Rosebud Redux

An excerpt from IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER written by moi with a few recent musings at the end to wrap it all up in a pretty bow.

At last, I have vindicated myself. A wrong in my life has finally been made right.

A glaring red mark is now erased from my permanent record. I once was lost, but now I’m found.

What, you may well ask, is this bold, courageous step I have taken which will guarantee me a reserved seat in that big skybox above known as Heaven?

I have just seen CITIZEN KANE as it was originally meant to be seen-on an actual motion picture screen.

Okay, fine, I’m a little late. It’s not like I haven’t seen the dang thing before…only several dozen times since I was a lad of wee, but it was always on television. After all, CITIZEN KANE was a perennial LATE, LATE SHOW attraction in the prehistoric days before cable. I probably saw it for the first time on the San Francisco TV station KPIX at maybe two in the morning back in the 1960s. Even then, it was hard to deny the power of this incredible film, a tougher feat to accomplish in those days since it was broken up by incessant used car commercials featuring fast-talking hucksters like the notorious Ralph Williams, a dead ringer for Lex Luthor. CITIZEN KANE pulled me in every single time and I was always a willing hostage.

Only a series of missed opportunities throughout my movie-going life has prevented me from actually making the supreme effort to view what is generally acknowledged as the greatest film of all time in its natural habitat. Truthfully, it has been a major source of embarrassment to have to admit this shame of mine because I have always claimed to be somewhat of an expert on the cinema, a connoisseur, if you
will…someone who eats, sleeps, hell…even farts movies. Not to have seen CITIZEN KANE…really, honestly, truly seen Orson Welles’ masterpiece meant one thing and one thing only.

I was a fraud. Oh yeah. A genuine, bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool-whatever-the-hell-that-means, class A number one F-R-A-U-D.

But, not no mo’, pal.

Now, I can hold my head up high, climb to the top of Gene Shalit’s hair and shout victoriously, “Free at last! Free at Last! Pass the popcorn, I am free at last!”

This soul-cleansing redemption came one recent fall evening at the Guild Theatre in downtown Portland, Oregon, a venue that runs shows for the Northwest Film Center. The Guild has an auditorium that is old, musty and damp with seats to match, almost giving off the impression that’s it had been underwater for several years after a flood. That, to me, is part of its charm. The screen, framed by soft white light bulbs, was rather small, making me think this might be a 16mm showing, even though it wasn’t. The presentation began; stumbling and bumbling like a doddering old fool in the dark. The
opening titles, usually the first big rush I get because your anticipation is so high, were illegibly out of frame. The sound level was so loud, the NEWS ON THE MARCH fanfare alone nearly burst open my lower intestine. The print was fairly scratchy in that community college Film Appreciation class way. Instead of irritating the snot out of me, these gaffes actually amused me because they eventually worked themselves out. The Guild basically showed me a good time that night. I might even give it a second date sometime.

It is also my pleasure to report that I sat with a respectful audience that didn’t talk during the film, laughed at all the right places and even gave me a small sense of pride to be amongst them when they applauded after the closing credits. (There were a couple of knotheads that just HAD to leave just as the sled was burning. What’s the hurry? Afraid you’re gonna miss a rerun of JAG?)

To say that I’m familiar with CITIZEN KANE would be an understatement. Basically, I know this film backwards and forwards with entire scenes that I can recite verbatim. However, each repeat viewing affords certain aspects of KANE to stand out more than ever, as it would for any film. Projected on the big screen, these details are more abundant and have more clarity. I may not have seen KANE with “a whole new set of eyes” like a friend of mine suggested, but my vision most certainly improved. The opening sequence, just before Kane utters “Rosebud” for the very first time, has that eerie tour of Xanadu after dark. With its special effects and matte paintings, it looks damn near like animation, not dissimilar to early black-and-white Disney. Speaking of cartoons, check out the birds in the background of the Everglades sequence near the end. Just where the hell did Kane and Susan have that picnic anyway…Skull Island? Hey, look over there by the chilled prawns…it’s Bruce Cabot! Joseph Cotten is very obvious in the shadows of the screening room after NEWS ON THE MARCH. That smile he has on his face looks like he was trying to sneak into the scene. Another thing I’ve never really picked up on before: Dorothy Comingore, the actress who portrays the second Mrs. Kane, was hot! Take a look at the early boarding house scene when Susan Alexander is introduced. Small wonder how Kane got his hand caught in that “cookie” jar. Granted, she’s got a voice that would make Fran Drescher squirm, but how can I not pay tribute to the actress who says the immortal line, “Yer awful funny, are-runt cha?”

On the downside is a glaring oversight by Welles and screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz that weakens the film for me and obviously is something I haven’t picked upon before. There is a total lack of any kind of a payoff regarding the death of Emily, the first Mrs. Kane, and their son (played by the ever-popular Sonny Bupp) Surely, it was significant enough to warrant such attention. Their demise seems to be mentioned only in passing, as if it were merely a convenience of the story. Its absence leaves a very obvious gaping hole that I find impossible to ignore from here on out.

Volumes have been written about Gregg Toland’s cinematography and Bernard Herrmann’s music, so let me just add my undying admiration for both of their invaluable contributions, which are even more spectacular in a theater setting. When Rosebud’s secret is finally revealed and the music reaches its crescendo, so did I, in more ways than one. (You figure it out)

Orson Welles as Charles Foster Kane is the single greatest film performance of all time. Period.

After the movie, I drove home about as pleased with myself as I had been in quite some time. Now that

time has distanced me from that night, I have to ask myself why. What was it that I actually accomplished? I went to a movie. More accurately, I went to a movie that I’d seen maybe thirty times before I also own a copy of this movie I paid to see. The answer may be two-fold for it not only has to do with act of going to a movie, but also what it represents which, coincidentally enough, is a lot like the answer to the meaning of Rosebud. Watching CITIZEN KANE at the Guild gave me something I had been lacking-sense of being true to myself.

I love the movies. I own both a VCR and a DVD player. That means I will continue to watch movies at home each and every chance I get. The technology is getting better and better as each day passes, making the home experience a more viable option. There is never a lack of product since it is easier and extremely affordable to obtain movies to purchase or merely to rent. My own personal collection continues to grow into the treasure chest I’ve always dreamed of. But, it’s never going to be enough.
There is a qualitative difference in a theater, an entire dimension that is lost at home. This dimension is a separate world, a world of light and life that can envelop me entirely. It can make the fantastic positively believable and the tiniest gesture a poem. The portal to that world is a movie theater and I wish to remain a frequent traveler through its gateway. Sure, sometimes this magic portal takes me to a place where a teenager humps an apple pie. But, hey, allow me the pretentious metaphor.

The night I saw KANE was a wake-up call. It re-ignited the fire I myself allowed to go out, that is, my passion for the movie-going experience. It caused me to review the many options that exist out there for those with my voracious appetite for all things celluloid. I happen to be very fortunate to be living in an area where I’m only limited by my lack of imagination. The confines of the multiplex with its standard Hollywood fare mentality may be pre-dominant here as it everywhere but at least there are many other choices. Independent, foreign, revivals of classics, hell, even second run features at discounted prices are all currently playing at various neighborhood theaters all over town, many in glorious old movie palaces that have been saved and preserved by people who care. These are getting fewer and far between as each day passes, which is another reason to support them. There are even theater pubs where you can enjoy a meal and a brew while watching a movie. Okay, that’s here where I live. Maybe that doesn’t exist where you are. Go out and find them. If I didn’t live in this area, that’s what I would do. I’ve done it before and I’d do it again. And yes, I’ve even gone back to the multiplex too because it ain’t the only game in town. It’s just another option.

