For those of us in a continuing search for reasons to get out of bed each day, the MAX lines (Metropolitan Area Express -- who knew "Xpress" would need an "E"?) offer a never-ending source of entertainment if you look without staring. Corner-of-the-eye shots. Or, better yet, window reflections. Avoid eye contact. Eye sweeps with head swivels work. It's all in 3-D with surround sound and you can choose the extent to which you want to get intertwined in the action. Bold voice involvements must use the Kathleen McNeal technique of friendly assumption that you and the other person have been pals for fifteen or twenty years. "Hey, nice shirt. It goes with the color of your dog." The person's response will let you know whether to proceed or STFU.
You can choose which theatre to visit: the Red Line will offer international fare as it freights people to and from the airport, and sizing up the luggage of the travelers invites speculation about what's going on with them. The out-the-window scenery along the Red Line from Gateway TC to the terminal is dull-minus.
You can't miss on the Green Line coming from and going to Clackamas Town Center. So-so scenery but a good rolling zoo. Twenty minutes from the Gateway TC.
The Blue Line comes in two flavors: East and West. Blue Line West moves through a lot of high number real estate and gets a favorable rating for scenery but a thumbs-down for people watching. The tattoos are pedestrian at best and wardrobe fashion is high-normal. The most interesting part of your ride will be the long, long tunnel under the West Hills. There is a station partway through where you can get off and take a long, no-stop lift to the Portland Zoo (animal kind with lions and tigers and bears) or stay on the station platform and check out the core sample that was drilled from the top of the mountain to the tunnel level. It's in a long, long, long, long glass tube where you can examine the strata the engineers had to deal with in this big dig.
But Blue Line East is where the fun is: Going to or coming from Gresham (part of the challenge is figuring out where the town is) presents the opportunity to immerse yourself in the human comedy.
Lots of dumpster divers with their dirigible-size can and bottle collections. Next week's blog will cover some of the others: the guy ahead of me to the left whose head looks like a Kansas wheat field in the tenth month of drought. The dude in a wife-beater top (Gresham proud). Bike people. Stay tuned.
Thursday, August 15, 2019
Thursday, August 8, 2019
Who Sees You?
In 1943 George Orwell came to see the corruption of his vision of socialism and started writing his seminal novel, Nineteen Eighty-four, that would shake the world when it was published in 1949. I took a course in college titled: Ethical and Political Theory three years after that book came out -- it, along with Emile Zola's Germinal and Arthur Koestler's Darkness At Noon, were the assigned texts for the term. Digression: The miners in Germinal who brought the coal to the surface were "landers."
Orwell saw the future America 35 years later as being a dark autocracy led by Big Brother, who maintained control with formulated lying and camera installations that recorded the activities of all citizens 24/7.
What's left of my memory of the actual 1984 tells me George was off a little on his timing; like 70 years. Of course, "Two Thousand Nineteen" just doesn't have the punch of Nineteen Eighty-four and is irrelevant to the theme of the narrative. Count the cameras mounted on buildings in our cities and camouflaged as telephones in the hands of our citizens. Or in the trains and busses of public transportation. Let me tell you about that.
Last Saturday I went to Sellwood to get a haircut from my stylist, Lo-Lo. Everything above my shoulders that sticks out, Lo-Lo mows with a #1 guide slapped on her electric clippers. Whatever Lo-Lo sees, Lo-Lo clips. It's a two train, one bus journey to get to Lo-Lo and the second train I transferred to was lightly peopled as I took a single window seat right next to the train driver's compartment. We're rolling along when suddenly the train stops and the door to the driver's compartment flies open. The lady driver leans out (about 12" from my face) and pointing at some rider behind me, screams, "Hey, you, get your hands out of your pants or I'm going to call the police." WHOA! The miscreant apparently complied with her wishes because she slammed the door shut and we were soon moving down the rails. I didn't look behind me.
But here's the thing: Some people read to pass the time on their commute and most people focus on their iPhones. But some, apparently, find other ways to pass the time. If we could somehow contact George Orwell to ask him his thoughts on this incident it is likely he would say, "Didn't you read my book?"
Orwell saw the future America 35 years later as being a dark autocracy led by Big Brother, who maintained control with formulated lying and camera installations that recorded the activities of all citizens 24/7.
What's left of my memory of the actual 1984 tells me George was off a little on his timing; like 70 years. Of course, "Two Thousand Nineteen" just doesn't have the punch of Nineteen Eighty-four and is irrelevant to the theme of the narrative. Count the cameras mounted on buildings in our cities and camouflaged as telephones in the hands of our citizens. Or in the trains and busses of public transportation. Let me tell you about that.
