts organization that employs me, Oregon Children's Theatre. That's not what this blog is about, plus I don't want readers to think that the malformed opinions and potty mouth language that I spew under the guise of Mighty Toy Cannon have anything to do with that fine cultural institution.

With that caveat out of the way, allow me to promote the most stupendous, gargantuan costume sale that you are likely to ever experience in the entirety of your existence on this planet, may you live into a ripe old age.

Oregon Children's Theatre is selling off much of its costume inventory next week. No, this isn't being done out of economic desperation. We're doing just fine, though you might consider sending a donation. (I'll wait here while you write a check).

The company simply has too many great costumes that it will never use again. Why is that? It's mostly a matter of changing aesthetics and artistic vision. We're not about big, furry animal costumes, and we're no longer producing for the humongous barn of Keller Auditorium, a venue which required outsized costuming so that a six-year old in the top balcony could actually see a little of the action.

Over the past few weeks, staff and volunteers have been sorting through the inventory to get ready for the sale. We've been having fun seeing all that there is--and there is a lot. As official videographer, I've assembled three short films to entice you. Watching all three will eat up no more than five minutes of your busy life.

The first shows our staff trying on costumes:

We couldn't resist staging a staff meeting with some of the masks:

Finally, Stan Foote willingly abased himself for this video showing a fraction of the crazy party wigs that will be available.

Our landlords for the Galleria Building have generously allowed us to hold the sale in the now-vacated storefront on the corner of SW 10th and Alder (formerly occupied by Made in Oregon).

Friday, September 25th, 5:00 to 7:30

We're holding an exclusive pre-sale sale, with a $10 entry fee (kids free) to weed out the riff-raff and give the elite early access to the plunder. Not only will you get first crack at the inventory, we'll have a live jazz band* and beer and wine. Stop by after work and have some fun. You'll have plenty of time to dash over to the Armory for opening night of "Ragtime" at Portland Center Stage. (If you're going out to dinner or to the theater that evening, we'll hold your purchases until the next day).

Saturday, September 26th, 10:00 to 6:00

The big sale!

Also, watch for us on Good Day Oregon (KPTV Channel 12) throughout Friday morning's broadcast.

* Friday night's cool jazz stylings will be courtesy of the Mayfield 4, featuring the upright bass of Matthew Jones, long-time friend and colleague and member of Bourbon Jockey, the band with which I have been known to embarrass myself.

Blue Helmet Update

2009-09-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

I apologize to Culture Shock readers for not having shared any new reports on the Miniscule Blue Helmets on a Massive Quest since my last post over two weeks ago.

This morning, one of my international Twitter connections, Dutch photographer Rogier Chang, tweeted a link to a televised news report on the project. The following segment shows Pierre Derksthe artist behind the project, and colleagues preparing thousands of little soldiers for worldwide questing.

Subsequently, I found another video report on the project:

I promise you'll be hearing more about these tiny adventurers as soon as I'm back in communication with them. I can report that there is a Blue Helmet guarding Timberline Lodge and another in Alaska watching the Cook Inlet to be sure that Putin doesn't raise his head in American airspace. Rumor has it that a few Blue Helmets ventured to Burning Man this year.

If you're new to the Miniscule Blue Helmets on a Massive Quest story, I encourage you to click on the "Blue Helmet" label to find my earlier reports.

My TBA Adventures

2009-09-13T12:56:00.000-07:00

The "L" is For Loser

I told all my Twitter friends that I was going to be tweeting about PICA’s Time Based Art Festival (TBA:09) this year. Alison Hallett at the Portland Mercury included me on a list of folks who would be writing about TBA, going so far as to identify me as a “local arts writer." I promised that I would be reporting on TBA:09 with “grace, wit and perspicacity.” I don’t know what I was thinking.

The awful truth is that I’m a cardboard-cutout of a cultural critic. Every September I have the best of intentions to immerse myself in PICA’s annual time bomb of an arts festival, but it never happens. I suffer from two TBA bugaboos: Time and money. Well, three problems: Time, money and torpor. Always the torpor.

Three years ago, I had a full Festival Pass that I never used, even though it identified me as a TBA Artist and bestowed special bragging rights. I earned that distinction by joining the Extreme Guitar Orchestra, an outfit which opened TBA:06 in Pioneer Courthouse Square with verve and volume. Along with a few dozen confreres, I whanged away on an electric guitar under the baton of composer John King to create what a least one observer (me) said was "unequivocally the most epic musical moment that Portland is likely to ever experience. Ever."

