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.

Merry Christmas, You Ol' Internet!

Instead of a snarky diatribe about the commercialization of Christmas or a whiny dissertation 'bout why I ain't got no spirit this year, I decided to relate to you a little tale that may or may not be related to the holiday season. However, it occurred at this time of year, so it shall suffice, m'kay?

Driving home the other night from the northeast side of Portland to my home out in the 'burbs (a cruel act of fate from which I may never recover), I had my radio tuned to KNRK, what passes for an "alternative rock" station in this day and age. Listening to this keeps me young, yo...and apparently in denial. Anyhoo, the volume was cranked as I was singing along with my man Cee-Lo Green's sweet tune "Fuck You"(censored to simply "F You" here or "Forget You" everywhere else or "Fudge You" if you're Ralphie from A CHRISTMAS STORY). Naturally, I had been emphasizing my preferred nomenclature at the top of my lungs to blow off some necessary steam after the stress-o-rama known as the workaday world. Once the song ended, I heard something not quite right on the right of my car, sudden vibration with a noticeable deceleration of power.

"Hmmm...what could THAT be?"

Several possibilities ran through my head, most actually involving NOT pulling over with the stupidest scenario being:

"I'm only ten miles from my house। I can probably make it!"

It should be noted that I was dropped on my head when I was a baby. How many times, I'm not sure, but it must have been daily at the very least.

My car decided for me as something began to seriously start rapping up the right side o' my front end. Okay, could very well be a flat. Great! Thanks for playing, dumbass! I had already made my way over to the far right lane ever so carefully with the next exit just a few hundred feet ahead. I made it, turned and parked. My tire had shredded like so much black licorice right down to the rim. I swear on a stack of pancakes that it didn't feel like a flat tire at all. It didn't veer to the right at all and it just felt like a vibrator having a seizure. I thought it might be the tranny or a loose belt of some kind, maybe Grandma got run over by a Honda Civic but not a flat friggin' tire.

The question was: What to do NOW?

Sigh. Well, I'm in a well-lit area. Gotta change the tire, but first, call the wife. Phone. Where would a pay phone be? No, I don't carry a cell...DON'T YELL AT ME! I HAVE MY REASONS! NO, THEY'RE NOT BASED ON PRACTICALITY!...there's got to be a pay phone somewhere, right? I wandered the neighborhood, a series of strip malls. Hmm, the rain stopped. it's almost warm outside. Where in the hell is there a goddamn pay phone in 2010? Not at Home depot. Not at Taco Bell. Plaid Pantry (an Oregonian convenience store)? No pay phone, says the clerk. Could I use their phone? I could? Really? SA-WEET.

"Hi, honey. I'm going to be a little late. I got a flat tire."

"Oh, that's too bad. What are you buying at the Plaid Pantry?"

"Nothing! Gotta go!"

As I head back to the car, a Washington County Sheriff's car pulled up right behind my car, lights a blazin'. Friendly chap. Shone his flashlight as I started to dig out the doughnut sized spare, the first time it's been removed since I first bought the car back at Stockton Honda in 1997. I had a bit of difficulty with the jack when the officer suggested we use his. Okay by me. Before I knew it, here was Officer Friendly changing my tire for me and I was holding the flashlight for him.

Say what?

When he finished, the officer noticed there wasn't much air in the spare, so he offered to follow me to the Chevron station around the block. Upon arrival, he asked if I had any change for the air since, in this day and age, you have to pay for air. I'll be damned if the air wasn't free.

I asked my new best friend his name and he told me he was Officer Morris. I shook his hand, thanked him again and again, then wished him a Merry Christmas as he resumed his patrol, already in progress.

So let's review:

I got a flat tire and drove on it for at least two miles, working it right down to the bone. It had stopped raining. I was able to use a phone at a convenience store. Officer Morris of the Washington County Sheriff Department changed my tire for me. My mechanic told me the brake line was undamaged . I didn't have to buy a whole new wheel, just a replacement tire.

