Are you sure God doesn't want it to die?

It's often said that distance makes the heart grow fonder and that if you love something then let it go. Therefore, I can only assume my absence from this blog has only made you appreciate me all the more. Well, thank you and don't think I take for granted how important I am in your lives.

Some of you know and some of you don't, Amber and I are back in Massachusetts and have settled closer to Boston. I'll be attending Emerson College graduate program in Communication Sciences and Disorders to become a Speech-Language Pathologist when I grow up, and living here made the most sense. But I feel settled and wanted to re-inject some e-life back into this lumbering sloth of a blog. I hope to continue with some regularity as the semesters pass me by, but the future is cloudy and I'm all out of fortune cookies.

Amber started with a garden when we moved in. See, we have a deck/patio and she always wanted potted plants and little vegetables. We bought peppers, cucumbers, basil, and a tomato plant. As the summer waned, I kept thinking that something must be eating our tomato plant, as the leaves had become stubs. However, I also thought the plant just didn't have the same fervor it displayed at the start of summer and was slowly dying. Cycle of life, and all. This seemed all the more plausible because I had never seen any sort of insect near the plant, and as a man of weak faith, I must see to believe. Today, however, I caught the herbivorous culprit... a Tomato Hornworm.Ugly little bastard, huh?

Anyway, when I saw this little guy gnawing away at my wife's tomato plant I nearly relived my entire childhood. I got so excited and gleeful that I ran in the house to grab my camera (hence the photos). I plucked him from the plant (gently, of course, you don't want pictures of a mangled caterpillar) and set off to get more pictures.

















Maybe I shouldn't have called him an ugly little bastard before. I mean, he does kind of grow on you. Well, whatever.

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble

This past weekend, Amber and I were in Salem looking for an apartment and visiting with some friends. The apartment search lacked much result; we only had one scheduled viewing, thumbs down. The place was alright, great location, but the landlord made Amber uncomfortable, kind of nosy. We heading back soon to look at a few more promising leads; I'm sure listing agents love Craigslist and the bodies it brings in. That's right, we're Craiglisters.

While in Witchville, I snapped a few shots.Historic Town Hall, maybe?Above is the Friend Ship. How cute.This is the Derby Square Book Shop. I love visiting this flea market of a bookstore.

Eternal Education

Last weekend, Amber and I went to Emerson College's Graduate School Open House. I've been accepted into their Communication Disorders/Speech Language Pathology program for the fall of 2009. It should take a little over two years, starting this summer with five pre-requisite classes. Overall, the day went very well, and speaking with the program directors settled several of my shaky nerves. It'll be expensive, cost being the main cause of my concern, but I hope this opportunity with offer me some professional and personal rewards as I graduate and move into the field. While in Boston, I snapped a few shots of the fog rolling into the city, blotting out many of the taller buildings and smudging the skyline.The Old Burying Ground just outside Emerson HQ

That's me with the bronze, amphibian Thinker at Boston's Frog Pond

Here's the encroaching fog just outside the Boylston Street T-Station

Bookworm

I've recently finished two novels by Walter Moers, The City of Dreaming Books and Rumo and His Miraculous Adventures. Both are fantastic, escapist stories of sci-fi protagonists embarking on relatively traditional quests. Dreaming involves a deathbed promise, while Rumo follows his heart. The twist in both novels are the characters themselves and the settings.Dreaming takes place in both Lindworm Castle and Bookholm, two cities populated with evolved dinosaurs noted for their adoration of the written word. Lindworm, famed for its writers and their intimate knowledge of the Orm, opens the story as the main character's authorial godfather draws his final breaths, reveals a secret manuscript (the best he's ever read), and demands his nephew find the author in Bookholm. The Orm is their version of the muse. Of course he sets of in the following weeks, a relative bumpkin in the bustling city of Bookholm, and falls into the mischievous and nearly Machiavellian constructs of the city's puppet-master. He's locked in the bowels of the city, where all the most expensive and valuable novels are stored, forgotten about, and then hunted by Bookhunters. Oh yeah, there are Bookhunters who do just what the name says and do it well. They're a militant bunch, very superstitious, that play a major role as the novel winds down. I feel in love with the book as I crashed through the pages, consuming Moers' words and illustrations and quickly went out to purchase Rumo immediately after the final page of Dreaming.
Rumo is a Wolperting (that's him, laughing in the middle; note the horns), a mythological hybrid of a wolf and a deer, renowned for its ferocity and fighting ability, a true warrior. Faster than any other creature in Zamonia, most citizens offer a wide berth when Wolpertings linger and avoid their private city entirely. Full of adventure and action, we follow the main character from his first steps to his first love, grazing past the varied species of Zamonia as Rumo fights to find and win his true love. With a slower pace than Dreaming, I better appreciated Moers' ability to create landscapes and entire worlds similar to our own, yet wrought with the amazing creatures of living dreams. He loves to play with words and develop characters in an entirely new setting.

