A review (kinda) and a digression (really)

I have actually found a way to shoehorn in a little reading recently (although not much). I did pick up Chuck Palahniuk's 2008 novel Snuff, mostly because I knew that I could read it in a short one hour reading session at a coffeeshop. (Well, an hour 15, probably.)

I was right.

This novel takes place at the taping of a porno flick, and is organized in alternating chapters narrated by five different characters. This is a gimmick Palahniuk has used before--to much better effect in Rant (a book about which I have complicated feelings). The plot of the novel is thin--it doesn't take long to figure out what the relationship between the characters is likely to be. Nor is the expected "Palahniuk twist" all that unpredictable. The final scene of the book should only be described as gratuitous, disgusting and (maybe worst of all) highly improbable.

Wait. I just had to interrupt the writing of this because Criminal Intent is on, and I just got very distracted by wondering if Saffron Burrows spends all of her time trying to remember to suck in her cheeks while she is "acting," or if that is just a freak of facial anatomy. Either way, it stresses me out.

Ultimately, this is a disappointing book. I have read most of Palahniuk's books. I'm not sure why. Usually I am left with the feeling that he just didn't really give it much effort. He's a man with a lot of imagination. And he has a good ear for dialog. But he rarely comes up with much more than a sort of interesting, but underdeveloped, concept. I always read him thinking that maybe the novel in my hand will be the one in which he delivers what his potential promises. (Rant did come close. Just because it was, in its own way, a much more ambitious book than most of his others.) To make matters worse, Palahniuk takes sophomoric delight in creating the names of the fictional male porn stars and the films in which they star. It is humor hardly worthy of morning rock station shock jocks, let alone a darling of contemporary fiction.

So. Um. I'm not really recommending this book. Unless you read as quickly as I do, and you are just sort of curious, and you aren't someone who is overly worried with squandering your leisure time.

EXCEPT. The hardcover of this book sports really great thematic endpapers. If you pass the book in a bookstore, pick it up and look. And see if you don't agree that it would be great to have a roll of that in wrapping paper form.

The People in Your Neighborhood

One of the best things about living in a city like Portland for almost your whole life is that there are people all over the city that become part of your living community, just by virtue of the fact that they too live and work in the city. There are many places I can go and see the same faces that I've seen there for years--some of the booksellers at Powell's (especially Hawthorne, but downtown too). Barisitas like super hot Corey (that's big M to you, Qwanty) who works at Stumptown, but worked at Common Grounds for years. DJs--especially the kind who spin 80s tunes and favor velvet pants. Bartenders like Kip and BLT. Or regulars like the guys at BOG (including the artist otherwise known as Justin, of the painting of the girl with tiny hands).

One of my favorite neighborhood people, though, is Ivy. Ivy works at Arvey's Office supplies on Grand. I have long preferred to service my considerable office supply habit at Arvey's rather than at one of the huge suburban chain stores, and Ivy is one of the big reasons. She's very cool--always smiling, always sporting some arty jewelry, always quick with the small talk, or compliments, or catalogs for special orders. She has been at the front register at Arvey's ever since I started going there, which was not long after I started driving. To me, she's a one-woman institution.

Today I stopped in to pick up some of the black pens I like and I got into her line to check out. She mentioned, as she was ringing up my purchase, that she was retiring at the end of this week. She's going to devote herself to relaxing and making art. This is awesome for Ivy, because I'm sure that she totally deserves to spend time doing something that makes her really happy. This is much less awesome for Ivy's longtime customers, for whom shopping at Arvey's is not going to be quite the same anymore.

Shout outs:

. . . to the Blazers, who, thankfully, took care of business tonight.

. . . to my brother Ryan, or Jimmy, or Rimmy (whichever you prefer) for making it to 33 and celebrating by fishing, snowboarding, kiteboarding, mountain biking, and skateboarding. All in one day. (J-Bro dubbed today "Jimmy's very extreme day") He also did it all wearing a Breakin' tee.

. . . to the interwebs for providing me with this recipe, which, halved, cooked in a loaf pan and topped with chocolate ice cream, strawberries and whipped cream, made a very serviceable birthday cake for said brother.

