Category Archives: Portland

Where’s My Thrift Store Picasso?

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Did you hear about the guy in Ohio who bought a Picasso print from a thrift store for $14, then discovered it wasn’t a reproduction after all but a genuine, original poster signed by the artist himself and turned around and resold it for $7000?

This pisses me off.

Because if anybody appreciates a good thrift store bargain, it’s me. I frequently scour the aisles of my local Value Village in search of inexpensive treasures, but do you have any idea how many times I’ve found a work of art by a famous artist and made a 500% profit? I’ll tell you how many: ZERO. Sure, I’ve found my share of warped records and dogeared paperbacks and chipped drinking glasses and faded flannel shirts, but an undiscovered Monet or Van Gogh has never once found its way into my shopping cart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for the dude. He’s unemployed, and can use the money. But, hello – same here! I don’t ask for much in life. Just a roof over my head and food on my table and a priceless work of art that I can resell for a huge return on my investment.

C’mon, Universe. Help a brother out here!

Why can’t I find one of these for fourteen bucks at Value Village?

I’m also irritated that I can wander through a vintage store and find really cool things like dogs playing poker tapestries and glass milk bottles and classic rock albums and metal lunch boxes and posters from World’s Fairs gone by and yet my local neighborhood garage sale has nothing but cracked Tupperware canisters and tacky Christmas figurines. Obviously I’m shopping in the wrong ‘hood.

Oh, well. Guess I’ll just have to make my fortune the old-fashioned way and work for it. Grr.

Speaking of garage sales, Tara and I had one on Saturday morning. Our goal wasn’t to make a lot of money but merely to get rid of some of the really cool things my girlfriend made me get rid of when she moved in duplicates we had between us. And it’s a good thing too, because lemme tell ya, customers weren’t exactly flocking in off the street. We were “open” an entire hour before the first person even stopped, and when he walked away after spending a whopping $2 I figured the writing was pretty much on the wall. Luckily business picked up a little after that, but we still only managed to pull in $60, which is fine – it’s seed money for our Broncos fund (we’re hoping to fly to Denver to catch a game this October). We stopped the sale at noon and then donated everything that didn’t sell to the Value Village mentioned above. You know, the place that has never once sold me a rare Pablo Picasso print. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Much.

The rest of the weekend was pretty awesome (except for the heat – we seem to have skipped from winter to summer with a vengeance). After the garage sale, we headed to the Hawthorne District in Portland for a few hours. The highlight? Sitting at a sidewalk table outside the Bagdad Theater sipping cocktails and watching all the strangely funky Portland people walking by. Hipsters and homeless people and every imaginable type of human being in between. Sunday we strolled around the farmer’s market in Vancouver and even though there still isn’t much in the way of fresh produce available, we came away with hummus and pita chips and mango salsa and kettle corn and olives. Then we walked around a couple of our local parks before coming home to veg in front of the TV with season one of Breaking Bad (which Tara has never seen but happily decided to check out after listening to me rave over this incredible show (see?) constantly). We ended the day with margaritas and, now that I have my patio back again and the grill is hooked up, the most delicious dinner consisting of barbecued chicken, grilled corn on the cob, baked beans and french bread. I even let Tara do the cooking, which might not seem like a big deal except for the fact that nothing comes between a man and his grill. The bond between the two is sacred. It was tough relinquishing the reins, believe me, but my girlfriend did me proud and the food turned out fantastic. I was so impressed, I think I’ll let her do it again sometime.

Until then, if anybody’s got a hot lead on a hidden Matisse gathering dust in a thrift store somewhere, hit me up!

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A Three Chord Revelation

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Last night I found myself in a dimly lit music lounge sipping a gin and tonic while listening to a rock ‘n roll band playing loudly and energetically. I turned to Tara and said, over the wailing guitars and pounding drums, “I’m living the life I always wanted.”

Call it a three-chord revelation.

Many years ago, I saw the movie Singles. It centered around a group of twentysomethings in the Pacific Northwest as they dealt with work, relationships and hobbies. I was the exact same age as the main characters when the film came out, but my life couldn’t have been more different. While they were hanging out in clubs and bars listening to music and navigating the minefields of new and complex relationships and following their dreams (those dreams weren’t even working out in the movie, but there was a certain romanticism in the fact that they were trying their damnedest regardless), I had already settled down into a monotonously routine existence that would slowly and methodically stifle me. I was envious of those characters, even if I couldn’t put my finger on the exact reasons why. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can fill in the blanks. I won’t go into a lot of details. Let’s just say I wasn’t being true to the person I really am. Fortunately, one day I woke up and realized that, and did something about it. The ensuing years were often a struggle, but look at the end result. Like I said to Tara, I’m living the life I always wanted. It took longer than it should have, but you know what they say: better late than never.

Matt Dillon and Bridget Fonda were living a life I wanted. (Courtesy of projections-movies.com).

That life isn’t just about rock ‘n roll, though music is a very important part of the equation. We went to two concerts this week – a big arena show with The Black Keys at the Portland Rose Garden on Monday, and a smaller, more intimate gig with a couple of local Northwest bands we both like, Campfire OK and The Lonely Forest, at a much smaller venue – the Doug Fir Lounge on East Burnside Street – Wednesday night. Both were awesome in their own way (and I have the ringing ears to prove it). The Black Keys put on an elaborate, energetic show chock full of lasers and strobe lights and played some of the hookiest, most soulful rock music out there these days. The Doug Fir was small and candlelit and intimate, and the bands were an arm’s length from where we sat. Tara and I bonded over music right from the start, and there will be plenty of concerts in our future. We’ve already got The Shins in Bend over Memorial Day weekend and a few days later, The Moondoggies at another small club in Portland. A mix of popular bands and lesser-known local acts. I like that.