Like Terry Pratchett and Discworld, Walter Moers exceeds at his chosen task to enhance our perspective of reality by exaggerating imagination and drawing upon the classic quest scenario, full of hero worship and insecurity. Moers explores the basic requirements for heroism and humanizes the fantastic worlds we each created as children. It is pure and enjoyable; plus, the illustrations are little treasures strewn throughout the novel, adding a sense of whimsy to some very tense situations.

Not so Sci-fi

I feel like writing something fantastic, not blow your mind fantastic, but fantasy fantastic. As it's not in my general vein, I'll give it a shot.

Ampelron, sage of Weildwin, watched the sun rise quietly over the blank plains of the east without much fanfare or glory. He had seen the same sight nearly every morning for twelve hundred years as part of his meditative regimen. The rising sun signaled the start of his three-hour water breathing exercise, a chore that chose him; one he would rather avoid as the lakes of Weildwin still stung with the chill of winter.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, Ampleron left the porch of his humble cottage. Traversing the hill to Whir Lake had become second nature, as meditation dictates. He climbed the granite outcroppings and slick rocks without watching each step while deep in thought. The land in the lakes region changed much more slowly than the greater continent, which allowed Ampleron the freedom to learn each pebble and clod of earth over time.

OK, this isn't great, but it's writing, and the rules of free-writing dictate, regardless of quality, one must continue to write. I won't be breaking into the dragon-infested world of fantasy literature any time soon, as you can see. Well, I tried and Tolkien I'm not. Sorry it's so short, but I haven't much patience right now and a marathon headache. Adios.

12 Echoes

Write a poem of twelve lines about whatever you want; each line must end with one of the following words: “down,” “accept,” “on” “life,” “light,” “flowerless,” “pulses,” “us,” “sun,” “heights,” “shrivel,” “little.” You may use the words in any order. Give the poem a title.

On Delicate Wings

I cannot dream without an audience of flowerless
eyes; hollow, empty, abandoned by light.

I cannot say their countenance haunts us,
so still, so stagnant. They stare, and I shrivel.

I have surrendered aspirations to attaining those heights,
as Icarus and even Daedalus learned to accept
the bindings of fate and misfortune drag dreams down.
Yet, falling meant reaching and drowning meant life.

the sun
pulses
little,
and my wax melts on.

I would like to recognize Prof. J. Bobrick for assigning a similar challenge during my undergraduate education and providing the twelve words used above.

Man in White

Today's self-imposed assignment:
Find a photograph and use it as inspiration for a brief story.I chose this picture from [daily dose of imagery] through my Google Reader account. Below is my story: "Man in White"

"I remember our wedding," the old man paused to reflect, "her lovely gown, my sweaty, shaking hands. I can't believe my nerves, fluttering like dry leaves on a windy November day."

He passed the Church and its skeletal steeples every day. The small loop through Camenta Park only took Albert a few minutes out of his way, minutes that seemed to have grown each lonely month since Virginia's passing. The extra steps were worth it, freshening the past and clearing some of the fog brought by age and solitude, so Albert sacrificed the energy for the sight their chapel and made his way home in quiet contemplation. He would always pause at the entrance and exit of Camenta to glance upward at the spires and their colorless peaks, or gaze reminiscently at a young couple beaming from archway through a flurry of confetti and lively cheers. Today, however, the steps remained empty but welcoming to wayward saints and weary sinners. With that thought, Albert chuckled, “Which am I?” he thought. “A good man too old to do good, or a fool too tried and tested to carry on?”

Losing Virginia had not been much of a surprise, but the shock tore at Albert’s heart; she had been his ballast, maintaining his everyday, shining his everynight. They were married as Poland fell to a psychopathic god clad in desolate olive and black, and their first few years subsisted with a promise to return. In good health, Albert kept his promise and life kept moving, days toward dreams, life toward death, and two toward one. The only movement left is from one to zero, and Albert had little strength left to stand in the way of sunset and could only wind his watch and wait to wind it again.