Last Saturday I went to Sellwood to get a haircut from my stylist, Lo-Lo. Everything above my shoulders that sticks out, Lo-Lo mows with a #1 guide slapped on her electric clippers. Whatever Lo-Lo sees, Lo-Lo clips. It's a two train, one bus journey to get to Lo-Lo and the second train I transferred to was lightly peopled as I took a single window seat right next to the train driver's compartment. We're rolling along when suddenly the train stops and the door to the driver's compartment flies open. The lady driver leans out (about 12" from my face) and pointing at some rider behind me, screams, "Hey, you, get your hands out of your pants or I'm going to call the police." WHOA! The miscreant apparently complied with her wishes because she slammed the door shut and we were soon moving down the rails. I didn't look behind me.
But here's the thing: Some people read to pass the time on their commute and most people focus on their iPhones. But some, apparently, find other ways to pass the time. If we could somehow contact George Orwell to ask him his thoughts on this incident it is likely he would say, "Didn't you read my book?"
Thursday, August 1, 2019
What's Your PR?
I'm looking for investors to join me in a can't-miss scheme to fill a need that no one has ever recognized: the calibrated flag pole (pat. pend.). Let me explain.
The almost unbelievable capabilities of our computer culture give us the means to measure the popularity of individuals in our society at any given moment. Most of us have a popularity factor of zero because other people don't know us and don't care that they don't. But as time passes, some individuals begin to stand out from the herd and become recognized by large numbers of people who tend to make judgments about them. We call them "celebrities."
It's a fact that sooner or later everybody dies, and when they do, someone must make the decision: do we lower the flag to half-staff, or do we leave it up there? I say it is time to take it out of the hands of anonymous deciders and leverage Technology to reveal the the deceased person's PR (polling popularity rating). That is, an instant national Poll (P) of Americans, run through a sophisticated algorithm to arrive at the departed's total popularity rating (R) or PR. We the people would vote on whether and how much to lower the flag (in sadness), keep it as-is (signifying who cares?), or--here's my twist -- raise it even higher, proclaiming: "good riddance." This is where the calibrated flag pole comes in,
Every person at birth starts with a PR factor of 0. If the kid never makes a blip on the public radar, the flag stays at full mast. But say the kid grows up to become famous, then kicks the bucket; now his/her PR will dictate the movement of the flag on the pole, up or down. If it is up, a smaller pole rises out of the top of the main pole to accommodate the extra altitude. The calibrated flag pole lets us pin point the degree of downess (sadness) or upness (joy) we're feeling for the loss from the formula programmed into the polling exercise.. Example: Charles Manson would have gotten a maximum pole extension; Mr. Rogers, a half-staff or lower.
It's a bit complicated but if you're not too dim I think you can see how it works. When I've worked out a few minor details having to do with setting this idea into actual motion, I will let you know where and when to start sending serious money.
The almost unbelievable capabilities of our computer culture give us the means to measure the popularity of individuals in our society at any given moment. Most of us have a popularity factor of zero because other people don't know us and don't care that they don't. But as time passes, some individuals begin to stand out from the herd and become recognized by large numbers of people who tend to make judgments about them. We call them "celebrities."
It's a fact that sooner or later everybody dies, and when they do, someone must make the decision: do we lower the flag to half-staff, or do we leave it up there? I say it is time to take it out of the hands of anonymous deciders and leverage Technology to reveal the the deceased person's PR (polling popularity rating). That is, an instant national Poll (P) of Americans, run through a sophisticated algorithm to arrive at the departed's total popularity rating (R) or PR. We the people would vote on whether and how much to lower the flag (in sadness), keep it as-is (signifying who cares?), or--here's my twist -- raise it even higher, proclaiming: "good riddance." This is where the calibrated flag pole comes in,
Every person at birth starts with a PR factor of 0. If the kid never makes a blip on the public radar, the flag stays at full mast. But say the kid grows up to become famous, then kicks the bucket; now his/her PR will dictate the movement of the flag on the pole, up or down. If it is up, a smaller pole rises out of the top of the main pole to accommodate the extra altitude. The calibrated flag pole lets us pin point the degree of downess (sadness) or upness (joy) we're feeling for the loss from the formula programmed into the polling exercise.. Example: Charles Manson would have gotten a maximum pole extension; Mr. Rogers, a half-staff or lower.
It's a bit complicated but if you're not too dim I think you can see how it works. When I've worked out a few minor details having to do with setting this idea into actual motion, I will let you know where and when to start sending serious money.