But as I said, this life is about more than just seeing bands play live. It’s about being in a loving relationship where both partners are equals, never take each other for granted, and actually have fun together. We’ve both had our share of less-than-perfect failed relationships, and this has given us a strong appreciation for what we’ve got now. It’s a reason why we’ve never had a single argument or cross word, and still make out like a couple of lovestruck teenagers half a dozen times a day. There’s a passion I’ve never experienced before. The relationship is just one more piece of the puzzle, though. There are so many other components. Friends. Family. Traveling. Hiking. Cooking good food. Following your passions (like self-publishing a novel). And through whatever strange confluence of events, the stars or planets have all lined up almost perfectly (jobs are the last missing link, but I’m confident they’ll fall into place, too). Hence, my comment last night. What’s especially great is recognizing those moments while you’re living them, instead of looking back someday and thinking, “things were going pretty well then.”

Funny how revelations can come from the oddest places. Kite strings and intimate music clubs have made me introspective in the past few days. On Saturday, we’re having a yard sale. Can’t wait to see what kind of wisdom I glean from haggling over the price of a 99-cent apple corer.

Here’s a clip from The Lonely Forest. This is probably their “signature” song and the one they closed the show out with last night. Enjoy!

Nevada’s a Trapezoid But We Aren’t Square

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It’s been an exciting few days. Aside from missing out on scoring an awesome piece of art – yes, I’m still fixated on the dogs playing poker tapestry! – plenty of groovy stuff has happened. The biggest piece of news is that my wonderful girlfriend is moving in with me.

That’s right. Tara and I are shacking up!!!

I’m such a romantic, huh? But truly, this is fantastic. We met in person just over a year ago, and as I was driving away from our lunch date that drizzly March afternoon, I never would have dreamed that she and I would be in an amazing relationship six months later, and starting a life together not long after that. She and I have talked about this, and it seriously boggles both of our minds. I spent a portion of this past weekend skimming through old Facebook status updates from 2009 (Timeline makes this very easy to do), and couldn’t help but smile every time there was a comment from Tara. Which was often. I love that our friendship dates back so long – it makes for a wonderful story. And also solidifies my belief that we were meant to be.

Also, there was a very interesting comment I made about “suddenly becoming a Peyton Manning fan.” As a Broncos fan, it’s strange how this has come to fruition. The past is a funny thing.

Nevada is shaped like a trapezoid. Anybody know the circumference of Vegas?!

Tara’s original plan was to find a job and then move out here, but the reality of the situation is, long-distance job hunting is even more challenging than short-distance job hunting. The fact that she wasn’t living here was a disadvantage; even though she rocked the interview for a job she was perfectly suited for a few weeks ago, the hiring manager told her straight up that not being here was a strike against her. Suddenly, it looked like she might not be able to make it out here for a long time, which would never do because we’re both so damn impatient. And then, she came up with a brilliant plan that will enable her to move out here right away and search for a job. She’s much less pickier than I am, and I’m confident it won’t take her long to find something right up her alley. Yesterday she gave three weeks’ notice to her employer, and she’ll be moving in on April 14th!

Tara, however, isn’t used to living in a large metropolitan area. There are big differences between her state and mine. For starters, Nevada is a trapezoid and Washington’s more of a rectangle. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In the interest of easing my girlfriend’s transition to life in “the city” (which is how her friends and family refer to this place – or anyplace with more than four stoplights, actually), I came up with a list that not only points out the differences between Nevada and Washington, but also provides a few handy tips to blending in with the locals and embracing the Pacific Northwest lifestyle.

Nevada v. Washington, or How To Survive in “The City”

  1. There are no video poker machines in the corner laundromat. Or the convenience store, the carwash, McDonald’s, etc. I’ve spent a lot of time in Nevada the past six months and still can’t get used to the novelty of seeing gambling machines wherever there’s a spare electrical outlet.
  2. People don’t have “jockey boxes” here, they’ve got “glove compartments.” I didn’t know what Tara was talking about the first time she mentioned a jockey box. I assumed it was a holding pen for people who race horses for a living, not the opening on the passenger side of a car’s dashboard where people store, oh you know, gloves and things. I don’t care how short he is, there’s no way you could fit a jockey in there!
  3. A “crick” is something you get in your neck, not a fast-flowing body of water. You will see plenty of CREEKS when we are hiking, dear. If we do happen to come across a crick, I’ll massage it out for you.
  4. People lock their doors when they leave the house here. I wish it could be like Ely. I was amazed that Tara would leave the house without locking the front door. This happened time and time again, whether we were leaving for ten minutes or fourteen hours. I always worried about my “stuff” disappearing, yet it never did. Almost makes up for the weird “jockey box” and “crick” talk.
  5. We freak out over snow. I know you think our two-inch snowstorms are “cute,” but you know who doesn’t? The mayor. He absolutely panics. So do most other people. If there’s so much as a threat of a few flakes in the forecast, people flock to the grocery store to stock up on essentials like salmon and hazelnuts. Oh, and we can’t drive in it, either.
  6. Rain, on the other hand? THAT we’re used to! So used to that, we don’t bother with fancy contraptions like umbrellas. Don’t buy one if you want to blend in with the locals. Or buy one, but use it as a hiking stick. Or to poke all the annoying Californians invading our slice of paradise.
  7. We take recycling very seriously. Sorry for freaking out over the fact that your dad didn’t have any recycling bins in his house. I felt like I’d committed a crime, throwing aluminum cans in the trash like that. We have bins for paper, plastic, glass, and aluminum. We even have bins for recycling our old bins.
  8. Washington is as blue as blue can be. Politically speaking, that is – I certainly don’t mean the sky. Sure, there are pockets of conservatism out there – but that’s all east of the Cascades, where the population is roughly 65. We’re the state that just legalized gay marriage and will be voting on legalizing marijuana for recreational use in the fall. We haven’t had a Republican governor since 1985!
  9. The Mob doesn’t give a damn about Washington. We do have a disproportionately large number of serial killers, however. People like Ted Bundy, Ken Bianchi and Gary Ridgway. Even the DC Sniper used to live here. Instead of burying bodies in the desert, our killers choose the forest. Which, when you think about it, is simply another form of recycling! (See # 7).
  10. There’s actually stuff to do here all the time – and you don’t have to drive 4 hours to do it. We both love music, and you’ve been busy penciling in your calendar with all the live shows you want to see. We’re going to be going to a lot of great concerts! Not to mention restaurants, art galleries, farmer’s markets, wineries, festivals, trips to the coast, etc. I promise we’ll never be bored!

