Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Some Observations from the Country Music Awards
Is it just me, or does that dude from Brooks and Dunn look like Annette Benning with a goatee?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Jorrorfest '07: The Freakmaker
Just in time for Halloween I found myself on a horror movie kick, which I have cleverly dubbed Jefe's Jorrorfest (I just now thought of that). Not surprisingly, I feel the need to talk about it. Which is why it is perfect for this or any other blog--you don't care and I assume that you do.
In the spirit of the event, I have instructed The Captain (pictured, at right) to peer menacingly into my window, like he's doing right now--only with a greater sense of foreboding, through October 31.
I won't get into the first two films that I've watched during Jefe's Jorrorfest, except to say that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a brilliant, disturbing and sometimes hilarious horror masterpiece, and that Halloween somehow seems like a cliché nowadays, if only because it has inspired so many others. I could go on at great length about each, but I've got another lesser known "classic" to discuss.
For the third installment of the Jorrorfest I decided to take a chance on 1974's The Freakmaker (a.k.a. The Mutations, and later, Dr. of Evil). My initial attraction to The Freakmaker was the 1970s B-movie kitsch factor. When I discovered that director Jack Cardiff was inspired by Tod Browning's 1932 classic, Freaks, and cast real sideshow “freaks” as the films sideshow freaks, I was sold.
Oddly enough, I unwittingly chose to view back-to-back Donald Pleasance films! This might be a stretch, but the man is like the Vincent Price of the 1970s. The intensity of Dr. Sam Loomis in Halloween, the cold, calculating evil of Professor Nolter set the bar for character actors of the genre. Much like Price, he adds credibility where there should be none.
About the movie itself. Don't let the first half of the movie fool you. It sucks--bad. It is a whirlwind of polyester plaid leisure suits, mock turtlenecks and dialogue that is as snappy as cheese-flavored wood. I turned it off and was about to send it back. Luckily I decided to give it another shot and found found it strangely endearing.
Basically what you have are two plots that are unnaturally fused together like half-plant half-man experiments of the evil Dr. Nolter (Pleasance), whose plan is to make a plant-human hybrid. As it is with plants and humans, and the two parts of this movie, both are fine by themselves.
The trouble starts when Dr. Nolter, who teaches at an esteemed English university, enlists the help of the grotesque giant Mr. Lynch (Tom Baker), the feared leader of a traveling circus sideshow on the outskirts of town. Lynch nabs unwitting college students who are coincidentally enrolled in one of the professor’s classes. The absent-minded professor then fails to recognize them, even as they lie naked (obligatory gratuitous breasts) on an operating table in his secret laboratory.
Mr. Lynch and the rest of the freaks are members of a traveling circus sideshow that is kind of a freak-owned co-op (ring a bell?) that acts as both a holding cell for Dr. Nolter’s unwitting victims and as a clearing house for his horribly failed experiments.
From there it just gets weird, not so much because of brilliant plot twists, although the story’s gaping holes will keep you guessing. Of interest is the seemingly candid acting of sideshow people, who give you the only characters in The Freakmaker who elicit any sympathy. The rest of the characters are pretty much douches. Aside from that, it’s all rabbit-eating plants, re-animating laser beams, pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo, cannibalistic human Venus flytraps, freak-on-prostitute action (they use the “L” word), and deadly, knife-throwing-freak-and-vicious-dog-on-freak revenge killing. German sexpot Hedi (Julie Ege) sums The Freakmaker with horrifying accuracy as she cries out “Ziss is like a bad trip or zomesing!”
A bad trip indeed.
In the spirit of the event, I have instructed The Captain (pictured, at right) to peer menacingly into my window, like he's doing right now--only with a greater sense of foreboding, through October 31.
I won't get into the first two films that I've watched during Jefe's Jorrorfest, except to say that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a brilliant, disturbing and sometimes hilarious horror masterpiece, and that Halloween somehow seems like a cliché nowadays, if only because it has inspired so many others. I could go on at great length about each, but I've got another lesser known "classic" to discuss.
For the third installment of the Jorrorfest I decided to take a chance on 1974's The Freakmaker (a.k.a. The Mutations, and later, Dr. of Evil). My initial attraction to The Freakmaker was the 1970s B-movie kitsch factor. When I discovered that director Jack Cardiff was inspired by Tod Browning's 1932 classic, Freaks, and cast real sideshow “freaks” as the films sideshow freaks, I was sold.
Oddly enough, I unwittingly chose to view back-to-back Donald Pleasance films! This might be a stretch, but the man is like the Vincent Price of the 1970s. The intensity of Dr. Sam Loomis in Halloween, the cold, calculating evil of Professor Nolter set the bar for character actors of the genre. Much like Price, he adds credibility where there should be none.
About the movie itself. Don't let the first half of the movie fool you. It sucks--bad. It is a whirlwind of polyester plaid leisure suits, mock turtlenecks and dialogue that is as snappy as cheese-flavored wood. I turned it off and was about to send it back. Luckily I decided to give it another shot and found found it strangely endearing.
Basically what you have are two plots that are unnaturally fused together like half-plant half-man experiments of the evil Dr. Nolter (Pleasance), whose plan is to make a plant-human hybrid. As it is with plants and humans, and the two parts of this movie, both are fine by themselves.