It hadn’t been much trouble and the clerk barely looked twice before accepting Albert’s money for a bundle of rope. Imagine if we understood the intent of others before they acted, not in retrospect when nothing could be done. We could help or hurt, but something would be different. Yet, star-crossed tragedy may lose its luster and life its flavor. Had he known, however, I doubt the clerk would have so quickly wished Albert a nice day. Just another body in line moving toward the exit, “Your change, and have a nice day.”

Once home, Albert sorted through his quiet parlor, then his living room, and finally, Virginia’s kitchen, cleaning and picking up the simple debris of widowhood. She loved the kitchen and barely allowed Albert entry, except to repair a dripping faucet or tighten a loose cabinet hinge. He would have cooked for her, but she was too enamored with the movement of energy from stove to food, the momentary instinct of knowing perfection before the rapid decline of over-cooking set in. Virginia kept each device and apparatus in her kitchen in perfect order, stainless and shining steel, bright and colorful enamel, robust and patinaed copper. Every inch and surface basked in her love and Albert had a difficult time inheriting the emotion tied into that room. He most often ordered a dinner, or dined-out alone, only using the microwave and coffee maker as Virginia allowed. The kitchen held most of Albert’s pain, as it had been Virginia’s room and still radiated her presence. The muffin pan still sat next to the oven as it had before the ambulance arrived; Albert could not return it to the pantry; could not touch it, could barely look at it through clear eyes.

He left the kitchen quickly, sat in his favorite armchair and scrawled a note in his arthritic script. Clutching the rope, Albert descended into his basement, tying off one solemn loop with thirteen bands. The rope tightened against the floor joists and Albert kicked softly.

Days later, Patrolman Angerona read Albert’s note quietly, “I miss my Ginnie,” and radioed dispatch.

Word Count: 648

10...9...8...

My first writing exercise will be a ten minute free-write, after which I will correct for spelling and grammar. The rules are to write for ten minutes without stopping or fixing for mistakes. I've already slapped backspace a half a dozen times and find it a bit more difficult than I had imagined, to type without taking a break. Occasionally, I'll pause and look for a key and think I'm stopping to think about what should follow. I keep backspacing when I notice a mistake in my typing, a difficult habit to break, for sure. Also, there's a glowing red line below occasionally from two sentences ago because I butchered its spelling, and that demonic line is driving me crazy. I can't bear to look at the screen, keeping my eyes on the keyboard , which affects my typing. The trick with this free-write exercise is to avoid your own head and let words come out naturally. I can't seem to figure this one out.

I chose not to follow any more stringent guidelines for my first exercise because I haven't made much effort in writing recently and thought it was more important to mount the challenge of making a fool out of myself on the blog by posting some foolish drivel that never ends. I assume you could always continue on your e-way once this bores you. It's more of a meditative and personal effort, this free-write stuff. I'm simply working on keeping familiarity with writing. I hope I don't run out of ideas with three minutes left to go.

I have read the rules for different free-write exercises and believe I'm supposed to reveal my thought process on the page (or web page), and I must admit, it's unnatural for me. I've always worked sentences out in my head before committing the to paper. Another confession, I've paused twice now in this paragraph alone and think I may need to keep practicing this exercise. And I'm sick of writing exercise over and over again. I want another word. I'm nearly finished with this, in the last minute, and I'm racing to get it done, pause, comma, drivel. That's the one problem I have with free-write: regardless of its worth or value, I'm writing for a time limit and cannot stop to improve.

P.S. All errors made during the session were later edited to save myself the embarrassment.

Structure.

Sorry I've neglected you for so long. I'm ashamed, really. I've been busy or trying to keep busy; I even started another blog to maintain writing. I didn't think the content of a new blog matched the purpose of this blog, therefore: new blog. You follow me, right?

The reason I've drawn you, my readers, together at this point is to relaunch the direction of this blog. At least temporarily. I want to write again and have decided to utilize my corner of the web to that end. I will be researching and experimenting with free-writing techniques and posting the results on this page. I hope to write every day, for at least ten minutes, and maintain a modicum of structure.

Once I begin, I encourage your comments and criticism with the hopes of improving what little skill I have, which I let dwindle in the recent past.

It's a Marshmallow World

The 19th of December, two days before the official start of Winter, we were blanketed by nearly a foot of snow, still holding out for another storm predicted for Sunday. The cold air blew down and it looks as though someone packed Frosty with pack of TNT and lit the fuse. I suppose it's nice to have flakes a'fallin around Christmas, and it does look quite picturesque, but two snow storms on the heels of an ice storm that sucked power from most of Massachusetts may be asking for a little too much Holiday Cheer. And, it seems, the Pacific Northwest wouldn't have been much refuge this week, as the Portland Metro area was hunkering down for record snowfall, according to the National Weather Service. This stuff is everywhere.

