An Education is Precious

SPOILER ALERT: If you plan to see either of these films, don't read on.
Recently, Mr S and I journeyed downtown to the Regal Fox Tower to catch an inspiring double feature of An Education and Precious. Little did we know at the time, these movies are very similar. Both are about a girl turning seventeen, coming"of age", as they say, and experiencing life's little hiccups. Also, both films are uplifting in the sense that they make you happy you are not the main characters.
There's nothing quite like watching movies about miserable people to help you feel better about your life. Why, I remember like it was yesterday seeing Revolutionary Road with my guy. We loved it! It really put our relationship in a new light. I can honestly say neither of us has ever had to chase the other out of the house and into the forest, AND neither of us has given ourself a home abortion and died. So, really, our lives smell pretty sweet.
Anyway, back to An Education, the young lady playing the protagonist, Jenny, is quite a find. She gives a very honest and understated performance as only the British can, and her performance is perfectly balanced by Alfred Molina as her father. Molina is British, but it is hard to see him that way anymore after his stints as Doc Ock and Tevye. Not to mention his portrayal of Diego Rivera. I'm really not sure where he's from anymore. So when I watch him on screen, I feel like I am watching Doc Tevye Rivera. It's a weird juxtaposition.
The man leading Jenny astray is played by Peter Saarsgaard. I am not really sure how many A's he has in his name, but it's too many. He is not British at all, but he plays a Brit in the film which led me to wonder, "Are Brits watching this and saying 'Oh, it's a good thing he was available to play this role since there are not many actual English male actors available to play it'?" I wonder that because that is the reverse of what I say when I watch Hollywood-based TV shows that star British and Australian actors as American characters. Digression.
The film details Jenny making some bad decisions, being misdirected and ultimately becoming a woman and getting back on track, with no help from that evil Emma Thompson who clearly hates all young women ever since Helena stole Kenneth. All in all, an enjoyable film.
But nothing could prepare us for the second feature, Precious. Actually, that's not true. The trailer and the hype did a pretty good job of preparing us.
Precious is the new comedy from Oprah and Tyler Perry. You might say "Comedy? Vraiment?" And I say, oui. I cannot possibly be expected to take any movie seriously where Monique plays an acerbic drunk, and the main character names her Downs Syndrome child "Mongo." Seriously? Can you? Needless to say, this movie was a laugh a minute. At least, a laugh every five minutes.
How can you not laugh when Monique, sitting on a couch with a grandchild in her lap and a cocktail in her hand, gets up abruptly and drops the kid. Through my laughter, I did hear some gasps in the theater, but I am confident those people were just masking their impulse to chuckle.
In the movie, Precious gets knocked up by her dad a couple times, and it really irritates her mom who is worried that the dad now prefers Precious. It made me think that Oprah is following a certain pattern of films. She gets really excited about movies where the central character is a young girl who is abused, can't speak English and goes around muttering to God all day. Think about it. The Color Purple, Precious, Hairspray. They all have that in common.
Anyway, we walked out on a high note. At the end of Precious, Mariah Carey steps in and saves the day by making Monique feel guilty for dropping the baby. Precious mutters something in Swahili that is obviously a curse on Monique, and they go their separate ways.
If you are looking for colorful entertainment (not a racist slur), I suggest A Precious Education.