. . . to Jim Rome for making me laugh out loud by talking about KG's bench antics. Seriously, that is some funny shit.

. . .to Qwanty for bringing the Brain Scientist and her sweet self to PDX tomorrow. Here's to our old haunts and to reconnecting with people we haven't seen in a long time. And to Black Butte Porter and Grilled Cheese Deluxe and DJ Greg. It's going to be super fun to have you here, K-dot!

Happy Birthday!

I just returned home from the second and final night of Mikey J's birthday extravaganza 2009. (He mildly objects to the "extravaganza" part, but that's how I like to think of it.)

Tonight was the mellow part of the celebration--dinner at Dots (eat your heart out displaced Portlanders!) and our now customary Friday night drinks at North, which we redecorated in our heads as we downed our bevies.

For his birthday, I got Mike tickets to the Reading Frenzy benefit at Holocene last night. It made me happy to be able to support RF, which is my favorite alternative media outlet. I also figured it would make Mike happy to attend an event where he could see Carrie Brownstein (who was showing some of her Thunderant shorts) and Corin Tucker, who was playing a short set of all-new solo songs. He loves those Sleater-Kinney girls!

There were also a couple of readings, and other bands (we both sort of liked Explode into Colors) and there were a lot of hipsters. Mike had a few drinks, and found one guy and one girl who he wanted to rumble with. The guy, he argued, deserved an ass kicking for sporting a ridiculous mullet-becomes-a-rat-tail. The girl's offence was wearing overly ironic garb. She was dressed like Bailey from WKRP, but she wasn't as cute. He kept his cool though. During Tucker's show a drunk, loud, obnoxious S-K fangirl almost got a beat down. I could have gotten behind that one. She was truly deserving. But, ultimately, Mikey is a lover (so I hear), and not a fighter. Thus, she got off easy with just a well-justified verbal lashing.

We also heard a horrible short story about a giant slug and a "vixen" named Teresa, delivered by the guy behind How's Your News and we saw one of the ladies that Mike has recently been on a date with. All in all, it was an entertaining evening.

Happy birthday, Mikey J! The anniversary of your birth is something worth celebrating.

A Valentine, Part One

I find myself with a little extra time today, thanks to the fact that my second class confessed that only ONE of them had done their homework--which was to read one of Chuck Klosterman's Esquire pieces (2 pages). Since my whole lecture today was based on their having read this, I told them to go home and to come back when they had done the assigned work. 2 pages! I can't even imagine what it would have been like to have had anyone only assign me 2 pages to read in college. I had terms in which I was reading 30 pages of poetry, 2 plays, 2 novels, and a book of art history/philosophy/history in a given week. (Not to mention writing for all of those classes.) What a bunch of weenies.

Anyhoo. I'm taking this time to send out a little Valentine to my good buddy, Qwanty, who has been wanting me to write on the following topic for some time now. I will probably get some of the story wrong. She will, without a doubt, correct me if I misremember.

This is the story of Patrick Lunch. (Which is not his real name, but I'll get to that part of the story eventually.)

Back in the day when Qwanty and I were hanging out at the 1201, drinking sourballs, splitting fondue, not paying cover due to the fact that we'd made friends with the bouncer (thanks, Devin--even though you turned out to be a real tool), and flirting with a bus-y-looking bus boy in vinyl pants over our glasses (ok. so "we" didn't really do that. It was more "me"), we became fans of a couple of different local bands. One of them was the ridiculous Rollerball, a band that featured a tall drink of water in a Mr. Roger's cardigan who played the clarinet like he was having crazy sex with it. The other was a band called the Dolomites, which might sound like some sort of R & B band, but was really a band that played "pirate rock", which, as far as I can tell, meant some stuff that sounded like Pogues rip-offs and some Tom Waits covers. Clearly, we followed Rollerball because of the clarinet player. We followed The Dolomites because Qwanty knew the "brains" behind the band from PSU. His name was Steve, but this is hard for me to remember most of the time because we referred to him exclusively as "Strictly" due to the fact that Qwanty thought that he looked like he could have been a character in Strictly Ballroom.