I took a few photographs, with the original intent of sending them to my brother, of the house and yard, but thought, "What the hell?" So, now they're being posted for all to enjoy.

Up top, my dad is snow-blowing the driveway in the windchilled air. He gets awful picky about the driveway and refuses to accept any help. We were relegated to the porch and stairs once he fired up the blower.

Over on the right, a lovely shot of the house through the trees. There isn't much narrative here; you see what I see. If you'll notice, however, the snow is still falling.

Passengers on the left side of the aircraft should notice our old hitching post and the snow-touched trees bent with time and loose soil.

It's winter in New England. We've got our rock salt and shovels, a hot pot of coffee and some beef stew. We'll just hunker down and wait to complain about hot humid it will be in July. We're a fickle bunch.

The Graveyard of Good Intentions

As you may have noticed, this blog has fallen on hard times. Without a clear topic (i.e. Portland urban exploration), I'm finding difficulty in locating a new direction. I began writing on this ramshackled-melange of diodes and processors under the personal restriction of avoiding my soapbox. I have some difficulty with blogs promoting a personal agenda, without the organization of some ethos. I don't want to lampoon the world of my observation or stumble across hidden truths, like Homer in the twelfth episode of season six, "The Computer Wore Menace Shoes."I mean, I'm no Mr. X, or anything. And I don't want to be secretly shipped to a hidden island where koalas wear costume spectacles. Besides, my opinions are mine and I don't want you to get them.

On the other hand, Worcester County is an ancient beast lumbering toward the inevitable, and I can't imagine treating it as I did Portland. I could explore the abandoned Outlet Mall downtown or check out the new fire station. But who cares? I could focus on television gossip and report on my favorite shows, but I can't devote enough time to television to write about what happens on television. Or, I could post pictures of my bowling pin in and around local points of interest... oh wait, that's not me. It's the other Matt.

If you have any good ideas, let me know. I'm here.

Don't be fooled!

Three Weeks and Three Thousand Miles

The decision to re-relocate, while brewing for some time, came quickly, and we had everything packed and shipped in nearly a week. If you haven't been privy to this information before, here it is: We've moved back to Massachusetts. It's a long and disheartening story, and I'm sorry I know it first hand. Basically, poor timing and supervision curtailed our whirlwind excursion to the Pacific Northwest, and it's best to leave it at that. I've swallowed the humble pie whole, nearly choking myself in the process, and feel a lasting tinge of failure reinforced by the extended job search in Massachusetts. I still receive reminders of the tight, Portland job market every once in while, as another gem of rejection appears between those Yahoo! parentheses.

The drive back, though more disappointing than the first, was more manageable, as we are now road-tested marathoners and the Fit has seen its share of opposing coast lines. We set off for Idaho Falls, ID, on Thursday, November 13. Arriving safely, I still can't believe I didn't see a potato. I think it's a conspiracy, a grand scheme of the Idaho Tuber Commission to fool America into believing Idaho has some value and shouldn't be divvied up and converted into Eastern Oregon and Washington. For everyone else disappointed with the scenery of a long Idahoan drive, here's the jewel of Potato alley and its rich, volcanic soil:
Take a good look, you farming bastards. This is what the people want; proof of your value to society, your contribution to the starchy gut of Americana, Solanum tuberosum Linnaeus, your supposed battle cry in the world economy of starchy fuels.

The drive can grow tedious and the mile meld together. Come back soon to read about our trip through the Rockies and Deer Chop Suey Alley.

Dia de los Wierdos

Traditionally, November 1st marks the point when most of Anglo-America packs away its paper skeletons, composts its soggy jock-o-lanterns, and gorges itself on stores of candy from the previous evening. We've all snuck a few leftover Peanut Butter cups and fun-size Snickers in between masked callers, and the first of November is high time to pull in those empty calories and poisonous, complex sugars. Also, most of the commercial world has begun to lay Christmas on pretty thick. In the blink of a sugar-shocked eye, automated, motion-detecting skeletons and cackling witch mannequins have vanished from Target shelves and candy relocated to the Clearance bins while self-lighting pine trees and tinseled wreaths sprout up to dominate the shopping landscape. It's a crying shame how quickly we're forced to move into Christmas when our Halloween cavities haven't had a chance to pock the enamel of our molars. Don't rush All Hallow's Eve; it's a holiday with a lot of potential.