Friday, July 26, 2019
Meet Edie Rieken
Here at this place I call home, I have about 150 neighbors, most of whom I've never met, a few of whom I nod to and say, "Hi," and another, smaller group, of whom I've become acquainted and now call friends. One of them is Ethel (Edie) Dorothea Plaep Rieken. Unlike 99% of my other neighbors, Edie is a gifted writer and she is the author of a book to prove it: "Growing Pains: A Childhood on Bear Creek"
We met at lunch one day when I saw she was alone and invited her to join me (that's how we do things here at Russellville Park) and she did. I learned Edie had a life-long love of writing (an interest we had in common) and that she was the chair of a group who share that interest every week. When she told me she had written a book and had it self-published, I asked to borrow her copy.
Read a self-published book and the first paragraph usually indicates why that volume didn't come from Random House. Imagine my amazement as I turned page after page to find that this was a brilliantly crafted narrative about the life of a girl growing up on a dairy farm snuggled into a small forested canyon 15 miles inland from the town of Florence on the Southern Oregon coast in the years 1924 to 1937.
Edie was born six years after her nearest of six siblings to parents who were immigrants from East Prussia in Germany. She tells the story of her mother, Henrietta Dorothea Kahlhaw Plaep, to whom she dedicates her book. Henrietta, at 25, was living in East Prussia in terrible circumstances. Her father had died leaving the family impoverished; in desperation she agreed to go to America with a family that had earlier immigrated to Coos County on Oregon's southern coast. This was in the early 1900s and part of the agreement with this family was that she would marry a son whom she had never met. The drama is darkened by her cruel future mother-in-law.
It's a wonderful story about that little girl who attended a one-room school where nine students were taught by one teacher and who, in her eight years of grade school, never had a classmate. Here is a sample of Edie's lyrical prose when early in the book she writes of that Childhood home.
"The forested hills that watched over our valley, the fields surrounded by solidly built, straight wooden fences, and the meandering creek with its own mini-universe of marine life created a background of peace and serenity. The morning songs of many birds and the chorus of a thousand frogs croaking their welcome to springtime evenings complemented the constancy of our lives."
The lady has a way with words.
Edie's book is shelved in Portland's Oregon Historical Society but is otherwise out of print.
We met at lunch one day when I saw she was alone and invited her to join me (that's how we do things here at Russellville Park) and she did. I learned Edie had a life-long love of writing (an interest we had in common) and that she was the chair of a group who share that interest every week. When she told me she had written a book and had it self-published, I asked to borrow her copy.
Read a self-published book and the first paragraph usually indicates why that volume didn't come from Random House. Imagine my amazement as I turned page after page to find that this was a brilliantly crafted narrative about the life of a girl growing up on a dairy farm snuggled into a small forested canyon 15 miles inland from the town of Florence on the Southern Oregon coast in the years 1924 to 1937.
Edie was born six years after her nearest of six siblings to parents who were immigrants from East Prussia in Germany. She tells the story of her mother, Henrietta Dorothea Kahlhaw Plaep, to whom she dedicates her book. Henrietta, at 25, was living in East Prussia in terrible circumstances. Her father had died leaving the family impoverished; in desperation she agreed to go to America with a family that had earlier immigrated to Coos County on Oregon's southern coast. This was in the early 1900s and part of the agreement with this family was that she would marry a son whom she had never met. The drama is darkened by her cruel future mother-in-law.
It's a wonderful story about that little girl who attended a one-room school where nine students were taught by one teacher and who, in her eight years of grade school, never had a classmate. Here is a sample of Edie's lyrical prose when early in the book she writes of that Childhood home.
"The forested hills that watched over our valley, the fields surrounded by solidly built, straight wooden fences, and the meandering creek with its own mini-universe of marine life created a background of peace and serenity. The morning songs of many birds and the chorus of a thousand frogs croaking their welcome to springtime evenings complemented the constancy of our lives."
The lady has a way with words.
Edie's book is shelved in Portland's Oregon Historical Society but is otherwise out of print.
Monday, July 22, 2019
You Get the Popcorn, I'll Get the Seats
CNN is running a new six-part series every Sunday featuring movies from the Golden Age onward; Tom Hanks is one of the producers. As someone who loves movies, I took a look but then gave up in despair. I thought they would select a few outstanding movies from the different eras and perform in-depth examinations of the film and its stars. I was looking for nostalgia on steroids. That's not what this treatment is about and, to be fair, I think it is well done for what they are doing.
