I’ve written recently about finding a long-lost friend in an unlikely way, via his son’s photo on a Facebook page. Now comes word that the son — singer, songwriter, and aspiring actor — will soon release his first CD.
His father and I have exchanged emails since making contact in September and pledged to meet at some point soon. His emails took on more vibrancy today when I listened to two of his son’s songs on MySpace. They’re beautiful, conveying range and passion and artistry that remind me of entertainers who achieved stardom.
To my ear, young James’ soaring voice sounds nothing like his father’s, not that I can recall my friend ever singing. There’s certainly no evidence of dad’s touch of Kentucky accent. As I listened, the songs brought to mind — oddly — basketball. Read More
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Four years ago on Election Day, I saw the face of voter intimidation. It belonged to a tall thick-chested man standing outside the elections office in Portland. He glowered at the people waiting in line, looking them over head to toe. He was among Republicans dispatched to “protect” us against voter fraud.
Of course there is no widespread voter fraud in the United States. Investigations galore, including a bipartisan congressional inquiry, have proved this again and again. Yet Republicans across the country fraudulently hype the non-existent problem to divert attention from their systematic attempts to block voting by people likely to choose Democrats. Read More
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My periscope breaches the surface in Northeast Portland and takes in the outside world:
Larry the trash hauler introduces himself when he sees me photographing the Halloween decorations on his truck, which blocks my car on NE 11th Avenue. Until now we’ve been on a wave only basis. Larry poses for the camera and without prompting bemoans how his truck isn’t as gussied up for the holiday as it usually is. “Wait til Christmas,” he says. “You’ll see a big Santa instead of this little witch. Read More
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A new video making the rounds on YouTube updates the famously funny “Wassup” commercial, using the same actors but in scenes of grim poignancy. Instead of hawking beer, they show the travails afflicted upon the citizenry during the last eight years. What once made us laugh has turned tragic.
The video reminded me of a Chinese student who visited us for two weeks in 2002 as part of an exchange program that my oldest son took part in at Wilson High School in Portland. “Thomas” — he adopted an English name rather than expect Americans to correctly pronounce his real name — was among a dozen students from Suzhou, a Portland sister city. Read More
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“Literature is written on her body — 597 words of love and passion.”
That’s how I described Tasia Bernie in a story I wrote for The Oregonian last month. I first met Tasia at the gym where we both work out. I asked her about the tattooed words circling her body like a vine, which led to interviews and eventually the story.
Since then we’ve had several brief amiable chats, usually while passing in the gym in the midst of workouts. A writer and fitness trainer, Tasia has achieved a level of strength and agility that I admire — one beyond my reach. Read More
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Consider me an accidental archeologist of urban blight. No academic journal will record my find yesterday during a trek through part of Portland where I don’t normally walk. But the thrill of discovery is reward enough.
I was retrieving my car, in the shop for overdue maintenance. I turned onto NE Everett off Grand after navigating through day laborers clustered on the I-84 bridge. Trees losing their grip on red and yellow leaves helped deaden the din of traffic. Read More
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In the throes of cardio exercise, the senses heighten. I guess it’s the endorphin rush. How else to explain the gym scene around me: twenty-five people on various pieces of fitness equipment suddenly appearing to move in choreographed rhythm to the Fleet Foxes blaring in my ear buds.
The scene jars me from whatever world I’m lost in. After a few minutes, synchronicity vanishes and the random universe returns.
I turn to the TV screen just above my head, and randomness is the only explanation for what I see: grotesquely large, faux human buttocks, sans torso and legs, easing onto a toilet seat. Can an endorphin rush morph into a bad acid trip? Read More
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The first time I walked by a house today, a cat gave me the evil eye. It was perched in a window next to a Halloween tombstone. I imagined the cat scanning the most private recesses of my brain and feeding off the dark thoughts hiding there.
Several hours later, I passed the house again, and the cat was in the same place with the same I-see-who-you-really-are stare. Read More
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Assumptions are dangerous. That maxim was drilled into me years ago as a newbie journalist. But I’m not writing a news story. I’m speculating about a man at the school park up the street. He was sitting at a table, alone, surrounded by squealing kids and watchful parents. My son, Atticus, was playing nearby on the slide.
The guy looked wayward, homeless even, but orderly — lush gray beard, weathered face, stocking cap pulled to his brow, clean jeans, stuffed duffel bag, and a few items that I couldn’t make out next to the bag. On the table was a blue hard-cover notebook. Printed on the cover and spine was “Hewlett Packard.” The notebook made me think of the one I had at Intel for personnel documents. Read More
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