Luckily, as Portlanders have made such an effort to keep the city weird, a large cross-section of this liberal Northwestern hamlet have extended Trick-or-Treat time into a sacred, Latino festival; Dia de los Muertos (or Day of the Dead for those of us that missed the bilingual Sesame Street as kids). The festivities often include large banquets held in honor of dead ancestors, processions to cemeteries, and vigils in remembrance of the departed. Since Portland's a beer city, these sacred rituals and practices have morphed into a large party. And we were invited!
Saturday night, we joined several other Muerto observers for the Vagabond Opera, a group of musicians with amazing musical talent and an impressive stage presence. The show, held in the Wonderland Ballroom, began at 9:00 PM with a nameless performer (nameless to us, anyway) who entered the hall, skeleton mask donned, banging a shovel and carrying a sign. It was a poor man's STOMP, an opening with which I was not impressed. In fact, I would rather have most of his opening act erased from my memory and replaced with an hour-long verse of Henry the Eighth, I am, I am. Second verse same as the first... And so on. He performed his little pauper heart out. He had a squeeze-box and an acoustic guitar; he sang unintelligibly; he talked without the aid of a microphone, and he told us a story. The story was stupid, to be frank. It was long and slow and killed any momentum previously gained. The story, about a street performer selling his fingers to improve his play and impress a girl until no fingers were left, seemed like the low point of his set until he immediately followed story-time with a really slow and quiet song, which drove me out of doors, into the rainy November night for a cigarette. I was bored, send in the Marlboro Man. The performer, Jason something, I think, rallied by throwing penny-filled, plastic bottles into the crowd like crappy instruments for a second-grade music class and relying on the audience to imitate violins and trumpets for one of his songs. I did not participate. I attended to be entertained, not to work. His set, so convoluted and disorganized, was at one point interrupted by the headliner's stage crew because they thought he was finished. Trained professionals had no idea what the hell this guy was doing. What hope was there for me? Sadly, the roadies were early and Jason whatever needed to perform his Hymn to the Tomato. Again, he banged his shovel on the stage and repeatedly chanted, "Tomato." The bumper sticker says, "Keep Portland Weird," not, "Make Portland Retarded" jackass.

He left the stage, thankfully, and I sighed with relief. The Vagabond Opera slowly established their stage, hanging a band sign behind the drum set and adding a few microphones. We had been reassured by former attendees that the show would greatly and immediately improve with the musicianship of the Opera, but after Jason who, I was skeptical.I have to admit, I was occasionally mesmerized by the band's skill, especially the cellist, an amazing player. However, in between those moments of sparkly hypnosis, I was confused. The best I can do in describing the Vagabond Opera is LSD-laced, Circus Cabaret. They were a throwback to Swing bands and Rat Pack lounge singers. But there's a reason the swing craze of the early nineties ended in the early nineties and America fed the Rat Rack d-CON. And that coffin should remain shut. The stage show dragged on for over an hour; I say over an hour and not exactly how long because Amber and I left early. Between the stress of her week and my cynicism, we just couldn't stay the entire time. However, celebrating Dia de los Muertos was an enjoyable success and something I've waited for since 10th grade Spanish class.

Sam Adams Couldn't Save Improv

The challenge with introducing culture to one's life is the too often chance that culture can be stupid. High culture, like art museums, high budget plays at established theaters, concerts with musicians in tuxedos, is generally a safe bet, but we've all visited these cocoons of theoretical criticism and snobbery. My concern here is working-class culture, not alternative theater with pierced nubiles dangling from hooks while reciting free-form poetry, but work intended to reach a wider audience, mainstream entertainment as an alternative to TV and movies. Slight culture, but safe.

Portland provides myriad venues for such pseudo-culture, and Amber and I attended one such event on Saturday night. I'm sure there are more exciting things to do in a city on a Saturday night than visit a newborn stage and its sketch/improv cast, but hey, it was free and we are cheap.

We started the night at Old Town Pizza, which oddly, is not in Old Town; The original Old Town Pizza truly is in Old Town, but we were on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard east of the river. This Old Town Pizza, an extension of the original, was merely decked out in faux-old town style: wood beams, copper fixtures with a slight patina, and a dark atmosphere despite the crisp construction of a nearly brand-new building. Dinner was fine, eating at the bar, accidentally stealing lemonade, fearing a drunk woman celebrating her 30th birthday. Oh, we had rosemary chicken and garlic pizza, and I sampled a Caldera Pale Ale with a bit of a bite. Just a few doors down stood the Curious Comedy Theater, our night's main attraction.