The CNN presentation is a sociological exercise showing how the movies of particular decades reflect the culture of those times. So you have a scene or two from a movie with voice-over comments and then a cut to another movie and the continuing theme of that era. And it is loaded with commercial breaks (eight minutes of entertainment, five minutes of ads).
I would view scenes from a movie such as Chicago and then, SLASH, it was gone and scenes from another movie appears. And on and on. It was like those annoying informercials that come on in the cheap time-buys for people selling music from the past: Country Western, The Fifties, The Sixties, and on and on by decades. Listen to "Autumn Leaves" by Nat King Cole: "The falling leaves, drift by the window, the autumn leaves of red and gold." SLASH "I wonder who's kissing her now" Hey, damn it, I'm singing here...go back and pick it up, "I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sun-burned hands I used to hold. Since you went away, the days grow long, and soon I'll hear old winter's song..." I'm not buying your freaking music because you cut me off from Autumn Leaves.
Same with the movies. I would have wanted a "60 Minutes" format with 15 minutes segments devoted to great movies. Important scenes could be shown with appropriate comments as you remember the magic of the film and its stars. For the truly great films you could focus a half hour, such as Godfather I & II. But Tom Hanks never called to ask my opinion.
I will digress to tell you I believe the Godfather I & II combined to be the greatest movie ever made. The writing, the casting (every character dead on), the location shooting, the theme music, (la da da da da da da da, da, da, oh, my). If you don't agree with me on this it doesn't mean your judgment is suspect or you're a bad person; just don't ask me to go to the movies with you.
The CNN presentation is a sociological exercise showing how the movies of particular decades reflect the culture of those times. So you have a scene or two from a movie with voice-over comments and then a cut to another movie and the continuing theme of that era. And it is loaded with commercial breaks (eight minutes of entertainment, five minutes of ads).
I would view scenes from a movie such as Chicago and then, SLASH, it was gone and scenes from another movie appears. And on and on. It was like those annoying informercials that come on in the cheap time-buys for people selling music from the past: Country Western, The Fifties, The Sixties, and on and on by decades. Listen to "Autumn Leaves" by Nat King Cole: "The falling leaves, drift by the window, the autumn leaves of red and gold." SLASH "I wonder who's kissing her now" Hey, damn it, I'm singing here...go back and pick it up, "I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sun-burned hands I used to hold. Since you went away, the days grow long, and soon I'll hear old winter's song..." I'm not buying your freaking music because you cut me off from Autumn Leaves.
Same with the movies. I would have wanted a "60 Minutes" format with 15 minutes segments devoted to great movies. Important scenes could be shown with appropriate comments as you remember the magic of the film and its stars. For the truly great films you could focus a half hour, such as Godfather I & II. But Tom Hanks never called to ask my opinion.
I will digress to tell you I believe the Godfather I & II combined to be the greatest movie ever made. The writing, the casting (every character dead on), the location shooting, the theme music, (la da da da da da da da, da, da, oh, my). If you don't agree with me on this it doesn't mean your judgment is suspect or you're a bad person; just don't ask me to go to the movies with you.
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Sometimes a Great Notion
The late Roy Paul Nelson taught journalism at the University of Oregon where I met him during my association with that institution in the 1960s and '70s. Roy Paul was an authority on print typefaces and taught classes on the subject. Writers, he instructed, should select a type face that is appropriate to the subject of their narrative. He was also a cartoonist and his editorial cartoons were used by the local Eugene Register Guard newspaper. I once told him I had observed that his distaste for smoking often showed up in his cartoons by his drawing any negative character with a cigarette held in his fingers. A book he wrote for his cartooning class was titled, "How To Draw a Straight Line".
We became friends and I take a modicum of pride in having something I wrote included in a textbook Roy Paul used for a class he taught in satirical writing. Imagine that; a wannabe famous author getting something he wrote included in a real college textbook.
My contribution was titled, "The Passing of Gas". It made the case that new advances in the automobile industry had created energy generating technology that would eliminate petroleum as a necessary ingredient for the internal combustion engine. The revolutionary result included parts that would create a vacuum that would suck air into a pipe protruding from the rear of the vehicle and send it into a chamber where multiple jets of high pressure air programmed with alternating blasts would move pistons up and down causing the drive shaft to turn which would make the wheels go around. All of the technical jargon, of course, was strung together as a means of supporting the title.
Someday when my time comes to depart this mortal coil, one line in my obit must read, "His published writing included manuscripts for college text books. Also he predicted electric cars."