 And I didn’t even mention Voodoo Doughnut…

Dogs Playing Poker Doesn’t Qualify as Art?!

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Friday afternoon, I was wandering around one of my favorite areas of Portland – the Hawthorne District. It’s fun, funky and cool. The people watching alone makes it a worthy destination! There’s a place there called House Of Vintage where I love to browse. It’s a cavernous store full of vintage (or retro, or antique) appliances, decorations, knickknacks, clothing, etc. It’s already a well-established fact that I am in love with the 1970s (see: my fascination with/collections of lava lamps, tie-dye, peace signs, vinyl records, and someday – hopefully – a VW Bus). So, when I spotted a groovy tapestry that featured dogs playing poker – and for a mere $29 – I knew I had to have it! My mistake was firing off a text to my girlfriend.

Do we want a dogs playing poker tapestry?? I wrote, and included a photo of said tapestry in all its velvety glory. I’m dead serious…

Um…no. Maybe one day when you have a man cave, she responded.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

But…I love it!
But…where would you put it??
In the dining room.
You’re a nut.
A nut who loves tacky 70s stuff. Good thing you’re moving in, or I’d totally buy that.
You could hang it in the garage.
Nah. Such a thing of beauty deserves a place of prominence.

And just like that, my dreams were dashed. I still thought Tara was slightly crazy for not recognizing the beauty of this amazing tapestry (which I genuinely did love), so I posted a photo on Facebook, and was promptly bombarded with a slew of less than enthusiastic comments.

Puke, wrote Monica.

Ummmm…WTF, Mark???? chimed in Wendy.

Mark, they don’t appreciate your refined taste in “art,” said Mike, the lone male in the conversation. Suddenly this man was my savior, the sole voice of reason in a sea of negativity. Dogs playing poker must be a “guy” thing.

And then Wendy slammed the coffin lid when she replied, I thought you WANTED Tara to move in.

It’s really not that bad…is it??

Say what you will, but I think this is a perfectly lovely piece of art.

I guess it takes a certain type of person to appreciate that kind of artwork. I personally thought it would look fantastic hanging on the dining room wall. A real conversation starter, for sure! I’m forced to concede that perhaps dogs playing poker is a “guy” thing, along with lighted beer signs (I’ve got one hanging in the garage!) and bikini calendars. I love Tara to pieces, but man, she broke my heart with her resistance to that masterpiece. We’ve got so much else in common, I was rather shocked that our tastes deviated so drastically when it came to this tapestry. In retrospect though, I suppose I should have known. Each time she’s come out here, she has managed to “girl” the place up a bit more. Last time she left I found myself with a pumpkin-scented air freshener downstairs and a sorta-flowery air diffuser in the bedroom. And she’s already talking about things like a throw rug in the living room and plants hanging from the ceiling.

Living together is going to be an adventure!

Speaking of adventures (and demonstrating the fine art of segueing), my whole Friday was chock full of fun! I started out by heading downtown for the first showing of The Hunger Games. I haven’t looked forward to a movie so much in ages, and this one felt like an Event. I devoured the trilogy in a matter of weeks, and even though it’s marketed as Young Adult fiction, the story is dark enough (kids fighting other kids to death in an arena while an enthralled nation watches the bloody spectacle on television) to appeal to adults, too. And when I finished each book, I passed it on to Audrey, who tore through them just as quickly, providing us with a nice father-daughter bonding experience. We would discuss plot points and various characters over dinner each night, something we’d never done before. So, how was the film? Pretty damn good, as a matter of fact. The story was condensed in places, a few characters were cut, and the tension between Katniss and Peeta was downplayed quite a bit, but it was a faithful and satisfying rendition. I loved seeing the book brought to life, and many of the characters – Effie Trinket, Caesar Flickerman, and especially Haymitch Abernathy – were spot-on. Woody Harrelson rocks, and Jennifer Lawrence is the perfect choice for Katniss Everdeen. I can’t wait to see what they do with Catching Fire and Mockingjay.

The theater was also packed to the rafters. I see a lot of movies, and I’ve gotta say, I haven’t encountered crowds like this since…ever. Black Swan came close, but that was during Christmas break and an evening show. The matinee on Friday started at 11:30, and it took me twenty minutes just to exit the parking garage. I predict a huge weekend opening.

It was around 3:00 by the time I reached Hawthorne. Later than I’d planned, and rush hour traffic would be kicking in shortly, so I just decided to spend a couple of extra hours there in order to avoid it. After the vintage store and my aborted attempt at buying the dogs playing poker tapestry, I stopped by the Bagdad Theater for a cocktail and an appetizer at the McMenamin’s pub. My Cable Car was delish, and the Cajun tater tots hit the spot. I then wandered around for quite awhile, stopping in various shops (a record store, a bookstore, an Italian market) and soaking in the sights. Like this one.

I told you Hawthorne was great for people watching! It's like a street full of sensory overload.

Nothing screams “Portland!” like a fake kidnapping. Fortunately, she was a mannequin.