Good Day, Oregon

This morning, I am watching the above titled television broadcast and enjoying the irony. So far, they have featured a story about a man being imprisoned for multiple murders. They found several bodies buried in his front and back yards. Hmm, now we know why those lawns were so lush. There has been a story about a local elementary school burning down. A robbery. And sundry other similar good-time stories. The question that begs to be asked is "For whom is this a good day?"
And the answer is, for me. I have not burned down, been killed and buried in a yard or any other such fate. In fact, I am recovering from an amazing FIFTH anniversary dinner with my guy at Le Pigeon. The only disappointment we encountered was the surprising lack of pigeon on the menu. You would think that with the number of pigeons that seem to thrive everywhere, like the cockroaches of the sky, there would be some good pigeon dishes available. Alas, there were not. At least, not last night. We did, however, enjoy complimentary champagne (thanks, LP!), chanterelle soup with foie gras (yes, I know, PETA; just shut it) and candy cap sandwich, ricotta gnocchi, black cod with mussels and garlic mash in squid ink (thanks, Squid), pork roast over mashed sweet potatoes, bacon cornbread and apple upside down cake with maple ice cream. Needless to say, I have both a food and wine hangover this morning. But it was so worth it.
So, while the local news may be less than inspirational, my own news is pretty darn sweet. I have loved and lived with a fantastic partner for five years who has been a font of support, laughter, adventure, emotion, perspective, insight and love. And we like to celebrate that love by gorging ourselves. Hurrah, Portland, mecca of food!
Back to media, let's talk about the joy and wonder that is The Today Show, shall we? Having not watched it for a long time, I tuned in on Halloween and could not have been more pleased. At first, I was shocked and frightened by seeing Matt Lauer in a blond-ish Luke Skywalker-ish wig and Al Roker wearing what appeared to be a slaughtered animal on his head. Ann was of course the quintessential Darth Vader. We all know she is the one with the whip on that show.
Anyway, just as I was about to turn it off and go spray my eyes with sulfuric acid, the ewoks came out. Oh, the ewoks. Would that there were ewoks on each and every show. What a wonderful world this would be. I am sure I needn't recap their antics as you either witnessed the magic for yourself or you missed it and can experience it first hand by way of YouTube. My explanation cannot possibly do it justice. But it was easily the finest moment in Today show history, and I hope that episode is nominated for an Emmy.
Well, as usual, I have gone on and on talking about pretty much nothing. But my goal here was just to share with you that I am one lucky bastard (not really, I know who my father is), and that, despite what may be shown on Good Day, Oregon, it is, in fact, a good day for me. A very good day. It's fall. We have been having intermittent rain and sunshine every day. The trees on Lovejoy that I can see right now out my window are showing off their peach, red-orange and yellow leaves, and all is well in the world. All except for those people buried in that man's yard.

Highlights of a fall Saturday in Portland

1) PSU Farmers Market

A) Discovering I can walk there faster than I can drive and park.
B) Hot fresh Pine State Biscuits with shiitake mushroom gravy.
C) Visiting with the soup lady and being interrupted by the bearded lady. I've never seen so much facial hair on a woman. It was dark and long and wiry. I wished I had a Lady Bic to offer her.
D) Realizing the streetcar stops right behind the market and takes me all the way home.

2) Cooking class at Sur La Table

A) Walking through the first big rainstorm in Portland to get there.
B) Getting stuck in a lake while crossing the street and soaking my shoes and socks in freezing cold water.
C) Cutting my pinky finger on a paring knife five minutes into class and spending the next hour hiding it from my classmates.
D) My comment while beating the cream for the lemon mousse about being "the man to turn to for " 'stiff peaks' " which silenced the class.
E) The teacher looking at me when instructing the students to please not refill their own wine glasses during class.
F) Learning not to salt the water until it's boiling.
G) Learning that it's much easier to cut root vegetables if I have created a flat surface on one side first. This also helps me avoid further finger cutting.
H) Shopping on the sales floor for some new pans and having no fewer than four salespeople, inside of twenty minutes, ask if I "need some help."
I) Learning that it is not only acceptable, but advisable, to oil the pan when cooking bacon AND salt my food more liberally while cooking.

3) Ben Franklin: Unplugged

A) Josh Kornbluth's uncanny resemblance to Jay Sherman (aka Jon Lovitz's alter ego).
B) Kornbluth's incredible story-telling skill.
C) Kornbluth's ability to keep an audience rapt for 2.5 hours.
D) Walking home and just happening to walk by Cool Moon, which just happened to be open, and supporting a local business by purchasing a bowl of Cereal Killer (butterscotch ice cream with grape nuts).