The trouble starts when Dr. Nolter, who teaches at an esteemed English university, enlists the help of the grotesque giant Mr. Lynch (Tom Baker), the feared leader of a traveling circus sideshow on the outskirts of town. Lynch nabs unwitting college students who are coincidentally enrolled in one of the professor’s classes. The absent-minded professor then fails to recognize them, even as they lie naked (obligatory gratuitous breasts) on an operating table in his secret laboratory.
Mr. Lynch and the rest of the freaks are members of a traveling circus sideshow that is kind of a freak-owned co-op (ring a bell?) that acts as both a holding cell for Dr. Nolter’s unwitting victims and as a clearing house for his horribly failed experiments.
From there it just gets weird, not so much because of brilliant plot twists, although the story’s gaping holes will keep you guessing. Of interest is the seemingly candid acting of sideshow people, who give you the only characters in The Freakmaker who elicit any sympathy. The rest of the characters are pretty much douches. Aside from that, it’s all rabbit-eating plants, re-animating laser beams, pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo, cannibalistic human Venus flytraps, freak-on-prostitute action (they use the “L” word), and deadly, knife-throwing-freak-and-vicious-dog-on-freak revenge killing. German sexpot Hedi (Julie Ege) sums The Freakmaker with horrifying accuracy as she cries out “Ziss is like a bad trip or zomesing!”
A bad trip indeed.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Eight Ball Continues To Crush Souls
It wasn’t enough for the Eight Ball to throw a tantrum last Thursday, making life hell for tenants, messengers and (most of all) security as every elevator in the joint seized. No, the business end of Pioneer Place Mall needed a thorough scrub--on the same day as a well known corporate tax deadline. This was no spit-shine, mind you, so the water fell and fell.
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Eight Ball Had Had Enough
I was finally at peace with the dreadfully time-consuming and demeaning task of travelling through the bowels of the Eight Ball to Bullivant Houser. It helped that yesterday I delivered lunches to the actually front desk of "the Bull," and felt like I'd bested the system at 888 SW Fifth once, so after gaining clearance in the lobby, I strolled back to the loading dock through the "servant's entrance" and into the sweet odor of the giganto-dumpster adjacent to the freight elevator.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."
"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.
One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.
With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.
We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.
Postscript:
As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."
"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.
One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.
With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.
We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.
Postscript:
As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Hiatus Is Over
I'm back, sort of. I must apologize, as I've been busy and had writer's block for the past few weeks. So rather than bore you with half-assed, sub-standard posts, I just decided to let them rot on the vine, unfit for your consumption. If I knew how to overcome such mental obstacles, then you'd be enjoying an entertaining piece of literary hubris. Sadly, you are not.
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.
Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.
Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:
Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.
Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.
Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:
Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."
Thursday, September 13, 2007
On an early September day the Yahoo weather report says that the temperature is supposed to be 75 degrees farenheit. The sun shines in all of its glory on their site. The grey drizzle that floats down on me as I make my mid/late-morning trip to Stumptown would say otherwise. It's currently holding at 60 degrees with a projected low of 58 degrees. The day, and my personal feelings about the day, take a turn for the worst as I elect to take my triple iced Americano hot. Not only is this a truly uncivilized way to transition from late morning to early afternoon, but its implications weigh heavily on my psyche as I realize that a summer of laze and leisure might be at an end.
Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?
I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.
My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.
The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.
Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.
After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"
I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.
Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.
Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?
I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.
My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.
The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.
Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.
After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"
I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.
Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.
Monday, August 27, 2007
bad vibes
Early on, I knew it was going to be a weird day. I sat in front of Stumptown on a cold, windblown morning that felt more like early November than late August, steeling myself for a hard day of delivering stuff by bike. It was early still, when I took the first sip of the essential triple-iced americano. Even though the air was crisp and the sky was overcast, I ordered my caffeine on the rocks, anticipating the arrival of the summer sun. It was an uneasy wait, made harder to bear by grey-skinned street urchins milling about.
The presence of these sleestack-like raggamuffins gave the cold wind and grey sky an ominous quality. It also made me think of something that Anne said at the flower cart late last week. She'd claimed that all of the psychics were leaving town because they could sense that something terrible was about to happen. At the very least, something was creating some very bad vibes.
At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I reallized that her fear was becoming an acute reality. A chill rattled my spine as a group of the walking corpses shuffled by. Their heads oscilated back and forth, one cyclopitic evil eye surveying the landscape, looking for something that only they could detect. They could smell it like the musty smell of a flophouse mattress or a dirty Raiders coat.
It was not the first or the fifteenth day of the month, but somehow they knew that it would be a good day to be downtown.
The presence of these sleestack-like raggamuffins gave the cold wind and grey sky an ominous quality. It also made me think of something that Anne said at the flower cart late last week. She'd claimed that all of the psychics were leaving town because they could sense that something terrible was about to happen. At the very least, something was creating some very bad vibes.
At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I reallized that her fear was becoming an acute reality. A chill rattled my spine as a group of the walking corpses shuffled by. Their heads oscilated back and forth, one cyclopitic evil eye surveying the landscape, looking for something that only they could detect. They could smell it like the musty smell of a flophouse mattress or a dirty Raiders coat.
It was not the first or the fifteenth day of the month, but somehow they knew that it would be a good day to be downtown.
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