I think.

I hope.

As the sun sank lower, I figured it was finally time to head for home. I ordered a pizza to go from Hot Lips, and then hit the freeway. Fortunately, my timing was perfect, and the traffic flowed smoothly – I had managed to avoid rush hour altogether.

Got home, watched a movie, read for awhile (11/22/63 by Stephen King – I am enthralled with this book!), and then went to bed. It was a near perfect day! The only thing missing was Tara, of course.

And my beautiful dogs playing poker tapestry…

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Mr. DeMille, I’m Ready for My Closeup

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My life has been unusually balanced lately.

In the past, it has seemed like there were hardly enough hours in the day to get everything accomplished – even being out of work. I’d felt like I was too busy online to watch any TV, too busy watching TV to read a book, too busy reading a book to sleep, too busy sleeping to get online. It was a vicious circle from which there was seemingly no escape. This dates back years, and it was worse when I had a job, because then I was too busy working to get anything done. For whatever reason though, lately it feels like I’ve been branching out and getting lots of things done without spreading myself too thin, leading to a strange but welcome sense of harmony. I feel all Zen-like and at peace, like no goal is too distant or out of reach. Like I can take on the world, even.

I feel like there is nothing I can’t try. Never heard the word “impossible.” This time, there’s no stopping me. I’m gonna do it!

Good lord, did I just channel the spirit of Laverne & Shirley?! Schlemeel, schlamazel indeed.

Anyway…..

Take yesterday, for example. I woke up after a solid eight hours of sleep. Brewed a pot of coffee, read the paper. Watched some TV. Made a killer sandwich for lunch. Applied for a whole bunch of jobs while listening to music. Put away dishes, cleaned the kitchen, topped off the aquarium, scooped the litterbox, watched a little more TV, headed to my parents’ house for dinner, came home, chatted with my girlfriend for more than two hours, read a couple of chapters of The Hunger Games (which I finally picked up and started the other day, and became instantly infatuated with), and then went to bed. That, my friends, is a full day. And very balanced.

Oh, and I also applied to be an extra on a TV show. That came right after dinner with my parents but before the phone call with my girlfriend, if you’re keeping track.

Earlier in the day, I’d checked out Grimm for the first time. It’s a drama on NBC centered around a homicide detective who learns he is a descendant of the brothers Grimm, whose dark and sinister fairy tale characters weren’t just figments of the imagination, but real-life creatures who have preyed on humanity for centuries. This guy can see through their disguises and must protect the citizens of present day Portland, Oregon from their maniacal plots. Pretty cool concept, though in truth I was drawn to it mainly because it is set in Portland. I enjoyed the first episode very much, and intend to get caught up since the rest of the season is available for viewing On Demand. My tastes in television have definitely evolved over the years; I’ve dropped a lot of reality TV and standard issue procedurals (like C.S.I.) in favor of darker and quirkier programming. Think The Walking Dead and Dexter and Breaking Bad and ABC’s new drama The River. So in that regard, Grimm is right up my alley.

Hey, I could be Random Dead Body #3! (Courtesy of poptower.com).

After finishing the show I got on Facebook and, coincidentally, there was a link from one of the local news stations – a story about how Grimm was putting out a casting call and looking for extras. They’re shooting episodes around Portland from now until April and are looking for a good mix of people to fill a variety of different roles, including stand-in, speaking, and non-speaking extras. The article went on to state that “ALL ages are welcome; ALL body types; ALL experience levels; and ALL roles are paid.” Well hell, I thought. Why not throw my hat in the ring? Might as well take advantage of this still-unemployed situation while I can.

Maybe it’ll lead to bigger and better things. Question: do they hand out Emmy awards for Random Guy Walking Down The Street? What if I’m a really convincing stroller?! I’m willing to practice, you know. I’m a firm believer in “method acting.” I’ll spend all day walking down the street if I have to, just so I can really nail the role. I can mix things up a little, too. Have a newspaper tucked beneath my arm in one scene. Maybe hold a Starbucks cup in another. And I’m willing to improvise. Whip out my phone and hold a fake conversation. Pretend to hail a taxi. Jump away from the curb in order to avoid being splashed by a bicyclist careening through a puddle. I can’t wait ’til they seat me next to Bryan Cranston at the awards ceremonies (I won’t let fame go to my head, I promise, but I’m going to insist on this arrangement; he is so fantastic on Breaking Bad that I’d like to pick his brain on future walking-down-the street ideas, like for instance, could I get away with skipping if the scene was in need of a little levity? What about impromptu hop-scotching?). I’ll do whatever I need to, because we actors take our craft very seriously.

I draw the line at nudity, though.

Unless it’s tastefully done and central to the plot, of course.

So, we’ll see what comes of this! The application process was straightforward and simple. I had to answer a few questions (height, weight, shoe size, make and  model of my car, do I own a dog and would I be willing to bring him on the set (okay, that one was a little odd, but aren’t those Hollywood folk a strange lot to begin with?)) and submit a couple of photos. Done, and done. Now I’ll just wait for the president of NBC to call me personally and tell me I’m hired.

Or, you know. Some assistant of an assistant to an assistant.

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My Bologna’s First Name Isn’t Oscar

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Yesterday I made myself a bologna sandwich for lunch. Ordinarily this would be no big deal, but I felt weird about the whole thing thanks to Jess Witkins’ confessional about her own bologna sandwich experience last February. Maybe it wasn’t the bologna so much as the fact that she paired it with a glass of Chardonnay, but for some reason she got a lot of flak over that post, so much that she now considers that tiny indiscretion one of her most embarrassing moments of 2011.

Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss was about. Bologna’s good, right? And a decent Chardonnay is plenty tasty. Why not enjoy them together? It’s like a Happy Meal for grownups!