You see, as I said, I love the movies and I am proud to say the movies love me right back. What I’ve come to realize it that this a part of who I am and always will be, even it is just a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. This is my Rosebud.

In the dark, I see the light.

Copyright 2003 by Scott Cherney

CODA:
This incident occurred at the turn of century, a term that is still hard to swallow twenty three years into the 21st where we find ourselves now. That being said, some updates seem to be required. The Guild Theatre in downtown Portland is long gone. I no longer have a VCR, though am inexplicably holding onto some videotapes. There is no mention of streaming services because they didn't exist back then. You could rent a DVD from Netflix though if you so desired. 

I still believe in the power of cinema, especially in the realm of a movie theater. My attendance in recent years may belie this fanciful notion, but the experience in and of itself still gives me that visceral thrill like no other. In fact, I'm going to a movie tomorrow to keep my passion for film alive and hopefully still kicking.

IN THE DARK: A LIFE AND TIMES IN A MOVIE THEATER is available in paperback and Kindle on the Amazon

That's What All the People Say

Ah, summer! Time for another dose of yin and yang, fantasy and reality, drama and comedy for...guess who?

Your humble narrator, that's who.

Another work day for yours truly, no better or worse than any other. The sun is shining is what appears to be a normal summer day which, this year in Oregon, is almost frightening after the dreaded HEAT DOME we were under a few weeks back, bringing temperatures up to a record 116. Today was a blessedly pleasant 82. My, it's amazing what a difference 34 degrees makes.  I'm wearing "approved" work attire-dark blue short sleeve polo shirt, tan khakis, bland beyond belief even with my shades on. However, it was apparently enough to prompt this comment from a lovely lady:

"Hey, you look like a movie star!"

Now I'm about as shallow as a puddle in a parking lot and insecure beyond belief because this remark boosted my ego enough to give me a lil' spring in my step the rest of the doo-dah day.

BUT...

...on the way home from work, I stopped to fill my gas tank at a nearby Shell station. The attendant, a gap-toothed yahoo also of the female persuasion looked at my attire and surmised with a gummy grin:

"You must work for Wal-Mart!"

And PRESTO! I'm back on Planet Earf. 

Frank Sinatra, Ol Blue Eyes himself, sang a little ditty called "That's Life". You know as in "that's what all the people say". This tune, written by written by Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon, talked about the ups and downs of life and how you have to roll with the punches because "some people get their kicks stompin' on a dream". 

Frank would know all about that since he's been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, the inspiration for Johnny Fontaine in THE GODFATHER, the kinda guy that would have his goons beat the shit out of you if you looked at him wrong, then try to take to your wife away from you if you were dying from lung cancer. Yeah, that's life, Frank, as funny as it may seem. 

But let's get back to the song. Here we have the Chairman of the Board telling us that right after he finds himself flat on his face, he kicks himself up and gets back in the race, he finished up with this declaration:

"That's life and I can't deny it

I wonder how would Frank looked in a blue vest

Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shakin' come this here July
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die
My, My"


Wow. What a defeatist. Did Frank really sign off on the premise that he would crawl up in a big ball and die if nothin' shook in July? Not exactly "if I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere", is it, FRAN-CIS? 

Still, somehow, some way, I feel the same way here in the good ol' summertime.

Today is July 15th.

Oh yeah, I definitely relate.

My, my.

Here Comes La Rue Again!

We may not have reached the fabled light at the end of the tunnel just yet, but it is looming. The portal
itself has cracks in it and beams of illumination are shining through, thanks to the efforts of those who want us to bask in the sunshine once again.

Of those, I want to single out the Actors Studio, Inc. in Baker City, Oregon. One year ago when the world came crashing to a halt, they were forced to shut down production of my interactive murder mystery MURDER: THE FINAL FRONTIER literally days before their opening night. A heart-breaking video announcing its cancellation was posted on their Facebook page and they went into lock-down. At Christmastime, they hit upon the idea of filming their planned holiday offering SCROOGELESS and selling the DVDs as fundraiser for CASA  (Court Appointed Special Advocates).

They approached me to do a similar project for the one and only melodrama collaboration by Edward Thorpe and myself, LA RUE'S RETURN or HOW'S A BAYOU?  Of course I said yes. What am I-a monster? I agreed wholeheartedly with one stipulation: Dedicate this to the memory of my best friend Ed who passed away at the end of November. 

Actors Studio dove right in, shooting taking place throughout the Spring in locations around Baker City. Production has now been completed and LA RUE'S RETURN -THE MOVIE is all set to go with a release date of May 4, 2021. And once again, this is a charity fundraiser with proceeds going to Baker City Kiwanis and Kiwanis Doernbechers Childrens Hospital. Formats available are DVDs and streaming. Plus they have commemorative t-shirts for sale as well.

LA RUE'S RETURN-THE MOVIE ON SALE FROM ACTORS STUDIO, INC.

Another one of the great things about this is that coincides with Ed's upcoming birthday later this month, just another way to celebrate my friend. I've written about LA RUE'S RETURN in the past and what it meant to the two of us (see blog post: THE RETURN OF LA RUE'S RETURN ) It all stemmed from the head of Ed and he brought me along for the ride. The fact that it is still being produced after all these years (44 of them, pilgrim) is mind-blowing as if LA RUE was powered by Energizer. It keeps going and going...

Cast of Actors Studio, Inc.'s LA RUE'S RETURN

So head on over to Actor's Studio Inc. website, support their worthy charities and salute my brother,  Mr. Edward Thorpe. They all deserve it.

From the bottom of my world weary, yet fully vaccinated heart (shut up, I'm on a roll), I want to thank Leeanne Hinkel and ACTORS STUDIO, INC. for their warmth and sunshine, helping us lead the way out of the darkness and back into the light once again.

And as I always say, LAISSEZ LES BON TEMPS ROULER!

LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL!

LA RUE'S RETURN is available in paperback and download at SCOTT CHERNEY'S STORE and, surprise, surprise, performance right are available. Contact moi at: writtenbysc@gmail.com or visit my website: WRITTEN BY SCOTT CHERNEY

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

That moment when you realize that we're not engulfed in a cloud of smoke, but only fog. Sweet, wonderful natural fog. Then that fog burns to reveal, oh, we are still engulfed in smoke. If that's not a metaphor for 2020, I don't know what is. 

I find it very disconcerting to bitch and moan about smoke when over a half million people in Oregon has been evacuated from their homes due to the devastating fires about the state. After all here we are, sequestered in our apartment, far from being displaced ourselves, though always on alert just in case. Then you check the statistics and discover that, due to the raging blazes we are surrounded by, the air quality is the worst in the entire world. We're Number One, Oregon! Three cheers! Hip..hip..cough..hack...choke...

This has been absolutely brutal. Thanks to my job, I've been out in this mess since it began and it has been miserable. Fortunately for me, I've been out of the danger zones, but I can't say the same for my co-workers, some of whom have had to abandon ship to bug out with their families of their own neighborhoods. I haven't seen the effects of the fires up close and personal, only what they have left in the atmosphere. Driving about has been eerie as hell, not being able to see downtown Portland at all when it was less than a mile away. Crossing a bridge, I had to strain to see the Willamette River. 

It occurred to me that only a few months ago, highways and by-ways, streets and sidewalks were all  deserted when the pandemic struck. I wondered if it was scarier to see it or to not see it all. We've always been told the there's nothing more frightening than the unknown. If we could visualize it all, would that tangible evidence make it easier to cope? Then this happened and set the claustrophobic levels into the red zone...literally. Maybe it's the combination of everything. Whatever the case may be, at least we know the fires will be extinguished and the smoke will eventually dissipate. Rain is on the way, at least that's the rumor AKA the forecast. The long-lasting effects will be the next obstacle to overcome and we shall, won't we?