Anyway, we saw the Dolomites all over town. Memorable performances include 1) the Kells Irish festival. It was so cold that I remember sitting at a table in the tent LITERALLY shivering for several hours. I also remember that this set off one of the worst bouts of tonsillitis I've ever had. 2) the Green Room. Mostly what I remember about this one is that Strictly dedicated a song to us, and had us STAND UP so everyone could clap for us (ugh) and then the song was a Tom Waits cover and I HATE TOM WAITS. (I wasn't that crazy about Strictly either). 3) Ash Street Salon. It was here that the story at hand began--

As I remember it, the Dolomites were opening for a band called The Moops. Strictly talked us into staying at Ash Street to watch The Moops by telling us that they were "great guys." He might have also bought us a round. I believe he also warned us that the frontman was "kind of a character." As it turns out, the front man was no other than DJ Gregarious T. Cline. Some of you know Greg as the guy who spins for "Shut Up and Dance"--a weekly, mostly 80s themed dance party. (And--story for another occasion--the DJ for the New Year's event I attended this year with Mikey J. and my sister-in-law.) Here are some things that you should know about Greg: 1) He will try to score with almost any woman who walks by him. 2) He has an astounding collection of velvet (and velveteen?) pants and frilly ascots. 3) He sometimes dances to certain 80s songs as if he is performing a sacred ritual (ask my sister-in-law, Joy, she's observed it). 4) His REAL first name is Gregarious. Like, his mom named him that on purpose. 5) He seems to actually be aging backwards, like Benjamin Buttons, or Mork. 6) He is ridiculous.

*At this moment I have to interrupt this story to report to you all that I am currently sitting in a coffeeshop and, hand to G--, "Afternoon Delight" just started playing overhead. Oh Paul Rudd--I love you looking like a 1970's on-location TV news reporter!

Back to Ash Street--So, this band with this completely ridiculous frontman, playing a guitar painted with scenes that seemed to be ripped from "Octopus's Garden"--steps on stage and starts playing. I don't remember a lot about the performance, other than the fact that I couldn't stop laughing, and that maybe the last song they did was a rock cover of Paula Abdul's "Cold-Hearted Snake." (I vaguely remember this being brilliant.) Anyway. I was entertained. It turns out Qwanty had paid more attention to the whole thing that I had though . . .

The next day Qwanty was at Palio (this is when I was going there pretty much every day to see the narrow-hipped Coffee Boy and she was going to see a cute little diabetic). This tall, thin blonde guy kept looking at her, and finally approached. Turns out that he had recognized her from the show the night before. He was the drummer for the Moops. Qwanty recognized him. She chatted with him for awhile and found out that he was living in a big house in Ladd's Addition and that Palio was also HIS coffeeshop. This is where my memory sort of falters. Qwanty either made plans to have a drink at BOG (the other bar where we spent time in those days. Also owned by Phil Ragamuffin), or he mentioned to her that he sometimes drank at BOG. Either way, we ended up sharing Black Butte Porters with him at BOG one night soon thereafter. We found out that he hung out there because he (along with too many other Portland jackasses) had a huge crush on a bartender there (she will remain nameless. But I can say that he sometimes played drums for her, and she is an Irish chanteuse).

Anyway, we spent the whole evening with him. We found out about his crush, and that he worked at OMSI making models out of wiggly board, but only part time because he also manufactured and sold some weird nut used in drum kits. The most clear memory I have of that night is, at one point, Patrick leaning over the table and saying, "Ladies. Before we progress in this friendship any more, there is something about me that I think you should know. I am a convicted felon." Turns out that he had done some time for manufacture with the intent to sell. He was growing a lot of pot.

Then he asked us to have breakfast with him the next morning.

END OF PART ONE. STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF: THE EPIC OF PATRICK LUNCH.

So this is not my promised blog on Bryan Adams (which, by the way, has now been upstaged by Qwanty's response anyhow), but it is, rather, an open letter to newly-installed Portland mayor Sam Adams. I don't usually get political, but this situation is upsetting and confounding. If you don't already know about Adams and the recent scandal, check out the Willie article that led to Adams's recent media confessions.