The Portland Area Theater Alliance (yes, they have established an alliance fearing they would be booted out of Portland by the Braindead Conglomerate during the highly elaborate voting ceremony) joined forces with other national theater groups for free nights of theater to entice viewers out of their homes and away from their television sets. It worked on us and, judging by the audience, several others, as well. Unknowingly, we attended both the free performance and the pay performance. We didn't know they were having two shows in one night, but I'm glad we attended both. The adage, "You get what you pay for" seems more than applicable in this case.

"Will Work for Change," a minimalist sketch comedy performance with a smidgen of improvisation, made me laugh more than a few times. Most of the sketches were well-written and well-performed. The troupe criticized Portland cyclists, made light of medical marijuana, skirted subtly ironic turns of phrase, and twisted the 700 billion dollar Wall Street bailout into a PTA sketch. Some sketches fell flat, but overall, the show was solid and the performance strong. I especially appreciated the human-size cigarette brandishing its middle-fingers. Once the "Change" troupe left the stage, however, the show fell apart.

The concept seems intriguing, but clearly reveals a number of pitfalls only the strongest performers could avoid and overcome. "Sam Adams, Sam Adams, Mayor Ex Machina" is an entirely improvised musical. Yeah, improvised musical. Combine the challenges of acting, improv, and lyric writing, fold in the fickle, comedic tastes of a mixed audience and BRACE YOURSELF FOR DISASTER. What the hell are you thinking? Short sketch improv is hard enough; making jokes in character without always referring to your screw-ups or retreating to some static character that more-often-than-not draws a chuckle from the audience is hard. I tried improv in high school acting class and sucked; I wasn't funny. I wasn't even interesting. Why make it even harder by incorporating song while trying to develop a story line for a play? Are you starting to see the pitfalls I mentioned earlier?

At the start of the play, an actor asked, "What's the motivating factor in your life?" Some jackass with too much time on his retired hands shouted out, "Anger." Meditate or something, man. Let it go. I'm sure everyone's forgotten about that baseball game you blew back in second grade and your dad really did love you. You're not the reason he drank. I have the number of a good therapist to work through all of this. From here on out, we both feared the worst; this was going to be ugly. Anger shouldn't drive anything but a Tarantino film.

It just so happens, the displaced mayor of Portland finds secret passages throughout the city and tries to exact his revenge by planting explosive charges in his personal, underground sidewalk and sink the town into the open mouth of Hell. Why not? We've had politicians with similar plans. The plot, further thickened by an age reducing facial cream and subsequent addiction to said cream, stumbled around for an hour with poorly constructed songs about pee in a cup, going down, down, down, and selling out to L'Oreal. Someone's face melted off; I thought it was the mayor, but it was one guy playing two roles. Sounds great! This bleeding and flailing raccoon of a play was finally smacked in the head with a shovel by Sam Adams and sent to God's wilderness preserve. The new mayor, Sam Adams, magically had a time machine and liked to eat bombs for breakfast. Way to wrap it up. Bravo! Huh? Even though it was free, I paid with something more precious than money. Part of me died.

I can appreciate improv actors stumbling through lines, or forgetting character names when an entire hour-long performance is made up on the fly, but when songs don't rhyme or follow any beat, that's just too much. Call off the song, shut down the Casio, and write a god-damned script. It can't be any harder than making up this crap.

I actually feel bad writing this. They tried hard; they really did and I appreciate that. I couldn't get up there and prance around, making up lyrics as I go, but neither could they. And that's my point. The entire concept of an improvised musical is absolutely ridiculous. Perhaps, it's the ridiculous to which I cannot relate. Things did not make sense in Monty Python, but John Cleese was funny and everything worked out fine. Maybe the stars weren't aligned on October 25th for the Curious Comedy Theater, or maybe I can't stand poor performances; I don't know, but I wouldn't hire this pack of Whose Line Is It, Anyway hacks for to clean Port-A-Potties.

Hollywood! Hollywood! Come and get me, Hollywood!

Not just another neighborhood, the Hollywood district promises glitz and magic fro its namesake alone. Imagine, a slice of the stars in fashionable Portland. Well, keep imagining. Other than a handful of mildly intriguing shops, with similar fare to our old Northampton, Hollywood is a lack-luster doppelganger to its internationally known overlord in California.