As shown in the photographic evidence below, I'm one of the few orchestra members who dressed appropriately for the event by bedecking myself from the Johnny Cash Man in Black Collection. I also donned dark shades and rocked my head back and forth in the hope that audience members would think, "Wow. That blind cat really has it going on."

When my ship has come in (any day now), I swear that I will take two weeks off from work to devote myself full time to TBA. My wife and I will send the dog to doggie summer camp and check ourselves into a downtown boutique hotel. We'll sleep in until noon, rising to order crepes and mimosas from room service. We’ll spend afternoons and evenings attending performances, films and lectures. Then we’ll party late into the night at The Works with the rest of the Scapigliati. Of course, I will set aside a few hours each day to post intelligent reviews of everything I see. Until that day, you can expect me to continue constructing my little Potemkin Villages of cultural insight.

This year, the extent of my TBA participation was: (a) I visited the Washington High School site on a quiet Sunday afternoon to check out the visual art installations; (b) I watched a little bit of an online performance piece in which the artists drove around town all day with a camera pointed at themselves; and (c) I watched a lunchtime performance of "Small Metal Objects" in Pioneer Courthouse Square. In the next few days, I'll write a little bit about what I saw, mostly to encourage you to visit the installations at Washington High, which will remain there for the next month.

All I really did was read about what everyone else was doing and thinking. I have to say that the blogosphere, twitterati and alternative press (aka Portland Mercury) smoked the main stream media (aka The Oregonian) when it came to covering the TBA. Not that the Oregonian's coverage was bad, it was just scant. Here are some of the best places to read about the Festival if you missed it:

Culturephile at Portland Monthly provided insightful and timely blog and Twitter coverage of the festival courtesy of associate editor, Lisa Radon, and her compatriots. You may have noticed that Culturephile has been added to the Culture Shock blogroll.

Portland Mercury fielded a team of folks in a special TBA section of its blog. I especially liked Alison Hallett's stories because she's not afraid to call out bullshit when she sees it.

PICA had its own blog team at work, hosted by the folks at Urban Honking. It wasn't all puff and fluff.

Where the Wild Things Are

2009-09-11T14:49:00.000-07:00

A little diversion. Just over one month to go before Maurice Sendak’s classic is released (October 16). It takes a lot for me to get excited about a new movie, but this one does the trick. It’s got an exceptionally well-crafted trailer with the added bonus of an Arcade Fire soundtrack—and who can resist James Gandolfini as a Wild Thing? Ahhh....

Check it out:

First Day of School

2009-09-08T08:18:00.000-07:00

These are my nephews. They started school last week. That’s Charlie on the left. I’m happy to report that Charlie’s first day of school turned out a lot better than he’d anticipated.

My son starts preschool next week. He tells me he’s “not very excited” about it. He wishes he could just stay home and hang with me and his little brother. I understand how he feels. Preschool is going to burst open the insular bubble that we’ve dwelt in for the last four years. All of a sudden, he will be exposed to new people, ideas, and influences. Most of which will be out of my control.

This is just the beginning. With each year it will accelerate until he’s a young man ready to take life on without me. This is good, I know. I brought him into this world, but he’s got to live in it. And I’ve got to step back and let him do it.

But for now, he’s just a little boy. Like so many others today, he's nervous about a new experience. That anxiety is real and can be big. So let’s send good thoughts and a little cheer out to all the kids starting school today. They are being very brave—and will hopefully be rewarded for it with great friendships, solid learning, and lots of laughter along the way.

Preparing to be Pelted with Propaganda

2009-09-06T11:19:00.000-07:00

As part of his secret plot to destroy America (reportedly titled “The Glorious March to a Shiny Socialist Future”), President Obama and his White House henchmen have launched a scheme to indoctrinate American school kids.

On September 8th, innocent children across our Great & Exceptional Nation (the greatest in the universe and in all history, past and future, without exception) will be strapped into their teeny school chairs and forced to witness Obama deliver a propaganda-laden screed liberally laced with poison and ichor--the Poison of Subversion and the Ichor of Treason.