This is happening during the anniversary of 9/11, the time to recall the events of that rotten day in history, but more importantly, salute those who both lost and gave their lives during that tragedy and since, given that they were in the thick of things, breathing in the poisons left behind when the towers fell. 9/11 gave us newfound and deserved respect to first responders and their spirits have lived on in those who have been on the frontlines of this Coronavirus debacle and the devastation of the fires all over the West Coast. Their efforts give the rest of us hope. Remember what is? 

We the People, goddamn it.

Now pass the Visine.

Dystopia Now

UPWARD FACING KITTY

Ever watch a post-apocalyptic movie or read a book in the same genre and wonder, how did the world fall in to dystopian disarray so quickly?

Over three months later and look where we are. Before the Feds arrived to the beleaguered City Of Roses, they were told that things, riot-wise, would escalate and, sho' 'nuff, that's what has happened.

The little gang of ne'er-do-wells who have been causing most of the damage to said Stumptown since Day One of this protest cycle have been joined in ranks by new groups of well-meaning folks like the Walls of Vets, Moms and Dads w/leaf blowers (3 separate factions), healthcare workers, lawyers (!) and the cherry on top of this super sundae, a naked yoga enthusiast. What prompted this influx of newbies? Why, the arrival of Benito Trumpilini's jack-booted thugs onto our city streets, here to protect the federal buildings under siege by those lil' rascals running rampant without rhyme, reason or care in the world. And how are they doing this, you may ask?

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

Mayor Ted and Governor Kate were outraged! 

"WE DON'T NEED YOUR HELP! WE ARE PERFECTLY INCAPABLE OF HANDLING THIS ALL BY OURSELVES, THANK YOU!"

And to prove their pint, Mayor Ted walked into the thick of battle, proclaiming, "They won't gas me"

which, of course, they did. An appreciative crowd didn't offer sympathy, only a horselaugh and told Teddy Bear to not go away mad, just go away.

Kate herself would have been a lot more aggressive if someone convinced her these weren't protests, but massive book clubs. Instead, she sat on her hands, even when Ted got a snoot full of gas. "Whoops! Sucks to be him."

What an adorable corporate logo!

Finally, after intense negotiations...the Feds went away. Then the Oregon State Police. The violence subsided...temporarily, until it didn't, Back to square one. Now we're coming up on 80 straight nights of peaceful protests complete with rocks, bottles, fireworks, just plain fire and lots and lots of tear gas.

This has gotten international exposure. Everybody knows about Portland now! We're Number One with a Rubber Bullet!

The populace is still under the impression that these gosh darn kids a right to protest. Yeah, they do. It's called Freedom of Speech. The thing is, kids, they've hijacked the movement. The message is getting lost thanks to all these miscreants. Oh, wait. They're Freedom Fighters, aren't they? The Great Antifa has been lionized to heroic status. Look at the marvelous memes they've generated. The Rebel Alliance is Antifa. The Avengers are Antifa. Harry Potter is Antifa. The Muppet Babies are Antifa. Lord love a duck. It's enough to make an old geek cry.

Gag me with a Tardis.

I didn't know that another symptom of Covid-19 was denial. Or is it delusion? Perhaps a combination of both.

Your blind hatred toward Donald Trump is turning these creeps into something they are not. They have been around for as long as I can remember. Whenever there was a protest of any sort in downtown Portland, anarchists, as they were was known, always screwed things up with randoms act of violence and vandalism. In recent years, they've stood up to right-wing extremists who invaded our town (see blog post : BATTLEFIELD PORTLANDIA) and all of a sudden, they were the good guys. Now where are we? Black Lives Matter, fighting for change in this country as Antifa fights for their right to party. They are only in it for themselves. If Mayor Ted made one valid point (and I think it's been one), it's that this giving Trump fuel to fan the flames of his campaign and remember, he plays dirtier than anyone. Then again, Ted is compliant too with his non-action. He didn't think of that. The tear gas must have stunted his cognitive abilities.

Ya gotta wake up, Portland, for the sake of your beloved city. With the Pandemic still holding us hostage, homelessness reaching epic proportions, the economy going down the shitter...you're allowing the inmates to run the asylum. I know, I know. Maybe we're only talking about a few bad apples here...oh. Ouch.

Get your heads out of your asses, people. You might want to believe we're all part of a cosplay interpretation of LES MISERABLES, but you're wrong. It's just plain miserable. This isn't an anti-protest rant by any means. There are issues for which you should take to the streets and have your voices heard loud and clear. Don't go out there just because it's Summer. 

UPDATE: Since I first wrote this, the Proud Boys came back to town for a scuffle with the young scalawags of Rose City which made Mayor Weenie stand up and take notice, but not about the riot du jour until...today (8/26). He made a fist toward these delinquents of justice and said, basically, "Hey, maybe if we ignore these gosh darn kids, maybe they'll go away." Way to make a fist, Ted. How's that re-election campaign going?

Worst of all, Jacob Blake was shot in the back seven times by police in Kenosha, Wisconsin and a 17 year old turd named Kyle Rittenhouse decided to go rogue, killing two protesters with an AR-15.

Coming up on Day 100 in PDX with no end in sight.

Dystopia. We're soaking in it.

Statues of Limitations

UPDATE 10/17/20: Last weekend,  a group of thugs stormed through the South park blocks of Portland in the name of Indigenous Peoples' Day of Rage. At least, that was their excuse this time. They smashed windows and glass doors at the Oregon Historical Society and stole the Afro-American Heritage Bicentennial Quilt, found later blocks away, soaking in the rain. Then they toppled the statues of Teddy Roosevelt and known scumbag of the people, Abraham Lincoln. Damn him and his pennies anyway. Here's a piece I wrote earlier this summer:

Enough is enough. Or is it?

After these nightly rampant displays of vandalism and pillaging in the name of...what was it again? The message is getting lost, people in all these acts of idiocy on the streets of Portland for the past...are you ready for this?..40 freaking nights now with, I'm sure, more to come. (Up to 120 as of 10/17/20) The peaceful BlackLivesMatter protests have been booted off the front page by a pack of punks, thugs and hooligans (that's right) who have hijacked the headlines with their actions. This is frustrating to the cause since this fringe element is stealing the spotlight, but what are they going to do about it, call the police? Whoopsy-daisy...

Then there's the destruction of statues happening nationwide. It began with tearing down leaders of the Confederacy that somehow have still remained intact in the 21st century. Since Portland doesn't have any tributes to the "brave" rebels of yore, they decided to go after Tommy Jefferson's statue at the high school that bares his name (you think it was named after Weezy?) The result? Slave-owner TJ got yanked off his perch. Then they went after another slave-owner, George Washington who bit the dust where he stood on Sandy Boulevard. I reckon some folks won't be crossing the border to visit our neighbor to the north until the name is changed. Any votes for the great state of Cobain?

Last week, the iconic bronze elk statue, part of the David P. Thompson fountain that was erected in 1900, was set ablaze by another or the same gang of nitwits. The fire was such that it damaged the base and the elk had to be removed by the city. Who did this? It sure wasn't PETA. As far as why it happened, there is no logical answer, is there? Maybe they're running out of statues. What's left?

Well, there's this umbrella guy in Pioneer Square. He seems pretty benign, but hold the phone...

HE'S GOT A RED TIE!
OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

Paul Bunyan? Doesn't he represent the lumber industry?

SOMEBODY CALL EARTH FIRST...STAT!

Beverly Cleary's beloved character has statue all her own. Everybody loves Ramona Quimby, don't they? Well, what if I told you her middle name was...

KAREN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When these are all long gone, disappeared by the anti-bronze league, one thing is a given.