Who cares what's in it - it tastes good! (Courtesy of defglam.com).

And yet, there I was, feeling weird about my own sandwich. Like the reputation of bologna had somehow been sullied. Granted, it’s never been held in very high esteem in the first place. It probably ranks just above hot dogs but slightly below Spam on some fictitious list of Questionable Food Products To Avoid. But you know what? I happen to be quite fond of both hot dogs and Spam, so an occasional bologna sandwich is really no big deal. It doesn’t help that my girlfriend wrinkled her nose when I brought up the topic of bologna during my Christmas/New Year visit. How and why we ever got into a discussion over processed lunchmeat escapes me, but knowing she’s no fan of bologna was also detrimental to my enjoyment of the whole sandwich experience. In retrospect, I was doomed from the start.

It should be noted that I’m very particular when it comes to bologna. Not just any old kind will do. My bologna does not have the first name Oscar; in fact, it is flavored with garlic, sliced paper thin, and imported from Trenton, New Jersey.

I kid you not.

There’s this company called Loeffler’s Gourmet that is based in Trenton, the city both my parents call home. Any time we’d visit, we’d return with a couple of pounds of their bologna, which is unlike any other. I would venture to guess that even people who claim not to enjoy bologna would love Loeffler’s bologna. I haven’t been back east in nearly fifteen years, but my folks still return a couple of times a year, and the tradition of Bringing Back Bologna continues to this day. So yeah, I had some in my freezer. And once I took a bite of that sandwich – on a Kaiser roll, with a slice of American cheese (don’t even get me started on that), and mustard and tomato and pickle – all my initial consternation faded away and I was left with a mouthful of pure processed bliss. And to all the naysayers out there, I may not know which part of the animal my bologna came from – or even which animal, for that matter – but I also don’t care. When something tastes THAT good, it’s hard to give a damn whether a tongue or cheek was involved. Much like Spam, it’s almost a religious experience.

I apologize if this post made you drool.

Yes Or Snow?

For days now, we Portlanders have been teased with the prospect of snow.

Keep in mind, it’s a pretty rare event here. The fact that it’s a novelty excites many of us, and also causes widespread panic and chaos the moment the flakes start falling. Those east coasters who are so skilled in bologna production no doubt chuckle over our reaction to even the threat of a little snow. Snow lover that I am, my eyes have been glued to the sky ever since Saturday night, hoping for a little bit of the fluffy white stuff. And while we’ve had snow showers for three consecutive days now, the temperature has hovered at a maddening 36 or 37 degrees the whole time, making it too warm for anything to stick. I posted on Facebook this morning that the snow reminded me of the Republican presidential field of candidates – just a bunch of big flakes not adding up to anything. And all white, too.

I can be quite the comedian when I try.

Audrey, kicking the soccer ball around in the snow yesterday.

The ironic thing is, I’ve seen more snow in Vancouver, Washington in one hour than I ever saw in Ely. Before my trip to visit Tara, I was excited over the prospect of lots and lots of snow. After all, normally by New Year’s Eve they’re measuring their snowfall in feet instead of inches. When my trip was still a couple of months away I was assured by more than one person that I’d be sick of snow by the time I left. I fretted over a lack of warm-enough winter clothing and even contemplated purchasing long johns in advance. Instead, I was treated to constant sunshine and 50 degrees. Suuurrre it was 20 below zero with 24″ of snow on the ground last December 31, honey.

So, yeah. Hoping to make up for that around here, but even twelve hours before this big storm is supposed to hit we don’t know what’s going to happen in Portland. According to the various local meteorologists we will see either:

  1. Nothing but rain.
  2. A little bit of snow turning to rain by daybreak.
  3. A lot of snow piling up all morning.

Way to nail down the forecast, guys! It’s all dependent on where this low pressure system makes landfall. Just a few miles north or south will make all the difference. The kids are already counting on a snow day tomorrow. Of course, they had the same hope for today, but woke up bitterly disappointed.

If it happens, great. If not, it’s hardly the end of the world. Besides, any snow we do get had better be all gone by Thursday evening, as Tara is flying in for another visit.

Thank god. These fourteen-days-apart-and-counting have been torture.

Again, I kid you not.

Peace out for now – and, think snow!!

Turning Into My Girlfriend

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Slowly but surely, I am turning into my girlfriend.

I suppose this is natural in any relationship. Spend enough time around your significant other, and you start to absorb some of their traits. It’s not like I’m suddenly wearing heels and carrying a purse – at least not in public – but there are little things I’ve picked up here and there. Habits and phrases and the like. And I believe she’s done the same. After all, she was a football fan when we met, and now she’s a Denver Broncos fan, which probably has something to do with my longstanding allegiance to the team. Either that, or she’s suddenly developed excellent sports tastes.

(As an aside, there was a brief time when I did carry a purse. Well, not really. But I did strap on a fanny pack a few times in the late 80s, until I actually got a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized that doing so was wrong on about a hundred different levels. Oh, the shame. I worked in a luggage store and they were all the rage. Luckily, I never succumbed to the whole “man bag” craze despite an episode of Seinfeld (greatest sitcom ever!) in which Elaine convinces Jerry to carry a purse. But I digress).

Anyway. This became evident to me yesterday, when I was shopping for groceries and picked up a tube of squeezable minced garlic.

When I visited, Tara had a tube of squeezable minced garlic in her fridge, and I sort of made fun of that. In a lovable way, of course. Because there is nothing like freshly minced garlic, am I right or am I right? Especially when you’ve got a fancy garlic press (thanks, Ikea!) that makes it simple to mince garlic to your heart’s content. I couldn’t understand why somebody would pay $3 for a tube of garlic when you can buy a whole clove for 33-cents.

And then I tried it.