Foolhardy daredevils can watch his stream of mistruths as they pour out of interweb tubes straight from the White House's Mind Control Center. No doubt, the self-styled President's message will be beamed into our brains by infrared laser beams from secret satellites, or distilled into liquid form and injected into our water supplies. I'm taking no chances:

Sure, the White House says the Kenyan-born usurper is "simply" going to "encourage" children by delivering a "positive" message in "support" of "education." But do you know who else told schoolchildren to work hard, stay in school and take responsibility for themselves? HITLER!

(Probably. I’m not sure. Maybe it was Stalin).*

Like Glenn Beck on Fox News, I fear that it may be too late to stop this juggernaut of treachery... this farrago of insidious lies.

It may too late to get my America back. You know, the America with tall glasses of milk and warm cookies after school. The America where housewives wear lace-trimmed aprons while mixing Manhattans, and fathers tuck briar pipes into the pockets of their cardigans. The America with a new Chevrolet in the driveway and segregated swimming pools.

Since it may be too late, I write this post for posterity and dedicate the following poem to future generations. My prayer is that as they huddle together in caves and wander aimlessly amidst the smoldering ruins of western civilization, they will read it and learn, just as our forebears were enlightened by the poem by Martin Niemöller which inspired me. (And that also happens to be about Nazis).

First they came and told us to work hard,
and I didn’t speak up,
because that’s not the way I roll.
Also, is this going to be on the test?

Then they came and told us to stay in school,
and I’m all like, "Uh, dude?
How’s that different from the first thing?"
I’m just sayin’. Jeez.

Then they told us to take responsibility,
and I’m like, "Don’t go getting’ all up in my grill...
bitch."
Yeah, that's right, I said it.

Then they like came for me,
and I’m all like:
"Whatever."

If you enjoy reading about truly deranged conspiracy theories, here's a story from Salon regarding another reason the President may want to talk to schoolchildren on September 8th.

* Correction: It was Mr. T who told kids to stay in school. Also: "Don't do drugs."

While we're at it, do we really want schoolchildren to learn how to spell? Here's the incompairabel doushebag, Glen Beck, spelling "oligarhy." For keyboard-playing cat lovers, the clip ends with a mind-cleansing musical number. [Editor's note: The foregoing sentence should have read, "For people who love keyboard playing cats ...", I think.]

For those readers who can't get enough of Mr. Beck, here's a fun little remix:

MTC Visits the DEQ

2009-09-05T13:17:00.000-07:00

While enjoying a cup of Stumptown coffee this morning, I remembered (or was reminded) that I needed to schlep the car to the nearest DEQ station for a smog check and registration renewal--a miserable task on any day, but more so on a rainy Saturday made for staying at home with a laptop-warmed lap or a fat book.

Public Service Tip #1: Check the DEQ webcams online so you can estimate how long the wait might be before you drive there.

Public Service Tip #2: If the webcam shows no lines, confirm that the DEQ station is actually open. A few years ago, on the last Monday remaining before my car’s registration was due to lapse, I was delighted to discover that the closest station had no lines at all! Halfway there, it dawned on me that it is closed on Mondays. (One would think someone would turn the webcams off, or at least point them toward a big sign reading “We’re Closed, Stupid!”).

Today I got lucky: Light crosstown traffic, no lines at all, and I remembered to bring all the paperwork. I was there and back within an hour, including ten minutes spent carefully stowing the new registration and proof of insurance card in their proper places rather than tossing them, willy-nilly, in the glove compartment. (Does anybody still call those compartments “jockey boxes” as I was raised to do?)

Having a car that's only two years old made today's visit to the DEQ easier. I didn't have to worry about failing the test. Between that anxiety and general lassitude, I once kept driving an unregistered car for several months*--an act for which I still feel the sting of shame. (Actually it’s more of a deep, throbbing ache).

Public Service Tip #3: If you drive an unregistered vehicle, don’t park downtown, unless you want a ticket.

Public Service Tip #4: If you’re still driving a clunker and need to pass the smog test, be sure that the engine is really hot when you get to the DEQ. DO NOT turn the engine off while waiting in line. You want that puppy running hot enough to burn off as much bad stuff as possible before they shove the tube up the tailpipe.

Given how easy it went today, I shouldn't complain, but I will. Does a car that is just two years old really need a smog check? I'll bet that almost every vehicle that is less than five years old is going to pass. So why mandate testing of cars that are unlikely to be causing problems?

I'm not arguing that the legislation is bad policy; I am confident that it has helped to reduce pollutants. And, my complaint is not about having to pay the $21 testing fee on top of the registration fee and the specialty license plate fee. The legislature can go ahead and add $21 to my registration fee if it wants. My complaint is about the time wasted by a great many citizens forced to have a smog test done that isn't really necessary in the first few years of a car's life.