Street performance artist Mr. Statue

THIS GUY HAD BETTER WATCH HIS BACK! HE'S NEXT!

Whether it is intentional or not, these obscene fools are sabotaging the movement with their idiotic destructive actions. Think of what happened to that elk statue. 

It was removed because its base was ruined.

COMING SOON: ELECTION DAY! 

DUCK AND COVER!

Battlefield: Portlandia

Just not very well.

Turn left-Look out, it's Antifa!
Go right- Head for the hills! It's the Proud Boys!

Where the hell can you go in Portland, Oregon these days? GPS doesn't work as you try to navigate your way around from these two angry mobs. So what to do? Stay home and sequester yourselves in your above ground bomb shelters? Stick your head in the sand until they go away? How about finally putting your foot down and saying enough is finally enough? It's okay. You don't have to use your inside voice.

This best of all possible worlds (once upon a time, say back in the mid 00s) is under siege by these packs of blithering idiots who are tearing the city apart from within and without. They're drying up necessary resources that keep the self-proclaimed City that Works (well...) barely afloat amid its multitude of everyday problems without these dopes using the streets as their personal battleground.  Last weekend, downtown had to virtually shut down to allow the August melee the freedom to take over what is the middle of a normally abundant summer season, causing a loss of approximately $3 million dollars of lost revenue and not counting what the city spent to keep any semblance of peace. Thanks, y'all. Good job. Two thumbs up and I don't mean in the air.

The Battle of  the Boneheads continues.

On one side you got your interlopers, them thar right wing extremists with names like the Proud Boys, Patriot Prayers and, I dunno, The Eagle's Anus or something. These members of President Benito Trumpolini's best and brightest continue to congregate here for some some damn reason or another. Their message is lost in all that strutting, chest-thumping and flag waving, a bunch of nonsensical tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. (Thanks, Willy S!) Yep. That's them. The few, the proud, the morons.

And in this corner, stepping out of their clown cars and into the ring with these nimrods are the Antifa. What a sweet name they have. Sounds like the most darling nanny from Martinique ever! "Antifa! Read me a story!" "Antifa! I have a boo-boo!" "Antifa! ICE is here!" Yeah, they ain't that frickin' cute. This ever-growing group of vigilantes have formed their own uniformed army, populated by a bunch of ne'er-do-well ragamuffins who would never consider the military as a career option, if that's even on the table to begin with. These gosh darn kids even try to add a bit of whimsy to the proceedings, some of them dressing as unicorns and bananas while tossing mayonnaise and vegan milkshakes at the other side. Of course, they also carry shields, metal poles and who the hell brought the bear spray? These cretins go off the rails more often than not, as extreme left as the Proud Marys are to the right and never the twain shall meet except on the streets of downtown Rose City, USA

Both groups harass, harangue and mock each other at unbearable decibels for hours on end until the whole shebang escalates into a schoolyard brawl all at the cost of taxpayer dollars that neither side will pay. The right wingnuts are from out of town, the left, well, frankly don't give a dime, my dear, so guess who's footing the bill and going to suffer when the coffers run dry?

Portland mayor Ted Weenie allows them get away with it. Even though the last kerfuffle wasn't the Tiananmen Square smackdown that was anticipated, Teddy Bear claimed victory while Portland police chief Danielle Outlaw finally got to do her job. The bullshit was kept to a minimum, considering what happened last time. The worst parts made the nightly news, of course and now are being used as fodder for social media on all platforms.

O Portlandia, swoop down and skewer these dumbasses, okay?

But was it a draw for both factions?
Nope.
Sorry, Anifa, the wrong is right wingers won again.

These Trumpets are here for one main reason-to make their adversaries-meaning you, progressive Portland and liberals in general-look their absolute worst before a world stage. The revolution is being televised, streamed and shared, you idiots, and there you are in full focus becoming unhinged. They are trying to provoke you into a fight with their very presence and you take the bait every fucking time. You go mental before every camera pointed in your direction. Who cares if you have them too? It's just another angle. Every stupid act is being recorded, logged and shown around the world. It's ammunition for their side for not only the next election but for the very future itself. The more passive they get, the more empowered you feel because you outnumbered them. You became the oppressors. You became the jack booted thugs. You became the goddamn bullies.

And hey, Mayor Weenie was letting you do his dirty work for him. He can't look bad when he's up for re-election. What? Teddy Ruxpin's a law 'n order candidate? Oh, hell no! This chump has the spine of a gummy worm. He'll let these ass clowns into town for their rallies, then let you run rampant to run them out on a rail. When the dust, clears, he'll wash his hands of you with a 5 gallon barrel of Purell. You are pests being used to get rid of pests. What's going to happen when it's your time to hit the road, jerks?

So what's the thrust here? Should you not counter their protests? Well, the ever holy First Amendment applies to both sides now. What to do when the Proudies and Prayerie Dogs return which they threaten to do EVERY SINGLE MONTH for who knows how long? (Who's financing them? Follow the money!) The Antifalites could actually change their strategy.

I'm all in favor of a public shunning. Dress in your black unitards, stand on each side of their "parade" route and when they approach, turn your backs silently.

Oops. Sorry. I forgot you're all hopped up on caffeinated kombucha and incredible edibles. You'll be too twitchy to be quiet. Stay on the sidelines and talk amongst yourselves. They don't exist. Ignore them. Pretend they're not there. If this riles them up and they get so frustrated they attack, then fight back. But do NOT throw the first punch. You can have the last.

Awww...ain't it quaint?

The best idea I had is that the next time these MAGAtrons return to praise their lord and master, the Head Cheeto in Charge, they can be granted their request to for public assembly, only this time they have to congregate in Mill Ends Park, the world's smallest. It's a cute little Portland attraction of sorts that sits in the  median of a busy street near the waterfront in downtown P-town. Mill Ends is only 2 ft. across, covering a span of only 452 square inches. This will accommodate only one Proud Boy and one counter protester, your Antifala of choice. They can stand on each side of that spot and holler at each other at the top of your imbecilic lungs all the doo-dah day while dodging traffic all at the same time. Lotsa luck, fatheads.

All this crap makes my head ache. I personally don't care what happens between these dueling double dildos as long as they take it out of the city. Don't we have enough problems on a day to day basis without adding these modern day  Civil War re-enactments to the equation? Put 'em in a stadium and let 'em have at it. Be sure to charge admission. Might as well get something out the deal.

Am I straddling the fence here/? Damn right I am. How else are the rest of us going to get by, usually barely enough to survive ourselves? Remember this, my droogies, I didn't build that fence. It was put up without my consent and, as far as I'm concerned, it's just another obstacle on an increasingly difficult course. We've had almost three years of this shit already. No wonder we're suffering from battle fatigue. Next year's the dreaded election, but don't think it's going to end there when it reaches its inevitable conclusion. There's a distinct possibility that it's going to get even worse.

As Karen Carpenter once sung, "We've only just begun."

There's No Place Like Home

Dear Oregon-

Happy anniversary! No, I didn't get you anything. What do you have for me? Bupkis. Fine. At least we're even.

So normally I don't acknowledge you so much as I do just plain Portland, claiming as I did in my 10th anniversary post entitled PORTLAND IS MY LAND. I'm sure the rest of the state feels a bit slighted. Sorry. It's like having a favorite child. Mike and Carol Brady probably preferred a kid or over the other in their bunch. (Peter seemed to be a bit of a dick and don't get me started on Cindy)

The harsh truth of the matter is that I've never lived in Portland. Oh, I say I do, but it's a big fat frickin' lie. I've worked in Portland for much of the two decades I've been here. I actually made an effort to make that my location of choice. But damnation alley, I'm stuck out here in the 'burbs like a wood tick in the coat of a collie. I've resided in Beaverton of all bloody places for the first ten years and Hillsboro after that. Before you go scrambling off to Google Maps and I lose you for good because you're bound to find a link there to something better like, well, anything, I'll merely inform you that Beaverton and Hillsboro are west of Portland on the way to the coast. Okay? They house Nike, Intel and a bunch of blithering idiotic suburbanites who won't get out of my goddamn way no matter how red in the face I get from screaming at them to do so OR ELSE  (There's nothing to back that up besides intense scorn, but it makes me sound tough) But here I am and here I'll stay because for the time being, that window has closed even though it's not locked. I've made it work and it works for me. There's more out here than meets the jaded eye. That's my rationalization and I'm sticking with it.