Behold, the grand Hollywood Theater! The roaring 20's era theater inspired the neighborhoods agnomen with its opening on July 17th, 1926 with the silent movie, "More Pay-Less Work". It stands as a still-working theater with close ties to the community, offering programs to students interested in created documentaries. The local theater focuses on low-budget films for the intelligently arrogant socially concerned set, with documentaries and political flicks speaking out against the world's crimes. The costs are low ($6.50 for adults) and the building is honestly striking. The blazing red and white HOLLYWOOD hangs into the street and is visible from several blocks, while the detailed and intricate Art-Nouveau spires draw in your visual interest.

It is gorgeous and anchors the neighborhood with a clear connection to its early 20th century roots, both celebrated and embarrassing.


The Hollywood District, touted as a shopping haven for northern neighborhoods, boasts several antique stores (like the one to the left, an antique mall, if you will). We visited three, and I would argue the 42 Station is the weirdest and has the strongest odor of old people possible outside a retirement home. The entire stock seems to be on consignment, with an awe-strikingly-large collection of periodicals in the basement and some of the strangest crap you can't imagine. They had furniture, records, toys, lunch boxes, and way more garbage than is worth remembering. However, one, note-worthy item was a cookie-jar, a la Tom & Jerry's housemaid, an Aunt Jemima, black-face minstrel in patchwork dress and cotton bonnet. I can't imagine I would have noticed. It seems innocent enough, an insultingly racist cookie jar from the 40's sold in a junk shop by an elderly couple and their lab Harley, but the history of Portland hints at a less-than-open minded past, one at odds with the city's progressive reputation.

As late as the 1950's, a restaurant touted the city's ignorant and latent racism, The Coon Chicken Inn. Popular for twenty years, the Inn offered reportedly good meals, cheap, and drew in most of the city. It's hard to stand here, now, fifty-odd years later and condemn a city for what was socially acceptable. It's not even like I actually care; I'm not the type. I'm just a little surprised, is all.

Hopefully each weekend, Amber and I will explore another section or neighborhood of Portland. We have our eyes set on the Alberta Arts District for next weekend.

Will Work for Sanity

Life has rolled into the mundane. Amber's begun her second week at Providence and leaves very early in the morning, waking me, I think, out of spite and general forlorn remorse of having to beat the dawn to work. I envy her for having the duties and responsibilities of work, not the alarm clock. Anyway, each day boils down to much the same for me.

I get up and begrudgingly eat a protein empty breakfast before settling down in the diffused and weak light to search the Internet for employment. I'm still on the job hunt and dedicate several hours to finding a suitable position. I average nearly a dozen applications per day in the first half of the week, with a steep drop off around Thursday. I dutifully call prospective employers and often hear the same response: "The position is still open and we're still accepting applications. Call in about a week, OK?" It's not really OK. How about you give me the job and we sort everything out while you pay me, OK?

The market here is pretty dry; unemployment is up and fall is quickly revealing its raw pressure. The days aren't as long and the highs aren't as high. I won't complain about the heat until next summer. However, that means Halloween is just around the corner, quickly pursued by the formal holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the long stretch of winter every Oregonian tries to warn me about when they discover I'm new. We'll see how the rain suits me.

Runnin' from the Law

It came from the stalks, lumbering forward, driven by the unseen forces of converging ley lines.

Maybe it wasn't so dramatic. It's really me, walking through a corn maize while Amber takes an out of focus picture. But it was getting dark. Friday night, on Suavie Island, just north of the city, we spent some time bungling around the Pumpkin Patch. This year, the maze's theme was Portland, City of Bridges and stretched into the stalks. The greatest difference we found between this corn toy and the ones in New England was the amount of corn still attached to the towering stems. We could have picked and pickled enough to last a winter.
The maze was fun and we challenged ourselves to go forward and backward through it with and without the trivial directions. We were only lost once or twice and quickly recovered. GPS be damned.The following Saturday, we discovered the Smithsonian magazine was offering a free museum day for select museums. Through some financial revue, we chose to visit the Oregon Historical Society, which cost slightly more than the other available museum. We need to be frugal in these trying, economical times. What? Don't judge us.

The museum featured several exhibits, all focusing on something to do with Oregon. Most memorable of all the exhibits, Puppetry: An Out of Body Experience. The art and puppets were created by Michael Curry (I guess he's from Oregon?) and he has worked on Broadway. The Lion King commissioned Curry to create its award-winning actor-pets, or actor-puppets, or pup-tors.
He also worked on some more ethnic puppetry, as you can see below. He made giant Day of the Dead puppets, and those wires just in front of the figures made them move and dance. I couldn't figure out how to make them jitter-bug, but we sure made them shake it. The entire museum was worth the free coupon and we had an enjoyable time, until I set off the alarm.
We were in the pioneer section, having viewed the Portland hats and geological review, heading toward the Lewis and Clark exhibit. The museum had recreated the tent of a botanist traveling with Meriwether and Willy with fine detail. Drawings and notes littered the wooden table, a foot-locker lay in the corner, a fine lantern lit the canvas from above, and I innocently poked my head in for an inquisitive look. Perhaps I was too close, or too curious, but the overhead alarm sounded with three less than cordial blasts and shocked me backwards. Probably what it meant to do. It was a brief brush with the law, but I'm a changed man, skirting the fringes of acceptable society, staring down the man, loitering. You know the kind, Jimmy Dean like.