The wonders discovered during insomnia

I woke up at least twelve times between 12:30 and 4 am the night before last. At 4:00, I finally just got up to watch television. Cops was on, which I wouldn't usually watch, but this episode took place in Hong Kong, and it was fabulous. The police chief was a woman named Julie Lau who could have been my neighbor growing up in Garden Grove, she was so westernized. Actually, she spoke better English than my neighbors from Garden Grove. She probably doesn't smell as bad either. Julie was leading an operative to arrest underage extortionists. Evidently, you can be an extortionist in Hong Kong; you just can't be under 18. They also raided some one-woman brothels during the show. I kind of felt bad for these women. They don't have much going for them. They don't even have co-workers. And here they are getting harassed by the local police. It all made for highly entertaining telly.
Cops was followed at 4:30 by Good Day, Oregon, a show that helps locals get ready for their day. Weather, traffic, breaking news. After announcing our high would be fifty degrees, they cut to a live cam of a local freeway which had one truck on it and announced that the early morning commute was not heavy. The breaking news was about a convenience store robbery that took place late Tuesday night which neighbors called "disappointing." Strong words, Portlanders.
Then I finally watched Brothers and Sisters from Sunday night which was very well done but became a total fantasy at the end with all the grown-ups jumping on Kitty's bed and tickling each other and laughing. It made me think "When was the last time my siblings all did that?" Oh yeah, never. For that matter, we never all sat out by the pool together watching a hot Frenchman swim either. Clearly, I was born into the wrong family. Or at least the wrong house. How different our lives would have been with a pool. Or a hot Frenchman.
Continuing on in the telethon, I watched the fourth installment of the Monty Python story on IFC which covered their entree into the US and the making of The Holy Grail. Such brilliant minds. How lucky for us that some independent-minded PBS executives caught the show and found it funny. God bless America. Apparently, Graham Chapman was three sheets to the wind for most of the shoot. Imagine...to be so talented, you could still act out an entire performance while under the influence. Oh wait, I don't need to imagine. That describes my years at the Curtain Call.
Finally, after several hours of television, I got up and started functioning like a real human being. It occurs to me that I have no idea when shows are actually televised anymore. Tommy DVRs everything, and we catch up whenever we can. Like at 4 in the morning. It's been an adjustment for me because it feels so strange to watch primetime television in the middle of the night or on the weekend and not watch commercials. I feel like I am cheating them somehow. I actually feel guilty for not watching the commercials. I am really sorry, commercial actors. I know you worked hard for those little paychecks. Oh wait. No, you didn't. You worked one day and made twenty thousand dollars. Screw you. What do you care if I watch your stupid acting?
Ah ah, hold up there, Normino. That's not the attitude to start the day with. Time to get excited about banking.
It's easy to get excited when I know I have people like Ronald to look forward to. Ronald called in last week to get an auto loan. Here's just a snippet of our conversation. I took notes because I knew it would be worth repeating.

Ronald (chewing gum loudly): Yeah, I was lookin to get a car loan.
Me: Great. What kind of car were you looking at?
Ronald (possibly blowing a bubble): I don't know, but it's a nice car.
Me: Hmm. Well, I need a little better idea in order to get you pre-qualified.
Ronald :It's a Malibu.
Me: What year is it?
Ronald: 2002.
Me: I'm sorry. We actually only finance cars going back seven model years, so we would not be able to get you a loan for a 2002.
Ronald: I said 2004.

Me (moving on through the application): So, Ronald, who is your current employer?
Ronald: Oh, man, I don't know.
Me: You don't know who your employer is?
Ronald: Man, I work for a senior living facility.
Me: What is the name of the facility?
Ronald: I don't know.
Me: We kind of need to know that.
Ronald: Never mind. (click)

Oh, the magic of working in a call center.

A bit of rain...perhaps?