We became friends and I take a modicum of pride in having something I wrote included in a textbook Roy Paul used for a class he taught in satirical writing. Imagine that; a wannabe famous author getting something he wrote included in a real college textbook.
My contribution was titled, "The Passing of Gas". It made the case that new advances in the automobile industry had created energy generating technology that would eliminate petroleum as a necessary ingredient for the internal combustion engine. The revolutionary result included parts that would create a vacuum that would suck air into a pipe protruding from the rear of the vehicle and send it into a chamber where multiple jets of high pressure air programmed with alternating blasts would move pistons up and down causing the drive shaft to turn which would make the wheels go around. All of the technical jargon, of course, was strung together as a means of supporting the title.
Someday when my time comes to depart this mortal coil, one line in my obit must read, "His published writing included manuscripts for college text books. Also he predicted electric cars."
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
Chop Sticks For One
AUTHOR'S NOTE: All prestigious journals must have a restaurant review from time to time and for this publication that time is now. Full disclosure: It is my favorite Portland restaurant without cloth napkins and Greorgann would never go there with me because of something she called, "ambiance" (they don't serve wine).
Chen's Good Taste Restaurant
Chen chose the spot to open his restaurant in a section of Portland where tour groups do not visit. If you go by train, as I do, get off at the Skidmore Fountain under the Burnside Bridge and climb two flights of metal stairs to street level on West Burnside, then walk three blocks to 4th Ave. It will be necessary to walk around various citizens who are sleeping, some face up, on the sidewalk but your passing will not disturb them. Chen's window to the street is covered with pictures of various offerings along with a menu and a favorable newspaper review that is starting to yellow with age.
The room seats 35 or 40 people and if you arrive around noon you"ll find it filled with diners, 90% of whom are of the Asian persuasion -- a good sign you've made a wise choice. It'll be best if you avoid visiting the restrooms, which are through a door that leads to a long hallway. Turning left you pass a view of the kitchen where deceased poultry hang from hooks. Then you pass small rooms filled with disorderly stuff. The restrooms are, well... Finally, as you try to re-enter the dining room, a sign reads, PUSH DOOR. If you pull instead of push, the handle comes off in your hand and you must reinsert it to get back into the room.
Now about my favorite dish, which is the only item I've ever ordered over the years: Dumpling noodle soup. $7.50. Four large dumplings in a delicious broth with those tiny Chinese noodles and one small sprig of boc choy. The dumplings are stuffed with something I could never identify but consist of black lines intermingled with something white and kind of puffy. To quote Chen, "good taste." Really, really good taste. I suppose I might have asked what exactly the filling was but, hey --
what's the difference?
Over the years I've watched other menu items being served and they all looked terrific. From time to time I've been tempted to order some of them, but those dumpling kept drawing me in.
Chen wouldn't lie to you. Good taste. $9.50 with tip and endless tea.
Chen's Good Taste Restaurant
Chen chose the spot to open his restaurant in a section of Portland where tour groups do not visit. If you go by train, as I do, get off at the Skidmore Fountain under the Burnside Bridge and climb two flights of metal stairs to street level on West Burnside, then walk three blocks to 4th Ave. It will be necessary to walk around various citizens who are sleeping, some face up, on the sidewalk but your passing will not disturb them. Chen's window to the street is covered with pictures of various offerings along with a menu and a favorable newspaper review that is starting to yellow with age.
The room seats 35 or 40 people and if you arrive around noon you"ll find it filled with diners, 90% of whom are of the Asian persuasion -- a good sign you've made a wise choice. It'll be best if you avoid visiting the restrooms, which are through a door that leads to a long hallway. Turning left you pass a view of the kitchen where deceased poultry hang from hooks. Then you pass small rooms filled with disorderly stuff. The restrooms are, well... Finally, as you try to re-enter the dining room, a sign reads, PUSH DOOR. If you pull instead of push, the handle comes off in your hand and you must reinsert it to get back into the room.
Now about my favorite dish, which is the only item I've ever ordered over the years: Dumpling noodle soup. $7.50. Four large dumplings in a delicious broth with those tiny Chinese noodles and one small sprig of boc choy. The dumplings are stuffed with something I could never identify but consist of black lines intermingled with something white and kind of puffy. To quote Chen, "good taste." Really, really good taste. I suppose I might have asked what exactly the filling was but, hey --
what's the difference?
Over the years I've watched other menu items being served and they all looked terrific. From time to time I've been tempted to order some of them, but those dumpling kept drawing me in.
Chen wouldn't lie to you. Good taste. $9.50 with tip and endless tea.
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