Public Service Tip #5: If you opt for the Cultural Trust license plate, be prepared to keep paying the $30 surcharge each time you renew your registration, even if you vehemently swore that you wouldn’t give another dime to the Cultural Trust after the Legislature essentially stole all that money against the express wishes of the good citizens who voluntarily contributed to it by buying a Cultural Trust plate. Because, really, it’s a lot of trouble to go to the DMV to swap back to the ordinary plates. Besides, you’ll be scared that all your culture-loving friends and colleagues will shame and shun you.

While you're here, jump in the Wayback Machine and check out this post with the Raymond Carver poem, The Car.

* For most of that time, the vehicle was parked off the street. And by "several months" I mean more than one month, but less than two ... years.

A New Season Approaches

2009-09-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

New Seasons is moving to my neighborhood. Everyone is thrilled. I’m pretty excited about it myself. I love the idea of being able to simply walk down the block to pick up a few groceries. And when they take over the old, deserted Daily Grind building, they will only be elevating the value of the neighborhood as a whole. But there is a caveat. You knew it was coming, right?

At first the new store was to be a test model. Rather than a larger store, CEO Brian Rohter envisioned a small 10,000 square foot neighborhood destination; one where most shoppers would pop in on a regular basis for that night’s dinner fixings or a last minute bottle of wine. However, due to funders who are reluctant to take risks on a new idea in our current shocked economy, Rohter has had to increase the scope of his plans to a 17,000 square foot store, with 37 rooftop parking spaces, and a ramp that egresses onto SE 41st Avenue.

Here’s the caveat. When we think New Seasons, we think fresh, locally grown, often organic food. But New Seasons also means a large amount of extra traffic. Southeast 41st Avenue is a designated bike boulevard. It is also so narrow that two cars cannot pass each other at the same time. This helps keep things quiet and rather slow. What will all this extra traffic do to the quality of life in this neighborhood?

Many neighbors are requesting that New Seasons consider moving their proposed parking ramp over to 40th to help ease congestion between cars and the bike boulevard and to give drivers a faster route back to 39th Avenue. But whether the ramp is on 40th or 41st the sad fact is that both of these streets will just have to suck it up and take on the extra traffic. With busier streets, the livability in the neighborhood will decline…even as New Seasons brings added value and convenience.

I’m optimistic that New Seasons will work with the neighborhood to make sure they fit in smoothly. And still, when I sit out on the front porch with my morning coffee, there is a part of me that is already in mourning for the loss of peace and quiet.

Everybody Dance!

2009-09-03T13:43:00.000-07:00

Doesn't it feel like dance is everywhere these days? Last night I found myself toggling between America's Best Dance Crew and So You Think You Can Dance; Best 15 Routines. My parents can't enough of Dancing With the Stars. Ever thought you'd see Tom DeLay do the Paso Doble?

Now I've always been a fan of dance. My first exposure to performing arts was taking ballet lessons as a preschooler at local dance studio. The first ticket I ever bought to a live performance was to Houston Ballet as a teenager. Through my love of ballet, I discovered modern dance, musical theater and movie musicals. But I was a geeky, arts-obsessed teenager that dug through the classic movie section at my local video store to find movies with Fred Astair and Cyd Charisse dancing.

But these days, I feel like I don't have to go looking for dance. It's everywhere! Dance competition shows get huge ratings across demographics. America's Best Dance Crew is clearly a teen market. Dance Your Ass Off is pushing weight loss through dance on Lifetime, television for (old) women. And of course the hugely popular shows on the bigger networks. So it looks to me like this isn't just a niche audience.

So how is all of this dancing on TV affecting dance in the outside world? In spite of all the financial trauma at Oregon Ballet Theater, attendance was high last year. Portland Center Stage's best selling show last season was Guys and Dolls . Up on the silver screen we have the upcoming releases of Nine and Fame that are positioned to be blockbusters.

Being relatively new to Portland, I'm still learning about the local dance ecology. I've seen amazing work by companies like BodyVox and NW Professional Dance Project. I'm looking forward to exploring more. But I'm wondering if the popularity of these dance shows is trickling out to our smallish local companies?

What about participatory dance? Are the ballroom studios full of people who think if that guy from Seinfeld can foxtrot surely they can give it a try?