Maybe? A smidge. We're not saying a lot. Heck, it may not rain at all. Just...maybe...a bit.
This is what the Portland area weather forecasters have been reduced to. I used to laugh at the weather reporters on TV in LA because, well, how hard is their job? With the exception of maybe four or five days out of the year, all they really have to do is guess what time the sun will be hot enough to fry an egg. But here, in P-Town, Mother Nature likes to mess with them.
The first two months we were here, it was a summer like we would have had in LA. Fifteen days over 100 degrees, and most days over 90. Not a spot of rain. Then the game began.
About three weeks ago, network meteorologists started threatening huge storms, saying fall had arrived and would soon be dumping sheets of rain on us. Like a taunting child, fall arrived with cold nights and cloudy mornings that were quickly chased away by brilliant sunshine. Then the weather folks started changing their tune a bit.
A week ago, the report ran "Rain to start on Monday and not end until the weekend." Monday came, as all mornings do now, with cold temps and gray clouds. By mid-day, the clouds were replaced by blue skies and bright sunshine. Each night, local news reported that the rain would be upon us the following day. Each day, the sun came back like it had the day before.
Friday, the reports were firm--"Fall's first big rain to hit tonight and last through Saturday." We were excited. We had been waiting for a great storm. That's one of the reasons we moved here, to see real weather at its most dramatic. Friday night was clear and cool, and when we awoke on Saturday the sun was shining through the little wisps of clouds.
Finally, when Saturday's weather staff had given up and were not about to call rain one more time, it rained. A cool, steady shower of liquid sunshine that started late in the morning and lasted most of the day. Nothing terribly dramatic. No lightning or thunder. Just a warm, gentle introduction to what could be the opposite of last fall/winter here.
Apparently, the local meteorologists hold a convention every year in early fall to discuss and forecast the coming season. According to Saturday's paper, their conclusion from the recent assembly was that this fall and winter could be unseasonably warm and mild. I am amused that they came to this conclusion only after several days of bogus forecasts. As they tell it, last year's onslaught of snow and rain was a result of La Nina; this year, El Nino is predicted to bring warmer and dryer weather. Doesn't that figure? Here we are, ready for the Northwest to show us its best, and we may end up having just another California Christmas.
Having been spoiled with such idyllic weather for so many weeks, we faced a dilemma on Saturday. Do we go to the Farmers Market at PSU? I mean, it's RAINing! How does one shop OUTdoors in the RAIN? We almost decided not to go, and instantly we felt sad like we were missing our one and only chance to see a good friend before they left town. So we went. And so did the rest of Portland. It was so cool to be there getting rained on with hundreds of other people supporting our local growers and stocking up on the week's fresh fare. What I found really cool was that the menu is changing. Suddenly, we have an abundance of beautiful gourds, butternut squash, delicata. One of the vendors had sauteed some delicata up with olive oil and salt and pepper and was serving it up with chips. It was sweet and aromatic and just tasted of autumn. Mushrooms were also in abundance and had more names than I ever knew existed. Every farmer had shiitakes, but they also each had a good four to six other varietals, all with their own distinct appearance and fragrance. The early leafy greens are still around in limited supply but are being crowded out by chard and radicchio and baby bok choy, which is just fun to say. All of the vendors were excited to show off their new harvests and offer samples, and the customers were equally ecstatic to try the new goodies.
One vendor grows mint in what must be a ten-acre field. She has cans upon cans of mint tea and bags of her own home-made peppermint patties. And, as always, there were the apple sellers. I have never seen such an array of apples with different colors and textures and flavors. We love the honeycrisps. Our new favorite pear is something like a Bosc but smaller, rounder, crisper and sweeter. Too bad I can't remember the name. I do, however, remember, the young man of about ten who was handing out samples and offering small boxes for only $4.00. Whether it was the pear's delightful crunch or the boy's salesmanship I am unsure, but Tommy was sold; and when he bought a basket from the older sister, the boy, undoubtedly excited to have made a sale, barked at his sister to "throw another pear or two in that basket. Fill it out a little." This made the purchase so much more worth while. You just don't get that kind of entertainment at Safeway.
After the market, we went to see Where the Wild Things Are. For the first time since we have been here, there was a LINE at the theater. The boy who stars in the movie is from Portland, so it's a pretty big deal up here. We enjoyed the movie but decided it is really not for kids. I won't be too quick to dismiss the film for grown-ups though. While it was not exactly what I expected, it did offer some evocative food for thought about growing up and the pain and difficulty of having and dealing with emotions. Some of us are still learning those lessons. Not me, of course. I have been blissfully emotion-free since the operation in '81.
Anyway, a new week begins. As always, thank you for reading and for commenting. Here's wishing us all a fun and productive new week.