Hillsboro and the Beave never really won me over like Portland did though, well, eventually. My missive to P-Town (DISPLACED IN THIS PLACE) explained my early struggles. This initial period of adjustment took some time, partly due to me but mainly because the Rose City hadn't found its identity yet. It sat in the shadow of Seattle and boy, was it pissed. Slowly but oh so very surely, Portland found its voice and a star was reborn.

And it's worn its celebrity status well for a long damn time. But with that power came great responsibility (Excelsior! RIP Stan Lee) and all the trappings of celebrity in the 21st century. The late but not so lamented TV comedy PORTLANDIA brought us into the national spotlight more than anything, making us the source of ridicule while forcing us to look at ourselves with something more than ironic scorn. That show hit the bullseye more than a few times but soon tore the target itself into a pulpy mess.

We attracts me to this place more than anything is what PORTLANDIA mocked the best which was that it is a gathering place for people who don't belong anywhere else due to their eccentricities, uniqueness, arrested development and downright freakishness. Kindred spirits (and lost souls) abound in a place that actually encourages us to belong to a club that would have us for members. Sure, we go way out of our way in our pursuit of life, liberty and the pursuit of quinoa,but when we find it, we nail it. The food scene alone is a testament to that and has us a destination to rival in the United States. It can be a little too precious sometimes, but so what? It's not always just the journey. The destination ends up being oh. so sweet.

What's been good for Portland been good for the state, though the opposite is true as well. The problems that have accumulated in the course of these growing pains have been painful to endure and have been ignored to the point of crisis. Affordable housing and homelessness continue to increase without any viable solutions to help stunt their growth. Crime has grown to an insufferable degree and political dissent, understandable or not, has become a way of life. In the midst of this is a growing concern that the weirdness we celebrate has created a mutant strain from unfortunate side effects like something from (gasp!) Big Pharma. Hopefully we can weed out the chaff and find our way before we ruin what we've built and become merely a meme come true.

Twenty years ago, we came here for family, one that I cherish with every fiber of my being and found
another in the process. I'm pleased this is where we landed in this, the land of soy milk and raw honey, not to mention legal weed, fantastic beer, amazing food, ultra grand vistas, a political philosophy I can tolerate and geeks aplenty all this in this crock pot I'm proud to call home. It really is where the heart is, to be so painfully sincere yet without a touch of irony, thank you very much.  I do love it here, Oregon. I have a lot of you to explore and a desire to do so if I don't procrastinate too
much before I kick. I believe I'm here to stay and proud to be, dadgum it. You've been good to me, but it hasn't been easy. I reckon that's the point, isn't it? C'est la vie.

Happy Anniversary to us, Oregon

Your pal
Scott

Soccer? I Barely Knew Her

Those that know me will probably find it completely out of character that I've not only attended two professional soccer games in the past couple of months, but also enjoyed myself. Y'see, I'm not a sports enthusiast in any way, shape or form. While I enjoyed baseball as a kid-and sometimes take a cursory glance at half an inning of a World Series game, I loathe football and its milieu. I guess that makes me Un-American. Yawn... I don't mind the fringe sports, especially the recent resurgence of roller derby (particularly my hometeam, The Rose City Rollers), but hey, there are other reasons for my interest in that spectator sport and it doesn't involve skating. And one of these fine days I'll even come to terms for my life-long love of professional wrestling.

This soccer thing has caught me completely off-guard.

First and foremost, my main purpose for attending both Portland Timbers home games was that my grandson, The Great Sebastian, was a ball-boy, as were several other members of his team. Sebastian, you see, lives and breathes soccer. I believe his passion for this game has even exuded my love for movies at his age.

Second, my wife and I were treated to these events thanks to a generous grant from Sebastian's parent company, namely, his mom and dad, the latter generously involving the four of us on this Father's Day outing.

Third, not knowing rule one about soccer, I actually enjoyed the games, particularly this last one against the New York Red Bulls. I found myself cheering more than once...spontaneously. Of course, it helped that we sat on the other end of the stadium AWAY from the Timbers Army, the superfans who incessantly chant all to their beat of their very own drummer. From a distance, not so bad. Up close and personal, I take out a machete.

Fourth but not least, the Timbers games are held in downtown Portland at Jeld-Wen Stadium, an open air venue that used to be known as PGE Park, a strangely isolated spot to contain thousands of soccer fans without disrupting the rest of the city...much. It really tickled my funnybone to realize that the same weekend, downtown Portland hosted not just the Timbers game, but the Gay Pride Parade AND the annual Naked Bike Ride. This weekend, a 40th anniversary singalong of WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY at the Crystal Ballroom with a family matinee and an adult evening performance complete with candy cocktails. The week after that? The Portland Blues Festival. Portland is just so darn festive.

Maybe other than supporting Sebastian, which I will do until my dying breath, I think the key to all this hoopla is that, when it comes right down to it, I actually have some genuine pride in this town known as Portland, Oregon. I enjoy rooting for it. It is, after all, home.

I say that now. Let's see if I change my tune if I actually have to pay to go to another Timbers game.

In the meantime:

Go, Rose City!

Rah.

Red Asphalt 2: Chains of Fury

An Xmas treat...or just another rerun?

A little of both, children. It's a reposting from a now extinct separate blog. If you haven't seen it before, it's new to you. Hey, at least it's appropriate for the season.

From the Great Artic Blast of 2008, please enjoy this new holiday classic that I call:

RED ASPHALT 2: CHAINS OF FURY

To get the dirty truth out of the way first, I have to confess that I am still indeed a medical courier.

Hey, I gotta eat, y’know. These RED ASPHALT royalty checks ain’t exactly payin’ the rent. When I wrote this book, I really thought my driving days were just disappearing images in the rear-view mirror. I stopped working for Smith-Kline Beecham Clinical Laboratories in January of 1999 and couldn’t find a comparable job when I moved up here to Oregon. Therefore, RED ASPHALT served to be an exorcism of the speed demons I acquired in California and, employment-wise, I moved on. But fate kicked me in the balls and sent me back to square one back in 2003, returning me to the highways and byways of Oregon as an A-Number One Courier. Lucky, lucky me.

This brings us up to the present. The Pacific Northwest has been hit with the worst winter storm in almost forty years, making driving more fun than a swimming pool full of razor wire. All this snow, ice and freezing rain,

terrifyingly called THE ARTIC BLAST by the local media, made this the most traditional Christmas season ever and a pain in the ass of the highest order. To add a cherry to this mountain of frosty delight, it made for the absolute worst time I ever spent on the road as a courier.

Since I begin my route from Northeast Portland, I have to drive twenty miles from where I live in order to just get started. I begged off going into work a couple of times, the first being Monday the 22nd, the day after the big freeze. But Tuesday, after spending two hours digging my wife’s VW out and driving her to work, I headed out to my own job.