No one ever showed up after the alarm sounded; I think I saw a museum employee pacing the floor nearly fifteen minutes later, but nothing ever came of it. It's nothing like the art heist from the Isabella Gardner Museum, but by the time I tell my grandkids, it will be.

Oh Honey, Your Roots are Showing

Amber went to the dentist today, but no lollipops for her. Apparently, only 5% of all root canals ever present with problems. I told you my baby was special. Top 5%! Oh, yeah.

There still aren't any official solutions, but we have a few next steps. Monday, that's right, the day before her internship starts, she has another appointment with another specialist that actually performs a procedure that could help. With his expertise and DDS endorsement, we're hopeful that Amber won't need dentures before her time. I'd still be here to cut the corn off her cob whatever the prognosis.

Are you kidding me?

For the last few weeks, I have had gum pain, to which I attributed to the move and the stress that has accumulated since then. But yesterday, it dawned on me... this was the same tooth that I had the same feeling with right before I needed a root canal. Huh. Why would I have the same symptoms? I called a dentist around here who was able to see me right away because he was afraid that I had an infection. Well. It turns out that the original infection, from last year, never cleared up. I have had the infection all along and just a few short days before I start my clinical, it needs attention. I have an endodontist appointment this morning for a consult. All this wonderful crap without dental insurance. Needless to say I was in tears many times yesterday and probably again today. What if I need surgery? Oh my god! The surgery part I don't mind, but how much is this going to cost? I need this molar!

I was laughing because the office staff yesterday was so focused on the cosmetic aspects of my teeth- "oh they are so white and straight", etc. For some reason, I received the gift of multiple cavities, jaw problems and lasting infections. I hope that my future children will get Matt's teeth. When he fell on his face, he didn't have any issues with his teeth. Sure they were sore, but nothing came out or broke! He has had no braces and no wisdom teeth have impacted any other teeth. GAH!

Out of Sorts

Recently, the weather has been slowly changing. I have complained several times about the unexpected heat here in the city; this is Portland, Oregon, renowned for its dreariness and subsequent dependence on caffeine and hops, not the Mojave. However, more rain has begun to fall and more days now dress in draping, grey cloaks. We were caught in a rain storm over the weekend and every travel book that states Portlanders don't mind the rain or own umbrellas needs to be shredded and used for gerbil bedding. Even though the rain came suddenly and heavy, it felt like we were the only two drenched idiots without an umbrella. The broken streets filled with run-off as more people darted between raindrops than I could have expected. I suspect the stories of Oregonians braving the torrents of fall is mere bravado, something to tell tourists to get them soaked, something every transplant tells family to shake off the burdensome weather. I don't care who you are or where you're from, getting rained on, especially cold, Northwest rain, sucks. Nobody wants to be wet; we're not seals. Even after suffering through a drought, the first raindrops would be pleasant relief, reassuring, and then you would find shelter. We don't sit in puddles if we don't have to. Even those hippy yoga-ers abandoned their oneness with nature when it cams pissing down. Buy an umbrella; don't show off.

I am also caught off-guard by the city's exhibitionism prompted by aforementioned yoga-ers. I have so dubbed them because I don't know what else to call them. I struggled with the idea of practicing a form of physical exercise and meditation in the center of a busy city and still cannot grasp the idea of finding the Eastern peace required for such a pursuit in Pioneer Square. It's like the wisdom of a fortune cookie, somehow unfulfilling. But they're not the only ones. The city is home to fire dancers, rag-tag musicians, magicians, escape artists, vagabonds mumbling through song, and countless others performing for attention and the shower of coins that never seems to fall. It may be my virgin(c)ity, but Portland has an odd demographic running right through its identity that cannot be ignored, however hard I try. They aren't frightening, and like a sad Elvis impersonator, can be off-puttingly entertaining. Maybe that's just city life: pack in some weirdos, some activists, a strong contingent of working stiffs, sprinkle with unemployment, and bake, decorate with concrete and steel and serve.