I was cooking her dinner that Tuesday after Christmas. Chicken cacciatore. The recipe calls for garlic, and because all she had was that squeezable tube, I grabbed it from the refrigerator and squirted a dash into the pan.

Wow, I thought. That was easy. And really convenient. There was no garlic to peel, no garlic press to disassemble and wash, no garlic residue on my fingers. And the dish did not suffer from a lack of fresh garlic. The dish, it turned out, had no idea I’d made a fourth-quarter substitution.

Which is why I forked over $3 for a tube of squeezable garlic yesterday.

But that’s a little thing. One bigger change I’ve noticed is a sudden interest in being sociable.

Not that I was ever a hermit or anything. Growing up an Air Force brat, all my childhood friends are scattered across the globe, so there is nobody I keep in touch with. I have been unable to locate my best friend from high school, despite repeated attempts utilizing the resources of the world wide web. And the friends I made from work are all married or partnered up. It’s tough being the proverbial third wheel. Because of these factors, more often than not I found myself alone when I didn’t have the kids. This didn’t bother me; I’m the guy who took a solo road trip across the country, remember? But there was definitely something missing from my life. I would look to my parents, who always have friends to invite over or hang out with, and wonder how they made it all seem so effortless. I think a big part of it was a mental block on my part.

Turns out I enjoy hosting dinner parties!

And then I met Tara. My first trip to Ely, she had her friend Ray join us for dinner one night. I was a little surprised to learn he was coming over, but we had a good time together. In October, when we visited her mom in Seattle, there was a night spent playing cards and drinking wine with her brother’s girlfriend, Anne. Again, a highlight of the trip. I was beginning to realize I enjoyed the company of others – the laughter, the camaraderie, the stories. So when she and I threw a dinner party the Friday before New Year’s, I was actually excited to play co-host, and had a great time.

So, when I had friends from Sacramento in town over the weekend, the logical thing to do was to invite them over for dinner. We’d already had plans to meet up in Portland on Saturday, but I figured, why not have everybody over to my house in the evening, as well? That way we could have a nice, relaxing dinner, drink some wine, play some cards, listen to music, let the conversation flow. I floated the idea out there, and it was met with enthusiasm. It was a spontaneous move on my part, and totally inspired by Tara, but I was excited to have people over and entertain ‘em. Besides, once I’d sent the text to Chris, I couldn’t very well back down!

Earlier in the day we’d met up at Powell’s Books in the funky, eclectic Hawthorne District of southeast Portland. My friend Chris (from Portland Book Review) and her daughter Ruthie, and Heidi and her daughter Jordan, who had flown up from Sacramento. I first met Heidi in person last June, when I lost my car in the parking garage (another Seinfeldian moment in my life), though I’ve known her through blogging – and as a business associate – for years. We walked around Hawthorne, stopping in a bunch of cool shops and taking a break for lunch at a Mexican restaurant before parting ways. I had a dinner to prepare, after all, and even though spaghetti is fairly simple, it still required a few hours to cook.

Anybody wanna guess why I ended up on the kitchen counter?

They showed up at 5 PM and the five of us – plus my kids – spent the next several hours eating, drinking, talking, listening to records, and playing Phase 10, the card game that I have really gotten hooked on these past few months. It turned out to be a great evening, much more comfortable (and less expensive) than if we’d been out on the town. I enjoyed having everybody over, though it definitely would have been even better if Tara had been there. That’s one thing we’ve talked about – the dinners we’ll host and the parties we’ll have when she’s living here. I can’t wait for those!

And I thank her for bringing me out of my shell and introducing me to a whole new world, one which I find quite appealing.

Rabbits, Goats and Chickens, Too

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This is going to be the best Thanksgiving in years! Maybe ever. I have never been so excited for a holiday before. However, it will only be spectacular if I don’t…

  1. Float away.
  2. Blow away.
  3. Overdose from inhaling noxious pine-scented fumes.
  4. Stub my toe on a protruding corner of the kitchen counter and, while falling to the ground in agony, choke on a pine nut husk lodged in my throat.

Scoff if you will and laugh if you must, but all of these scenarios are distinct possibilities. It all started last week when Tara asked me, during an otherwise innocent phone conversation, when I had last removed the knobs from my stove in order to clean behind them.

“Oh, those things come off?” I asked. Which pretty much answered her question.

I don’t even know how we got on the topic of housecleaning in the first place, but I was inspired by our talk. Or shamed? Can’t decide which. In any case, while I have always considered myself a neat freak – remember, I can’t even leave the house with dirty dishes in the sink lest I get hit by a bus and have people think I was a slob while alive (because apparently my reputation means everything to me, even when dead) – but there is a difference between “neat” and “clean,” I suppose. Which is why I not only scrubbed behind those oven knobs over the weekend, but found myself elbow deep in a bucket of Pine Sol and hot water this morning. On the plus side, my kitchen has never been cleaner. And it smells like a forest in here, even if I am a bit woozy from the fumes. Hey, at least I have some control over #3!

Flooding along the Oregon coast this morning. It wasn't quite that bad here in Portland...at least, not yet!

#1 and #2, on the other hand? Not so much. I awoke this morning to rain. Not such a big deal, right? This is the Pacific Northwest. It rains a lot here. And while that is true, typically our rain is light in nature, and sporadic. It’s an oft-recited statistic that places like New York City and Miami average more rainfall in a year than Portland. Our 37.5″ annual rainfall comes in the form of a lot of drizzle and mist, mixed in with what the locals call “sun breaks.” That is why this morning was different: it was raining raining. As in, raining. Not just cats and dogs, but rabbits and goats and chickens, too. Heavy rain that lasted for hours – nearly 2″ worth. That’s nearly 5% of our average annual rainfall, in one fell swoop. A deluge not necessarily of epic proportions, but enough to prompt flood advisories and close a few roads. The rain slackened off a bit this afternoon, but is coming back with a vengeance tonight and early Wednesday morning. As if that weren’t bad enough, we’ve got wind. Gusts to 40 mph, to be exact. Remember that scene in The Jerk where the crazed gunman opened the phone book to a random page and decided to put a few holes in Johnson, Navin R.? It’s like Mother Nature played a similar game with Portland today.