Billy and Betty

Billy Beadle would have fit right in with my uncles Dick and Earl, and Aunts Dolores and Ethylene would have loved him.
Each morning, I sip my coffee from a genuine Billy Beadle mug, some of which were crafted especially for me by the artist. This morning, it's my Eleanor mug, dedicated to "Motor Mouth Norman." I believe it was during Eleanor that I received a call from a sweet, daft elderly woman who claimed she had seen my performance in the show (I was in the chorus), and proceeded to leave a message raving about how wonderful I was. What a charming and talented young man I was, etc. Very Dame Edna. It took me several minutes to realize it was Billy, and several more for the message to end.
The Old Mug Shop sat on Redondo Blvd just across the street from The Silver Fox. The nights I spent with friends at the Fox seem an eternity ago. In fact, some have gone completely from my memory, thank God. But visiting Billy at the Old Mug Shop might as well have been last week.
The summer after Eleanor, I was cast in my first production of Joseph, and I went to Billy to have mugs made for all my brothers. He offered me a good deal if I ordered a dozen, so of course I had to get one for me. This would be the first of many good deals. Billy was all about friendship and memories.
While I did not spend much time with him outside of theater, one would never know he wasn't one of my best friends, or uncles. When one of us was in a show, the other would come see it and stay for a hug afterward. He was always ebullient and effusive. One might think he was my father. In fact, he was warmer and more accepting. He encouraged my goofiness and praised my attempts at dancing even while mocking my total lack of grace. When Billy teased, it was so good-spirited and funny that it only made me want to be more of a goof.
I remember being backstage at the Carpenter Center in the green room getting ready for an opening night performance, and Billy strolled back moments before curtain, as he always did, to wish everyone a great opening. I think each one of us felt he was there just for us because he had a special way of making each person feel loved and appreciated.
When I sip my morning coffee from a Billy Beadle mug, I think of that sweet, funny man in his red hat and his red beard and his "Stormin' Norman!" greeting. His voice rings as clearly in my head today as it did ten years ago when he stood right in front of me and laughed his mischievous laugh. His smile is equally vivid in my memory, as I am sure it is in many others'.
During The Music Man, I always had so much fun watching him banter with the late, great Betty Motsinger as they played the Mayor and Eulalie Shinn. The two of them together made quite an entrance and could not have stayed too long on that stage. Even though they tried.
The last time I saw Betty was on the bluff in Long Beach. We often crossed paths there, and she would usually say something like "Don't I know you?" and then let out a hearty laugh, not dissimilar to Phyllis Diller's but unique to Betty Motsinger.
These two magnificent people are now magnificent shining stars in the heavens, and the other celestial residents must feel quite blessed to have them in their midst. I am thankful for the time I got to share with them, and I look forward to one day crossing their paths again.

OregOn...The Stand AlOne State

Okay, kids, ready for a rousing game of Oregon State Trivia? I knew you were.
I love collecting random facts and figures. It's part of my Rainmannish charm. Whenever I read about an honor or a distinction bestowed upon our grand state, I feel all tingly inside. So here are just a few of Oregon's unique claims.
First off, and certainly most important, did you know that Oregon shares the distinction of full-service-only gas stations with just one other state? Can you guess which state that is? Yes, that's right! New Jersey. Because, in New Jersey, getting out of your car could mean getting caught in a mafia crossfire. Here, it just means you will be accosted by numerous panhandlers, petitioners and Street Roots sellers.
I learned a new one just the other day. Oregon and Louisiana (?) are the only two states that do NOT require a unanimous jury verdict on felony cases (exception: murder). Whether you find this favorable or detestable is not the point. It's certainly unique and random.
It warms the cockles of my heart, or the heart of my cockles, I'm undecided, to announce that Mt Hood National Forest has been chosen to be the fifth honored on a series of new US Mint America the Beautiful commemorative quarters. I have only been half-way to Mt Hood, but now I am itchier than ever to get out there. Actually, I'm just itchy. It's because I sweated this morning. On that note, can we talk about the treadmill in my gym?
Every morning, I select random mode because I like to be surprised. Lately, it seems the treadmill is trying to kill me. It has me on a steep incline almost the entire time. When I select random, I then enter my weight, time and age. Now, as most of you know, my age is now in the double digits. I am not a young man anymore, not in comparison to the likes of Zac Efron and the Jonas Brothers. By the way, should that B be capitalized? Anyway, even after I enter my age, it sends me running up a hill. By the time I finish, I feel I've engaged in a hot pursuit of Krispy Kremes up Kilimanjaro. Or perhaps pursued BY a Krispy Kreme. In any case, there were many Ks involved.
Back to distinctions, our latest brag is for the fabulous Multnomah County Library system. You may not know this - in fact, why would you? - but I love libraries. Libraries and bookstores can swallow me up for hours on end. The Central library downtown is a glorious structure with wide marble stairwells connecting their three voluminous floors. The theater and music section is unmatched, at least in Oregon I'm sure. Well, and I am getting a little butterfly even as I type, the Multnomah County Library is set to receive a National Medal for Museum and Library Service, the nation's highest honor for museums and libraries! It is one of ten agencies to receive the award this year and the only library in Oregon ever to receive it. The award is being given in recognition of the library's efforts to serve the Spanish, Russian, Chinese and Vietnamese speakers by hiring a busload of bilingual employees (see kids, taking those language courses paid off after all) AND for the library's leadership in early education services like Raising a Reader, which provides literacy services to more than 30,000 children a year. Bravo, MultCoLib! Bravo!
Suffice to say (which is how an employer of mine used to begin all his sentences - but unfortunately he had nothing to say after that. And neither have I).