Conditions being what they were, the powers that be decided to not sacrifice any of their own couriers (including yours truly) and outsource the more difficult area pick-ups to other services. That was a break for me since my run covers more miles than any driver in the vicinity. I still had to get on the road and make a few local visits. The van I was assigned had been chained up on the front wheels, but as soon as I got it on the road, the right side loosened causing me to pull off immediately in an attempt to fix it. This first loop turned into a two hour job, giving me the heebie-jeebies for anything that might come later. The chain still didn’t feel or sound right to me.

My shift ended later than most couriers, so I became the designated pick-up artist for the remainder of the evening. Around 5 PM, I had been sent out to unfamiliar territory, that being the town of Gresham, famed in song and story…no, that’s a lie. Nobody cares about Gresham. Not even the people who live there. I required directions, so what dispatch relayed to me turned out to be the beginning of the end for your humble narrator.


In order to get to Gresham, I headed out on the freeway to what was to be the 257th Street exit. The on-ramp I chose had been blocked by a disabled truck , a sure sign this was going to be a suckfest in the making. The only thing I could do was maintain forward motion, cutting through some well traveled city streets that hadn’t been too treacherous, but to find another way onto I-84 was another matter. It took the better part of a half-hour just to accomplish this feat.

When I finally hit the freeway, I noticed immediately that there had been more asphalt than anything else and that this had started to play havoc with the chains, even though I had been driving at a sluggish pace. The right side began to undo to the point I needed to pull over and tighten them again. It didn’t help. I was out of the van more than I was inside. Out of town finally, I was headed right toward the Columbia Gorge, the source of all problems for the whole area. The Arctic blast, as the news services are so fond of reporting and repeating incessantly, had been carried through the Gorge with constant winds up to 100 MPH. Even though the snow had abated and the roads finally cleared, it was still a motherfucker out there, blowing more flurries back and forth than Tony Montana in SCARFACE. I approached the exit for 235th Street, knowing the next just had to 257th, right? That’s when the right chain undid completely and violently whipped up the side of the wheel well. At this point, there was no way I could pull off. Snow drifts sat on each side of the freeway and I just pressed on.

“Not much further…” I told myself, optimistically.

The next exit sign read: Troutdale.

Whuh?

Where the hell is 257th? It’s got to be the next one, right? Right? Anyone?

I passed the Troutdale exit, which had a line of semis jutting out almost all the way back to Portland itself. I assumed I would have been sitting there with nowhere to go for the rest of the night. It never occurred to me I could have turned left off the exit and maybe turned around, but I didn’t anyway because IT WASN’T 257TH!

As I chugged on by, the left chain started to go. Now I had two chains slipping off, smacking up the insides of the front end and the noise became immediately deafening.I felt like I would lose my fucking mind, but what kept me going was the fact that 257th was just a few feet away…

...but it wasn’t. Nothing lay ahead. I was headed toward Hood River with no exit in sight. Fifteen minutes of non-stop banging and rattling in decibels that would make the Dalai Lama got bugfuck, I saw a sign that said: Corbett-Next Exit. There was no 257th Street exit. By now, I had been in the 500s at the very least. I had to turn around and it was there that I did. But first, I had to check the chains. I opened the door, which fly back and smashed right in the mush.

“Oh yeah. I’m in the fucking Gorge, aren’t I?”

I had to go back to Troutdale. I looked up to read: Portland-20 miles.

Oh mama, I thought. I get to relive the nightmare, now in reverse.

In Troutdale, I attempted to do something, anything with the chains, but no avail. I ventured forth, clanging and banging my way to 235th and crossed into Gresham, almost two hours after I initially left the hospital. This ice and snow muffled the racket, but only slightly. With each block I drove, I lost another chunk of my sanity.

At my first stop, I surveyed the damage in a sheltered spot. In the light, I saw that I had lost the right chain altogether. The wheel well was completely torn out. What was left of the left chain, I disconnected. It fell behind the wheel, still attached. The well on this side had been ripped to pieces. Every time I turned the wheel after that, it fluttered like a kid’s bicycle with playing cards in the spokes. The fenders on both sides were now silvery chrome, the paint stripped off and covered with the pock marks of a savage beating, the kind the Hell’s Angels used to lay down with their own chains. Slowly but oh so very surely, I found my way out of Gresham, worrying that the remaining chain would wrap around the front axle.

My final stop had been an elder care facility that informed dispatch a urine specimen would be sitting outside their door in a manila envelope. As I pulled into the parking lot, my path was blocked by a maniac in a small tractor clearing out the snow at a dangerous rapid pace, as if he had been fueled up on a six-pack of Red Bull and two dozen hits of crank. When he almost smashed into the front of the van, I honked my horn as a warning. He just stopped short, turned around and snarled like a rabid wolverine. Then, he sped off again to continue his crazed mission. I just left the van where it was in the driveway and went off to grab the manila envelope left at the front entrance.

I retreated to the hospital a defeated man. I couldn’t park the van in the courier lot because all the empty spaces were filled with piled snow. Maybe Charlie Manson had been by there earlier with his tractor. Weary, I left the van in an empty handicapped spot, which were all empty, and lumbered inside to drop off my specimens. Along with the blood and everything I picked up on that run, I left the unopened envelope in the drop-off area in the lab. As it turned out, nobody in the lab bothered to open the envelope. Instead, it was placed in the interdepartmental mail and had been delivered to the office addressed on the front. Whoever opened up their mail the next morning got a very special Christmas bonus.

As for me, I finished up for the evening and relayed my tale of woe to the remaining dispatcher on duty. As for the whereabouts of the non-existent 257th Street freeway exit? That would have been the Troutdale exit.

In the words of Captain Binghamton from MCHALE'S NAVY, I could just scream.

Instead, I took the next day off.

Oh, and Bing Crosby can kiss my frozen White Christmasy ass.

Portland is My Land

Dear Portland-

Happy Anniversary!

Not only is it the 150th anniversary of Oregon itself, but we are celebrating ten years of togetherness. Okay, maybe I'm just the one who's celebrating. You obviously have other things on your mind. Dude, I even got you a card! What did you give me? Grief! Okay, I'll calm down. I guess this means more to me than it does you. Insensitive brute...

It's difficult to believe that a whole decade has done come and gone since I moved up here to this wettest of all possible worlds and now, I can honestly say to you that is this is the place I call home. Yeah, I said it. I can no longer call myself merely a Californian immigrant and must now claim my status as an Oregonian, third class. (or is it low class?) Yes, I have officially joined the ranks of the Hazlenutted Beavers and settled in Land of the Semi-Occasional Sun.

Y'see, I've grown fonder of you over time, even though you never made it easy on me. I wrote you an open letter to you many moons ago telling you so. (see blog post Displaced in Dis Place) I grew up a little in that time and by gum, so did you, you damp rascal you.

Portland, you finally settled into your identity and you are so much the better for it. You no longer long to be Seattle and aren't pissed off because you couldn't be. You found your voice, one that probably lay silent from years of bitter jealousy and snotty indifference. You've become a gatherer and nurturer of independent spirit in the Northwest, inspiring creativity on all levels from the written word to food innovation to the great and wonderful art scene encompassing painting, music, theater and film...with a public that supports it all. I love it the way you embrace the weird.

Of course you've got your problems.

Recently, I had the horselaugh at the expense of my hometown, Stockton, being named Most Miserable City in the US by Forbes Magazine. Two weeks later, Business Week names you, dear Portlandia, Unhappiest City in America. This is based on double digit unemployment (Oregon placing the highest in the US), crime rate, weather (lack of sunshine), depression (according to insurance claims and doctor visits) and suicides (based on hotline calls and death stats). Jesus, Portland. Stockton may be miserable, but they're not unhappy. No wonder you used to be known as Sweden West.

Then there's that self-righteousness streak in politics and lifestyle choices that you haven't been able to shake. Sometimes, when you are at your most inclusive, you become your most exclusive. Sometimes it's like dealing with a room full of Bill Mahers. Then again, maybe it's your duality that makes you so special and infuriating at the same time.