And then there’s #4. In what can best be described as one of those this-could-only-happen-to-Mark events, I did in fact stub my toe on a protruding corner of the (shiny, gleaming and pine-scented) kitchen counter shortly after snacking on a handful of pine nuts, which caused the aforementioned chain reaction (a sharp pain, a howl of agony, a dramatic fall to the living room floor, and a sudden choking fit thanks to a not-quite-swallowed pine nut husk that was tickling the back of my throat something fierce). Sure, it’s one of those things we can look back on and snicker over now, but at the time I thought I was a goner.

Sure, pine nuts are delicious. But when you stub your toe and fall to the floor, they become deadly. Trust me on this.

I’m telling you, it’ll be a small miracle if I make it to Thanksgiving in one piece.

And by the way, quit laughing! Have you ever stubbed your toe before?! That freakin’ hurts!!!

Anyway. Assuming that the worst is behind me – knock on wood and all that jazz – Thanksgiving will, in fact, be amazing. My brother was teasing me over the phone yesterday because I’d mentioned on Facebook that in a mere 47 hours I’d be meeting Tara at the airport. “Don’t you just love it when your countdown switches from days to hours?” he asked, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I already know I’ll be landing in Vegas to see Tara in 796 hours, but that’s irrelevant. I simply reminded him that I haven’t had anybody special to share the holidays with in years, not including my kids and parents, of course. They’re wonderful and everything, but I can’t spend hours kissing them on the lips, you know? After about ten minutes that novelty wears off.

I kid, I kid.

The point is, it’s going to be a great holiday because Tara will be here. For five glorious nights. So yeah, it’s different this year in ways I wouldn’t have imagined  were possible more than a few months ago. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. This year, it’ll be even better.

Provided I survive that long…

I’m Not A Portlander*

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Last week, my friend Jess Witkins e-mailed me to let me know I had won a book she was giving away as part of a contest on her blog. I was thrilled, because

  1. One can never have too many books, and
  2. It was free.

Not necessarily in that order, but then again, I’ve been outta work awhile, yo.

Jess asked for my address, and I fired off a reply, thinking nothing of it…until I received a rather astonished response.

WHAT?!  Where’s the Portland address?  I just did a double take.

Oh…right. That. I am, after all, forever raving about Portland. How much I love it here, talking about the places I like to go, even posting pictures of “my beloved Rose City.” I can see why she assumed I have a Portland address. Probably most of my readers think that. And I don’t blame y’all if you do. I kind of, sort of, (un?)intentionally imply that Portland is my home. But because this is National Coming Out Day, an occasion in which one should proudly declare the truth about whom, exactly, one really is…it’s time to step forward and admit the truth to the world, for once and for all.

I am not a Portlander.

In my defense, I’m almost a Portlander. I do live in the “Portland Metropolitan Statistical Area.” Which is why I stuck that asterisk up there in my title. One could argue (and I have, more than once) that living in the PDX MSA still makes me a Portlander. My mailing address just happens to be another city. And, if I’m being completely honest, another state.

Yes, people. I live in Vancouver, Washington. Everybody happy now?

Not a bad place to call home!

The reasons for this tiny, barely significant, reasonable-under-the-circumstances little white lie…nay, not even that so much as a minor, itty-bitty sin of omission…are pretty understandable: whenever I tell people where I’m really from, it confuses them and leads to a series of explanations that I’d honestly rather not deal with.

If I say I’m from Vancouver, they respond, “The Great White North, eh? Have you ever seen a moose? How’s that socialized medicine working out for you? Who’s going to win the Stanley Cup this year? Can you pass me a beer?”

When I correct them with a No, not Canada – Washington, I get, “Oops. So, is it true that the Beltway is the murder capital of the world? Ever run into a Congressman in the grocery store? Think the Redskins will put together a good team this year? Can you pass me some crack?”

It’s maddening, so I usually just say Portland.

Even that answer isn’t without its flaws, as I could theoretically be talking about that other city in Maine, but most people do correctly assume I mean Oregon. And that’s another reason why I don’t mind having them believe that: Portland is cool. It’s hip. It’s funky and cutting-edge and liberal and environmentally conscious and – as evidenced by IFC’s television show Portlandia - not afraid of poking fun at itself. All traits that I really like. So yeah, go ahead and think I’m a Portlander. I like the association.

And the truth is, I also like Vancouver. In many regards, living here is the best of both worlds: I’m just a few miles north of the Columbia River, the border between Oregon and Washington, which means I can easily shop in Oregon (no sales tax!) and work in Washington (no income tax!). Downtown Portland, and all the culture it offers, is twenty minutes away; the Oregon coast, 100 miles. Houses are less expensive in Vancouver, the crime rate is lower, and I can pump my own gas. Plus, it really is a beautiful town – very green, lots of trees and lakes and rivers, mountains in the distance. We’ve got a killer farmer’s market and an awesome waterfront. Some people claim Vancouver is a “bedroom community,” but you know what? The bedroom is probably my favorite room in the house. So, there!!

I no longer suffer from an identity crisis. I’m proud to call Vancouver, Washington home.

And, statistically speaking, I’m also still a Portlander. That’s called a win-win!

I’m Not Famous! But I’ll Take The Ego Boost.

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Yikes! I didn’t mean to go five days without blogging. I don’t think I’ve done that all year. You’d think I’ve been busy or something!

Well, the truth is, I’ve been busy. Or something.