Pride Cometh Before It

Praise cheeses, and pass the cheddar! Fall is here, and it means business. As I type this entry at 8:30 am on Tuesday morning, the temperature outside has warmed up to a toasty 40 degrees Fahrenheit. I'm not kidding, people. The Pacific Northwest has a different idea of seasonal transitions than the mild Southwest. While those of you in sunny So Cal are still enjoying those balmy summer nights, we in the north have already fully switched over to autumnal mode. The days here are still sunny and relatively warm (67, maybe), but our nighttime temps seemed to change overnight. Within one week of the autumnal equinox, our nighttime temps dropped about twenty degrees, as did our daytime temps, for that matter.
I am not complaining. This is exactly what I signed up for, and I really do enjoy it. What I find interesting, too, is that the climate in my office seems to match the outside climate. A few weeks ago, when I started in the call center, I had to wear single-layer short-sleeves or I would roast. Now, it's layers and long sleeves. Somehow, the folks in charge of climate at my office have learned to control the inside temps so that we remain comfortable in whatever we wore to get there. Why is it that every other office in which I have ever worked cannot seem to grasp that idea? It used to bug me that I would have to wear a sweater in the office in the summer because the A/C would be blasting right over my desk. I have to admit, despite my current lack of enthusiasm for my new position, I am quite impressed with the climate control.
With the cold nights, I am happy to say, the fall brings some new colors. Green, meet your colder cousins, Red and Orange. They'll be staying for a while. You won't. On my drive to the office, I pass through several miles of hills and trees. Those trees now have highlights. Their little tree stylist has been out and frosted their tips, and it's just lovely. Listen to me-I'm Katharine Hepburn suddenly. Lovely. Look at the loooons, Norman. That's actually a good thing, sounding like Kate. Her memoirs taught me many great truths, including the always helpful "One should pee whenever one gets the chance." How can one argue with such utter brilliance?
Lately, I seem to be getting picky about what I ingest. I am sitting in our gorgeous living room sipping a delicious cup of warm Peet's Major Dickason's Blend coffee. My mother has converted me, and there is no turning back now. I tried Starbuck's Pike's Place yesterday, which I used to love, and it was a sad sorry comparison. I ended up dumping half of it. I guess it's good that I finally am becoming a little more selective about my food and sources of caffeine. For example, I never drink soda anymore, unless, of course, it is to accompany popcorn at the movie theater, and even then I limit myself to six ounces or so. I also enjoy the occasional Hot Lips lightly carbonated organic berry beverage, but, come on, it's organic. All pure cane sugar, no HFCS. And I am helping out local growers and bottlers, thank you very much.
As usual, I seem to have veered off track. The subject was fall, and Portland knows how to bring it. We visited the symphony Sunday night, compliments of a neighbor who had free tickets. It was nice to see the inside of The Schnitz (the local nickname for the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall) and hear some Brahms. We left at intermission because the music was sleep-inducing, and we figured the people sitting next to us were tired of hearing us snore and removing our drooling heads from their shoulders. There were a few dramatic moments, but not dramatic enough. I'll take my theater lively, and scripted.
It is wonderful, though, that Portland offers so many opportunities for live theater and music. I don't think there is any night of the week when there isn't something going on within walking distance. We still have so many places we want to visit, but we may be here for a while so we can take our time. We already have tix to see August: Osage County when the tour comes in and Regina Spektor at the Roseland. Very excited about both.
I am also excited about spending the fall NOT working sixteen hours a day. This will be the first holiday season in eight years when I have not caroled, and the first in I don't even know how long since I was free of any theatrical obligation. I have to say, it's pretty cool. I get to just work my day job and spend my free time decorating, shopping, eating out, going to concerts. What a novel idea? Of course, you know I will probably be right back into a caroling group or theatre company for the holidays of 2010; but, for now, I am looking forward to really experiencing the fall and the holidays here in Portland.