Dear Sam Adams:

I am very, very, very disappointed in you. It's not that you did something creepy by sleeping with an 18 year old (although I would argue that you knew it was creepy. If you didn't know that, you wouldn't have lied about it). It's that you lied--over and over--until you got yourself into the mayor's office. And your lie most hurts those who have supported you. It makes the people of Portland, who love and are proud of this town, look like fools for believing you when you claimed that you were just a "mentor" to this young man. You had to have known that Portland would get national attention for electing the first gay mayor of a major American city, and that your administration would be under some heightened scrutiny. I'm not saying that it is fair that you should be more closely watched than a heterosexual mayor may be--but I would think that you would be 1) sensitive to the very real possibility that you would be and would 2) take appropriate steps to conduct yourself in a way that would reflect well on the city that you claim to care about and the community that has been so supportive of you.

Not only have you made Portlanders look bad, you have actually further damaged perceptions that too many in the straight world have of gay men. Instead of contributing to gay history in a positive way, you have helped set back gay public relations. Well done. Right wing talk show hosts are probably positively gleeful. (And, if for no other reason, you are dead to me because you have made that ass Lars Larson happy. That is unforgivable.)

There are two aspects of this situation I find especially galling. First, that you thought--even for a second--that you could get away with this. What the hell is wrong with you politicians? In what world does this young man, or his friends NOT TALK? You were bound to be found out. But you lied anyway. People might have forgiven the bad judgement (because sleeping with a barely legal intern less than half your age IS bad judgement--whether that intern is the same sex or not) , but you don't deserve to be forgiven by the very people who believed enough in you to take your word over the word of those who tried to tell the truth in the first place. You clearly think that you are very smart and the rest of us are very stupid.

Second, I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you would risk your reputation, the reputation of the city (that, again, you claim to love), and the perception of the gay community for an 18 year old piece of ass. I mean, it isn't like you were in love. Or thought that this was going to be a long term relationship. You literally just wanted to have a fling with a twink. Well, good for you. I hope that you DO get yanked out of City Hall. I hope that this ruins any other political aspirations that you have. Because you could have had all the tail you wanted after you were done with your public life. Your lack of self-control (and it IS reported that your staffers warned you away from this "relationship" so you can't very well claim that you didn't know better) has been visited on all of us. I hope it was worth it.

You know, I was willing to look past your ridiculous "leaf tax" and that terrible fur hat you wore during the December snow storms because I thought you were an ok guy. You are not an ok guy. You are a guy who has repeatedly shown bad judgement, arrogance, a propensity to lie (even when you are sure to be caught) and supreme selfishness. You don't deserve to be the mayor of the greatest town in America.

A truly disgusted,

Kristin R. Dorsey

Cabin Fever

Alright. So you might think that being almost totally home bound for the last 9 days would give me ample opportunity to catch up on some blogging. But I know how much Qwanty resents any blogs about the weather, and really, it is impossible for me to write about anything else. Since a week ago Sunday, we have had temperatures almost exclusively below freezing, and snow, freezing rain, and sleet. As you all know, I am sometimes given to hyperbole. In this case I am reporting fact. Currently, at the compound, we have about 10 inches of packed snow, a 1 inch ice layer, and then another 12-14 inches on top of that. Do the math, people. That is about 2 feet of snow. In Portland. For over a week.

For those of you who do live here/have lived here, you recognize how freaky this is. We are just not a people who are used to long-term arctic conditions. The last time Portland had a "snow event" of this magnitude was 40 years ago. So, I have never seen anything like it. The year that I lived in Boston was exceptionally mild, so I didn't even see it there. And if you think that I'm exaggerating, wait until you see the pictures (they are coming--).

And I am so bored I can hardly stand it. My little car is buried. So I'm stuck here for awhile. Yesterday I actually played 2 rounds of that racist domino game (I'll not name it, in respect to J-Bro) with my parents and my grandmother. Have any of you ever played a game with me? That's right. You haven't. Because I don't play games. I don't play games because I am the world's worst sport. It is very unpleasant to play games with me. But I played that damn game for 4 hours yesterday because THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO DO.

There are, of course, a couple of silver linings in this series of storms. Here are the highlights:

1. Watching Ella snowboard in the backyard at 10 o'clock at night. That was pretty cute.

2. Going to "McCool's" with my dad for lunch Saturday (the last day we were able to get out), and seeing a room full of people drinking coffee nudges (the $5 cocktail special) in the middle of the day.