Not just busy figuring out which beer I might possibly like (edge: India Pale Ale, maybe). I’ve also been wandering through corn mazes (okay, one) and buying used bread machines (again, one) and hosting dinners for friends (two friends, one dinner). I often remark that, for a guy without a job, my days are pretty full. I didn’t even have time for a movie last week (although that may be a good thing). I’ve also developed quite a fondness for parentheses. (Can you tell?).

And I’ve been remiss in talking about my book, even though there’s been a lot of excitement happening there.

My first royalty check.

A few weeks ago, for instance, I received my first royalty check. Talk about a proud moment! Sadly, it wasn’t enough to buy a sports car with – was, in fact, barely over $100 – but that’ll at least get me a nice set of floor mats. It’s a start, in other words. Maybe I can put that car together piece by piece. With the next check I’ll add the fuzzy dice, then a tire…in about thirty years I might have a decent car! Seriously, though – it was very exciting to tear open that envelope and hold the check in my hand. It felt like redemption to me, a reward for all the hard work I poured into my novel. My blood, sweat and tears, with a dollar sign attached. I couldn’t help but think back to the moment I knew I first wanted to be a writer. I’d entered a short story contest sponsored by the local library when I was 13 years old and, to my surprise, won first place for my age group. How gratifying to be holding a check some not-quite-thirty-years later, payment for the words that spewed forth from my imagination. I mean, I’ve been paid for my writing before – freelance stuff and as part of my job, of course – but this was different. For one thing, I wasn’t writing for anybody else except me. For another, No Time For Kings was a labor of love, definitely one of the achievements I am most proud of. I still get goosebumps when I hold a copy in my hand. I stare at the cover and can hardly believe I’m really a published author. A friend told me I should frame the check, but I do have bills to pay, so I promptly cashed it. I did put the money aside for something, though…I’m just not sure what yet.

Maybe more beer.

I’ve also been signing copies of the book for friends. That’s always a surreal moment for me; here are these people I’ve known for years, many of them coworkers, handing me pens and treating me like I’m a celebrity or something. Don’t get me wrong, it feels good, but when the same folks I barked at for leaving a sheet of paper in the copier suddenly want my autograph, it’s a bit funny. My friend Pam wrote on my Facebook wall the other day, You are one of only two famous people I know. Ron Underwood * was at my high school reunion, gave him a hug. Reading that, I had to laugh. I’m not famous! I’m just me!! Ron Underwood worked with Billy Crystal. I worked with…well, Pam, who is an awesome person but has never once hosted the Oscars.

* {a director probably best known for City Slickers, though I had to look this up.}

Signing books is fun, though. Coming up with something clever, witty and personal takes a bit of effort. I’m not saying I’m always successful in this endeavor, but I try. I have a sort-of tagline that I can expand upon depending on my relationship with the person. Sadly though, my handwriting sucks. I mentioned in the ol’ blog a while back that cursive writing has become obsolete, so busting it out again after all these years has been interesting. The aforementioned Pam had to ask me to decipher what, exactly, I wrote in her book after signing it, and even I had to pause and reread it a couple of times.

Most exciting of all, though? Yesterday I attended my first literary event. Every October, the Oregon Convention Center hosts Wordstock, the largest book and literary festival in the Pacific Northwest. It’s a three-day event that features authors, publishers, and other writing-related groups, and promotes writing in the classroom and community. If you’re an avid reader or a writer (aspiring or otherwise), it is the place to go. A month ago, my good friend and business associate Chris, editor-in-chief of Portland Book Review, snagged a last-minute booth at Wordstock. She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: in exchange for volunteering at the booth for a couple of hours, she would let me bring along copies of my book to sell. Chris is awesome; we have both supported each other over the years. She read my original manuscript for No Time For Kings years ago when we both worked together at Blue Cross Blue Shield and encouraged me to continue writing, while I introduced her to Heidi, a friend who had started up a business venture called Sacramento Book Review in 2008 (which led to Chris launching Portland Book Review this past March). It’s amazing how influential we’ve been on each other’s lives over the years. Standing in the booth yesterday morning, I said to Chris, “Would you ever have believed, eight years ago when we were stuck in a crappy call center job downtown, that we would one day be exhibitors at Wordstock, you pushing your publication and me selling my book?” We are both following our dreams, and that is amazing.

I felt pretty comfortable behind the booth at Wordstock.

The festival was a lot of fun. I loved mingling with fellow authors and publishers, and it was a real joy to talk with people about Portland Book Review. I’m proud of my association with it, and think Chris is doing a wonderful job. She’s put together a great team of people who are getting paid little (if anything) to make the venture a success. Our booth had a ton of traffic, and the positive response was overwhelming. As for my book? By the end of the day I hadn’t sold any copies, and while this was mildly disappointing, it wasn’t surprising considering the huge number of books available for sale at the festival. Nearly every booth was stocked with literature, so the competition was fierce. Even Powell’s was there, for crying out loud! But I talked it up a bit, and hit upon the idea of sticking a bookmark advertising No Time For Kings inside the free copies of PBR we were handing out. By the end of the day, I must have handed out over a hundred. My hope is that will translate to at least a few sales down the road. Plus, copies of my book are still there for the duration of the festival, so there’s always a chance I could sell a couple yet. I had a blast just hanging out there, talking with people and roaming the aisles. I even met Lisa, a fellow blogger and self-published author. At the end of the day, Brad with PBR whisked me away to a conference room and conducted a twenty-minute interview for their Audible Author series, to appear on their website later this month. It’s a tape recorded interview that was lots of fun to do, and made me feel once again like a bit of a success. I’d love to do Wordstock again next year; maybe Chris and I can split the cost of a booth.

I’m hoping by then, I’ll have a second novel to sell.

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