L'eau de vie

I have a little rock fountain in my kitchen. My mother bought it for me when I came back from Australia in 2001. It holds a picture of me and my friend, Justine, standing on the quay in front of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
The first thing I do when I get up the morning is turn on that fountain and watch the water stream down over the little rocks. At the same time, I pour myself a glass of cool Portland tap water which is the first thing to pass my lips, quickly followed by coffee.
I love water. I enjoy the taste of it, the sound of it, and I insist on living by a flowing source of it. There is something calming and assuring about the constant flow of water. Energizing and invigorating too. Except of course when it is overflowing and flooding entire communities. Then, not so much.
I think about my favorite vacations, and they have all been in areas brought to life by the local water source. The Seine in Paris, the Arno in Florence, the Thames, the Brisbane River, Lake Geneva. And now we live at the convergence of two of the most historic and fruitful rivers in the country, the Columbia and the Willamette.
I have the pleasure every morning of crossing over the Willamette on my way to work. Some days, the sun shines on the chrome of the Fremont Bridge to my left or the Steel Bridge to my right and reflects onto the water in a brilliant display of light. Other times, when it's gray and overcast, the puffy clouds cast a silverish hue over the landscape that entrances me. Either way, I look forward to crossing and discovering the new painting of the day.
I know that I'm not alone in my hydro-veneration. Many people are equally enthralled, perhaps because we entered the world through a channel of water after spending nine months in a sac of it.
Did I just ruin the moment? My mother would either be really impressed or really grossed out right now. Knowing her, probably the latter.
Anyway, my point is this. Clearly, I have had too much coffee, and it's time to stop playing on the computer.

A Rant

I work for a bank as a financial sales rep in a call center, and I speak to many people daily. Some people are a pleasure to speak with, and some are more of a challenge.
There are days I am humbled by the financial situations presented to me. For example, the customer who calls inquiring about a home equity loan, and, when I ask what their home is worth, they reply "Well, two years ago, it was $425,000; but now...I don't know, maybe $280?" Many of these people have been severely hurt by interest-only mortgages, or just the state of the economy in general. I have great sympathy for consumers who have been affected by the housing market, the stock market, the job market.
And THEN, there are the other people. Those who have seemingly been blind to what has been going on in the banking industry. One of my all-time favorites was a young man who called the other day stating that he wanted to open a checking account. I asked if he was looking for any particular type of account, like one he could use for direct deposit, one that offers rewards, etc. He replied that he just needed to open one so he could go into the bank tomorrow and get some cash. ??? Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I am pretty sure you open a checking account when you have some money to put IN to the bank and want to start managing it. I said to him "It sounds like maybe what you need is a credit card" to which he replied "Oh no, I have awful credit. I'll never get approved. I just need to open an account so I can go in to the bank tomorrow and get an advance." !!!!!!
Where do these people come from? Why on earth would a bank open an account for a brand new customer, with AWFUL credit no less, just to GIVE him money? I explained that in order to open a checking account, he would actually be required to fund it with a minimum of $50 to which he replied "I aint got $50! If I did, I wouldn't be calling you."
It is truly amazing to me that, in our current economic climate, we somehow have continued to instill that wonderful sense of entitlement in such deserving young people.
I was listening to NPR the other day, and they were speaking with a financial analyst about the current state of the market. APRs are very low right now (as are interest rates on deposit accounts unfortunately), and the Federal Reserve sees no increase in funds in the near future. The prime rate has been 3.25% for almost a year and should stay that way for a good while. Still, many consumers are getting raped by their credit card interest rates. Some truly just got a bad deal and should not be suffering at the hands of the credit lenders. Many, however, are reaping what they have sown. APRs commonly increase to a very high rate when a consumer has maxed out their credit, exceeded their limit or been seriously delinquent in their payments. These are perils about which the consumer is warned when they apply for credit. I know because we religiously read these disclosures over the phone as well as mail them to the customers. Yet many people overextend themselves anyway.
The simple revelation expressed by the analyst on NPR was this-"Interest is the cost for credit." What an obvious, yet overlooked, truth. It's what we pay for the privilege of having credit. But we, and I am speaking for myself and certainly not for everyone, have grown to expect that privilege, and we really don't care to pay for it. Case in point, my guy who wanted a checking account so the bank could give him money. As wacky as that sounds to me, that actually makes sense to somebody else!
So, to sum this all up, while I might not be the best salesperson or the smartest financial service provider, I certainly am learning a lot about the people in our nation and their expectations and the wide, wide array of morals and sensibilities they possess. My job is nothing if not enlightening.