Gosh. I must be starting really care about you. here I go making excuses for you already.

Things looked swell last November when your constituents voted in Sam Adams, the first openly gay mayor of a major American city. Now many of them want to drum him out of office because he lied about having a tryst with an eighteen year old. "Hey, at least he was legal!" Adams cried in defense. Yeah. Barely. Said affair took place on the lad's 18th birthday. What kind of naive nitwit takes a chance like that before he gets elected, a job he'd been groomed for over the last decade, and lies about it when it comes to the fold, making the whole matter worse in the eyes of his own supporters? Talk about about blowing a big opportunity. Literally.It's too goddamn bad. I hope Adams can get past this big stink. He really showed what he was made out of during the big winter storm, helping you, Portland, get out of that icy mess and keep running before he even took the oath of office. Meanwhile, Tom Potter, the mayor in name only, was drunkenly packing all his shit up and giving a big middle finger to you, the only finger he lifted during that near-disaster. So Sam earned my respect during that period. Baptism by fire...and ice. I hope he gets over this hump, so to speak.

Over time, I've accumulated a list of things that I love about this place. Great people, including actual celebrities other than the TV newscasters who seem to be the only recognizable folk of previous years. We got your Academy Award nominated film director Gus van Sant, the gorgeous high priestess of rockdom Storm Large, Pink Martini, radio goddess Daria O'Neill- to name but a few. We got your various festivals. Sometimes it feels like one long party with a different celebration every single week. There are film festivals, beer fests, food fests, the month long Rose Festival, etc., etc. etc. I think there's even a Festival Festival-one that celebrates all things festive. Maybe it's all to compensate for the weather, though Portlanders party down in the rain also. They have to. Sometimes there's no choice. Add to this mixture incredible vistas around every turn and culture up the ying-yang, if that's your idea of a good time, and you got yourself a wondrous place that even rivals my beloved San Francisco.

As for me, the years have blown by way too quickly. We moved up here when my grandson, Sebastian (see blog post The Great Sebastian), was born and who is now, well, ten and growing way too quickly. Some of the finest moments of my entire have been spent in his presence and I am the richer for it. I've been up long enough to form some relationships with some people, not as many as back in California, but that's my problem dealing with my anti-socialist nature. But there have been a couple close to me that have passed away in the last year, another mileage marker in my life and, well, their's as well.

Lew Bowen was my first boss when I applied to AAA Coffee Service, hiring me with absolutely no experience and not a clue in the goddamn world. I started out washing coffee pots and ending up managing an entire warehouse, moving the whole kit n' kaboodle to the other side of Portland when we were purchased by another company. I'll always be grateful to Lew for giving me a break when I really need one.

Then there's Jauna Gilnett, who we just lost last week, a true jewel of a human being. She really was the heart and soul of the department I now work and one of the most decent, honestly good people I've ever met in my life. I miss that goofy cackle of hers that always brightened my day,

Life isn't fair. It doesn't have to be. That's our responsibility.

Anyway, Portland, I just wanted to thank you too for making the most out of this last decade. I look forward to many more.In the meantime, stay off that damn suicide hotline. If you need to talk, call me instead. I'm in the book. I always screen, but if I see that it's you, I'll pick up.

Honest.

Take care

Your buddy,

Scott

The Great Sebastian

I hereby confess that I have become an increasingly sentimental slob who marks the passage of time with the annoying frequency of a cuckoo clock. That said, I have just cause to celebrate the landmark date of November 8, 2008. Most importantly, it is the 10th birthday of the little fellow tweaking the rather prominent proboscis of the apparently irritated old fart in the picture to the right. November 8 also marks the end of a decade that has left an indelible change in my life.

Ten years have just about passed since my wife Laurie and I first moved up here to Oregon and the reason is named Sebastian (AKA The Great Sebastian). His parents asked us earlier in the year if we would consider transplanting our operations, such as they were, from Stockton, California to the Pacific Northwest where they lived. Why, you might ask? So that when he was born, the baby in question could be cared for by his grandmother, that being Laurie.

It didn't take much convincing. Laurie was on board right away while I needed some cajoling. However, Sebastian's parents pretty much sealed the deal with me when, on Father's Day of 1998, I was presented with a sonogram of the little tyke in a frame that read "I Love My Grandpa". This began the first of a series of blubberings from me that continue to this day. Excuse me...I need a moment...

We had scheduled our trip to coincide with the boy's birth which, coincidentally enough, turned out to be not only the exact day, but almost at the very same time. I've always liked to say that We landed at PDX (Portland International Airport) at the same time Sebastian Richard Silber landed at Providence St. Vincent Hospital.

Two months later, we picked up and got the hell outta Dodge...or Stockton, as it were and moved to the sprawling megalopolis known as Beaverton, Oregon, right around the corner from Nike World Headquarters. For the next year, Sebastian was indeed cared for by the loving hands of his grandmother and his grandfather was never the same again.

I realized almost immediately Sebastian had become a missing piece of the puzzle that is my life. In him, I discovered for the very first time the phenomenon known as pure unconditional love, something that is found in the innocence of a child and to be the recipient of it is a feeling of great euphoria, one of the strongest I've ever experienced. He has given me the strength to be able to endure many of the hardships and transitions I've had to face in starting over up here in Oregon and always been the reason to go on. I guess that's the whole point, isn't it? Of course, you can probably tell by the W.C.Fields/Baby LeRoy nature of that photograph that it has always been my extreme pleasure to make that boy laugh as often as possible and keep that smile on his face as long as I can. It is also my privilege to so and, I feel, my duty. Oh, who am I kidding? That kid's the best audience I ever had. You think I'm going to pass that up? He can tweak my nose any time he wants...and has.

I guess you can kinda tell that I'm crazy about this kid. He means the world to me.

This is why I begin to reflect on the decade that has just passed to see where I've been and to chart the road that's ahead. in the next little, interspersed with the rest of the nonsense on these pages, there will be a considerable amount of space devoted to Portland-The First Ten Years: The Good, The Bad and The Damp.

As for The Birthday Boy, I leave you these words:

"And when you finally fly away

I'll be hoping that I served you well

For all the wisdom of a lifetime

No one can ever tell

But whatever road you choose

I'm right behind you, win or lose."-Forever Young by Rod Stewart

Happy Birthday, Sebastian

Displaced in Dis Place

Back in the winter of 1999, the love of my life who is my wife and I made like Lewis and Clark (that is, if they were a married couple, but who really knows? Maybe they were. It was a long journey after all) and migrated to the great state of Oregon. We settled in the sprawling megalopolis known as Beaverton, knowing full well it was a hop, skip and a jump away from Portland and I could use that geographical advantage to impress my friends…not that Beaverton doesn’t take one’s breath away in and of itself.

It took me a little time to adjust to my surroundings, to say the least since I was more than just a little homesick. Everything seemed so...foreign to me. What I really wanted to do was throw a temper tantrum and cry, “ I WANNA GO HOME!” loud as a bastard.

Therefore, in order to head that childish outburst off at the pass, I felt it might be a more mature solution to compose the following.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE STATE OF OREGON

Dear Oregon,

I guess I just don’t fit in.

That’s nothing new. I’ve felt this way my entire life, in one form or another. One big legal alien. That’s me all over. Blame it on the stars and chalk it up to an atypical Aquarian trait.

However…

In this particular case, that being my struggle to adapt to my newfound digs here in this off-world known as Oregon, USA, I honestly cannot blame myself. That’s quite a psychological breakthrough for me since I am basically a masochistic martyr at heart who really does want to be punished for his crimes. Perhaps there is some mental health in my future after all. So, it is with all due respect and whatever humility I can muster up to say that this time, it is just not my fault.