Come on, people! If this was not a Christmas miracle, then I don't know what is. It works in my book. More likely, it's the best thing of all, an act of human kindness that restores more than just a little hope in my heart that somehow balances out the rest of the michegoss from the rest of the year. Let's not forget a big dose of faith too. Aren't those the two main ingredients of the season- Hope and Faith? Just to complete the trilogy, don't forget their lil' sister Charity either, me hardies.

As for the other bullets I dodged-the weather, the lack of damage, the free air?

I'm not above believing in a little holiday magic.

So there you have it. If you don't think this is much of a heartwarming tale, then try to imagine it in Claymation with songs by Perry Como, Toby Keith, and Ke$ha.

Or would you like to hear Cee-Lo Green again? 

Merry Christmas, y'all to y'all, a g'nite!

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

Jingle Balls...uh, Bells

Seasons Greetings and all that humbuggery to you and yours. I’m surprised we’re even celebrating a holiday Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of War on Christmas?

this year.

“Look out! The Virgin Mary’s got a gun!”

My mood fluctuates from day to day. To keep from plummeting into what Robert Crumb used to call “The Dreaded Depths of Despair” is a full time job and frankly, I just don’t have the time. It’s amazing I found time to rustle up some spare minutes to crank out another entry for this exercise in futility. How the hell do people manage to blog each and every day? Oh, that’s right. I’ve read their stuff.

“Which would you rather have-air or water? Discuss.”

It’s not as if my shit is any better. My archive is chock full of nothing more than a collection of comments, snide, snarky and superficial, supposedly under the guise of “sharp criticism”. Right. I’m about as sharp as Nicole Richie on Celebrity Jeopardy. Recently I was accused of being a “smart guy”. Don’t you believe it. It’s all smoke, mirrors and misdirection. Hell, I couldn’t even muster up a few sentences to memorialize one of my personal heroes, Robert Altman. The man and his work had an impact on my life but I’ll damned if I could muster up a syllable to explain why and how. The only thing I could think of was to paraphrase what Billy Wilder and William Wyler said about Ernst Lubitsch.

No more Robert Altman. Even worse. No more Robert Altman films.

(I don’t so much create as much as I memorize.)

You want a tribute to Altman? Watch his films. His work speaks for itself as he spoke through his work. I would suggest NASHVILLE, CALIFORNIA SPLIT, BREWSTER MCCLOUD, THE PLAYER and to my mind, one of the best films ever made, MCCABE AND MRS. MILLER. As for me, I halfway expect Ol' Bob to make another of his signature comebacks in a couple of years. Talk about denial…

The reason for this funk o’ mine can’t be blamed on the season. It’s just coincidental that these doldrums across the Mohawk are blossoming right here and right now during the most wonderful time of the year. I even got to the point where I was rustling through my pockets for Zusu’s petals. All I could come up with was an unwrapped Ricola covered in lint.

BUT…

Amazing Grace…how sweet the sound…that saved a wretch like me….

Last week I took in the annual Gospel Christmas concert with the Portland Symphony and the Northwest Community Gospel Chorus and had the spirit move me. Hallelujah!

This was Gospel Authentica, a roof raising experience that I had been wanting to experience for years. By night’s end I was on my feet, clapping my hands and ready to testify! Symphony conductor Charles Floyd and choir director Gary Hemenway at the helm of a superb group of singers and musicians will be forever in my debt for rescuing me from a total meltdown that day. I can’t honestly say the Christmas Spirit suddenly possessed me, but the therapeutic results of that show has lasted for a solid week so far. Praise the Lord and pass the mistletoe.

As for y’all out there, I guess all that I want to say is what I’ve been saying for the last couple of years.

Be good to each other and for your own sake, be good to yourselves.

You deserve it.

We all do.

Merry Christmas to all
and to all
good night and good luck.

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?