3. Local news. They are preempting almost everything to continuously tell us that it is still snowing (awesome!). But after the first 48 hours they began to get really bored and punchy and they have had to work harder and harder to find things to talk about. That has led to some funny on-air antics. The best thing that I've seen so far--one news team was talking to their field correspondent in Troutdale, which is a pretty important location since it is the end of the line for truckers who are wanting to travel east--I 84 has been closed for about 3 days. Anyway--the correspondent had his camera man pan over to the diner at the off-ramp to show a 10 foot drift, and as the camera panned back to the correspondent, a man walked out of the gas station and fell. I'm not someone who usually laughs at other people getting hurt or embarrassed--I don't tend to think that sort of thing is funny. BUT. One of the anchors back at the station actually said, "Aww. Look at that! I sure hope that guy isn't one of ours!" Which is a completely jackass comment to make on the air. It was a nice break in the facade that these guys try to create to make us feel like they care.

4. Hands down the best thing I've seen: I was at Kinko's on Saturday (long story--) and it was snowing like crazy. A woman walked outside and her windshield had iced/snowed up while she'd been self-serving at the copy machine. She took her copy of (I SWEAR!) The Prophet and used it to clear the windshield. This could only happen in Portland. It made me simultaneously proud and disgusted to be an Oregonian.

Thanks, by the way, to Stobie. Your Remington Steele tip came just in time.

Just for Qwanty

And to thank you for making me feel better, here's something just for you.

Portland Loves

Greg Oden.

On Monday, Mikey, of the J variety, sent me this, with the comment "How can you not love this guy?" I thank Mike for thinking of me and for sending this along. But I would have seen or heard it anyway, because it has been all over Portland media.

Originally, because of my ties to Texas athletics (the fact that I was mentoring in study hall the same time that the men's basketball team served study hall), I was sort of sorry that the Blazers didn't get Kevin Durant. I thought it would be especially cool to see two former UT players (Durant and LaMarcus Aldridge) in Portland, since I'm always looking for ways to feel like my two most recent worlds are colliding. I was, and I'm ashamed to say it now, disappointed to see the Blazers draft Greg Oden instead--even more so when the news came that Oden would not play his first season due to knee surgery.

No offence or disrespect to Kevin Durant. But, boy, was I wrong.

And I say the following with absolute sincerity: I have never, ever cared as much about any professional athlete as I care about Greg Oden. And I am including that strange crush I had on Andre Aggassi in 1991 that caused me to actually put up a poster of him in my bedroom (a dubious honor that he shares only with Johnny Depp--circa 21 Jump Street, Elvis, and the Beatles). Greg Oden is a cool freaking guy. He sings 'N Sync in front of hundreds of kids, badly. He talks to Barack Obama on the telephone and then goes on RIB to talk about the experience. He writes a blog, which is charming and silly as hell (if you only read one recent entry, read the one about him going to see Kanye West and Rihanna). And while you are looking at this material, consider this: THIS may be (is, in fact, likely to be) the next monster superstar of the NBA. He is a goofy, down-to-earth, self-conscious kid. And Portland is already in love with him, before we've seen him play a single NBA game, in spite of the fact that we already have a team full of great young guys who we AlSO love. Hell, I saw the guy riding in a truck during the Jr. Rose Festival Parade in June and had to hold myself back from running onto Sandy Boulevard to give him a big ol' hug. And you people know how I feel about hugs.

Those of you who are not from Portland may not understand how meaningful this team, and this particular player, are to this city. The Blazers are all that we've got--no other professional sports teams. Our state universities are represented by duck and beaver mascots. With the exception of some great runners (moment of silence for Pre) and a surprising recent run by the OSU Baseball team, we sort of know that we can't really compete--or at least can't often compete--in the realm of sports. We are the city equivalent of the kid who always gets picked last in P.E. So this is an exciting year for us. It is the chance (or the beginning of the chance) for Portland to play--hell--to compete--with the big dogs. And, because we believe in the character of this player, and the players of this team generally, we can do it without feeling a loss of integrity.

And that is why Portland loves Greg Oden.