It’s y’all.

Let me get this out of the way right here and now so that we understand one another. I hereby accept any consequence resulting from what I am about to confess. The truth is going to set me free, though it’s guaranteed to piss all of you off.

Here it comes.

Ready…Aim…

I’m from California.

FIRE!

Go ahead. Do your worst. Roll your eyes in disdain. Sigh in exasperation. Throw your hands in the air dramatically and utter the inevitable phase that pays, “THAT figures!” Now hock up the slimiest, chunkiest phelegmball you can and aim it for the bull’s-eye that is this letter. Try to aim for my name if you can. Hell, why don’t you release all that pent-up prejudicial rage that you feel toward your hated neighbor to the south and rip this whole thing up into so much confetti with your superior Pacific Northwestern upper body strength? I’ll just wait here until you’re done.

There. Feel better now? Good.

Now, sit the hell down, hazelnut breath. Let me tell YOU a few things.

There is something wrong with you people, I don’t mean just off-putting, I mean inherently. Quite simply, it’s your attitude. You wear a chip on your shoulder so blatantly that it’s almost a friggin’ fashion accessory-an out-of-date one at that and not enough to be retro just embarrassing. It’s a designer ‘tude with big gaudy “O” emblazoned on the front for all to see. You seemed to have acquired this attitude because you feel it’s necessary to help define the identity you so desperately desire. Observing this and trying to understand it all has led me to the conclusion that this attitude is just not real. It’s a put-on. It’s faux, y’know? But, you’ve maintained it for so long that you’re beginning to believe in it yourselves, much like an actor consumed by the character he’s created. The amusing thing is, you don’t seem to care very much for it either, thereby creating a mutant strain of attitude. You might call it “Attitudes in Collision”. In dissecting it all and placing everything under a microscope, I’ve discovered that its main property is, of all things, irony. Irony! The very lifeblood of the city of Portland alone! Why, how…ironic!

You guys have this territorial thing going on. So, you hate Californians, eh? Get in line! You don’t have the market covered just because you happen to border the Land of All Evil. How do you feel about Washingtonians? What about them Idahosers? Yeah, I’ve seen the sign at the state line. “Welcome To Oregon. You Won’t Be Staying Long, Right?” If the Statue of Liberty sat off the Oregon coast, she’d probably be waving boats away with her torch and the inscription on her base would read, “JUST KEEP MOVING”.

So many imponderables…so little time to decipher them all…and all of your liquor stores close early.

What the hell is with all the BENTO? I get it already. Bento is a Japanese box lunch. Everybody seems to be selling it. Bento here. Bento there. Bento everywhere. Coffee and Bento. Pizza and Bento. At McDonald’s, there a McBento Happy Meal. It has a Bento action figure. Have it super-sized and get a free side of Bento. Hey, Bento THIS.

Pop. That’s what you call a carbonated soft drink. Pop. Want some pop? Whatcha gonna do with that pop can? I’m gonna get me a bottle o’ pop. What is this- freaking’ Mayberry? Call it “sodie” if you have a mind to. Call everything a brand name. “Gimme a Coke.” “What kind?” “Root beer.” I don’t give a hot Pepsi what you do as long as you STOP THE POP! And say hello to Thelma Lou for me.

In regards to driving, I have only one question: When the bloody blue blazes are ever going to learn? Here’s a tip: MERGE is an action verb. Want another? Try looking up the words FLOW OF TRAFFIC in a search engine. That seems to be the only engine you’re able to operate effectively. I have a theory that everyone else can drive, but every third car contains a native Oregonian and, alas, there lies the problem. You can’t help it. Driving is just not indigenous to your culture.

No matter. It isn’t as if anyone can find where they’re going anyway. No one will give you coherent directions because they just make it up as they go along. The engineers who designed the roads here must have been a vicious pack of angry crazed alcoholics taking their drunken rage out against the world. We are all but rats in their endless maze and there is no such thing as a short cut in Oregon. If you’re lucky enough to reach your destination, you won’t be able get in for you will discover that every potential entrance is an exit and vice versa. You want to keep us all out, even it is only a parking lot.

Your solution to this rant ‘n rave of mine will be all too predictable.

“Well, why don’t yew jus’ go on back whar yew come from?”

First off, I know full and well that no one up here talks like that and, even if they did, they’d be from out-of-state, which to you means out-of-mind. Secondly, I can’t jus’ pick up ‘n git. It’s not that simple, Simon and it’s not of your goddamn business why. I’m here and here is where I’m going to stay, at least for the time being.

Besides, as much as I love California and always will, the area I am from is certainly not the land of Milk and Honey. In the Big Book of American Cities, my hometown of Stockton, California would be classified as nothing more than a giant speed bump. One of its claims to fame is the yearly Asparagus Festival. Ah, there’s nothing like a celebration that somehow involves foul-smelling urine. I have friends in Stockton that I care for very much and will visit whenever possible. But, I really wish they would all move because believe me, I don’t feel homesick for the town itself. I do not pine for its peat dirt or long for its dense, blinding fog. Do I miss hearing gunshots in the middle of the night? Well, gee, I’m not THAT unsentimental. Who wouldn’t? I have roots in Stockton to be sure, but they’re not unlike those of a bleached blonde badly in need of a dye job.

There are definite advantages to living here in this state of confusion. The lack of a sales tax and the abundance of great beer are both tremendous luxuries, though I’d really rather pump my own gas, thank you very much. Considering my place of origin, the change of scenery alone is damn near worth all of the hassle I’ve had to endure.

Aha! Did you notice or were you too busy sneering? I just said something positive. So, you see, it’s in me. Is in you? This is a period of adjustment for all of us.

With the influx of new arrivals here on a daily basis, I can understand your trepidation and sometimes, believe it or not, even your disdain. Really I do. Have you seen the latest bunch of muttonheads around lately? I’m talking about those clowns who walk down the street reading books, oblivious to any form of traffic or the world around them like they’re the Book People from Ray Bradbury’s FAHRENHEIT 451. Talk about moving targets. Why don’t you read your way toward the front of MY car?

So, what do you say we make some sort of a pact here, here? I’ll give in a little if you do the same. Let’s have a truce and maybe within it all, we can both practice a little tolerance. I don’t expect to meet you halfway but...MERGE, DAMN YOUR EYES! MERGE!

C’mon, give me that much at least. You owe me.

After all, in this whole diatribe, not once did I ever mention the rain.

Sincerely,

Your new pal,

Scott

EPILOGUE

It’s been almost three years now and the dust has finally settled. We’re still here. Recently, I made a trip down to Stockton and found that as soon as I got there, I couldn’t wait to leave, regardless of the great time I spent with old friends. All of the reasons why I left were crystal clear in a very short amount of time.

When I returned to Oregon, I drove back to Beaverton from the airport and found myself actually smiling when I saw the skyline of Portland by night. To my left was the snowcapped wonder of Mt. Hood, looking like the logo for Paramount Pictures. Below was the murky Willamette River, lit by that big spotlight known as the full moon in an uncharacteristically clear sky above and garnished with sparkling stars. What a welcome this was. That’s when it hit me.

I was home. This is where I live now. To quote an old Teamster friend of mine, I was proud to be here. Suddenly I grew anxious and really wanted to get back to my wife who was waiting for me in Beaverton. I missed her and wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I also wanted to let her know that for one of the very rare moments in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere and this is where it was.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. The freeway slowed to an annoyingly hesitant crawl. Something was holding up traffic. It wasn’t long before I discovered that it was, once again, a classic case of a slow driver in the fast lane.

Probably some stupid goddamn Washingtonian.

What's up with THOSE people?