Anniversaire 38!

I love that Kandinsky on the wall. I love the memory it evokes of our night in Milan after Tommy got his wallet picked in Grand Central Station, and we fought the victim blues to go out on the town and have an amazing dinner at that wonderful ristorante with the antipasti buffet. And afterwards, we walked out to see crowds of people entering the Palazzo Reale for a nighttime exhibit. We could have spent the night sulking in our tiny room watching tv, but we are not two to be kept down for long.
Saturday night, Tommy spoiled me with a ridiculous dinner at Jake's Famous Crawfish. We started with heavenly martinis, this time with our dirt on the side. Good idea, Boo! We then moved on to amazing giant prawns in a zesty cocktail sauce, followed by fresh bread and delicious chunky clam chowder. Then came the behemoth. A six-ounce filet mignon accompanied by two, TWO, six-ounce lobster tails. Incidentals included a buttery mound of mashed potatoes and some crisp, steamed green beans and julienned carrots. Absolutely decadent. The pinot I had was from a local winery called Erath, and it was the perfect complement to my perfectly-cooked medium rare filet.
Somehow, we had the stomach after all this to stop at Cool Moon on our walk home for ice cream. They have the creamiest, most flavorful ice cream, and they are our neighbors so, you know, we had to. Why should they be deprived of celebrating my birth?
All in all, my birthday was a huge success. I spent much of the day chatting with people on the phone who called to wish me a happy happy. Thanks, Mom, Dad, Janna and Steve, Megan, Audrey, David, Greg and Mary, and Tom, Sr.
We started the day with breakfast at Bread & Ink (http://www.breadandinkcafe.com/) and some fun shopping on Hawthorne. Our Belgian waffle with fresh berries, peaches, whipped cream and cardamom syrup was an oral Disneyland, and the eggs Benedict were perfect. We love the shops on Hawthorne and spent a good deal of time (and money) at Presents Of Mind. The whole neighborhood was darling and had a fun, hip vibe. After that, we went to the Saturday Farmers Market at PSU which was recently named by Delta's inflight magazine the best farmers market on the planet. And it is! And, apparently, everyone else read the same article because it was PACKED! But we will gladly brave the crowds to stock up every Saturday because it has everything. From produce to pate, artisan cheeses and breads, seafood, all kinds of meat, pretty much everything you need for your kitchen. Plus they have live music (as opposed to dead music?) and lots of other fun products.
I love the way the community here supports their local growers. I am a convert. Where I used to balk at spending $40-50 at a farmers market, I now see the benefits, and I aspire to start spending less at the supermarket than I spend on the local growers from now on.
One of the fabulous gifts I received for my birthday was Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I dove into it yesterday, and it just feeds my soul. Her idea to start requiring an agricultural education for our kids is not far off base. I wasted a lot of time in school on algebra, but couldn't tell you where my food came from. It is a little scary that today's kids are even more in the dark. I hope that movies like Fast Food Nation, Food, Inc. and Super Size Me are visible enough to encourage people to become more aware.
As if I wasn't inconsistent enough about blogging, it is about to become even more of a challenge to keep it up. I have suddenly become a voracious reader again, and I could seriously spend hours with my nose in a book. I am currently reading three, count them-three, books. I am determined to complete the Victor Fleming biography, epic as it is. I have one chapter to go plus an afterword, filmography, and pages and pages of notes. Good lord, Michael Sragow did a number for Mr. Fleming! Then, for my soul, I have Kingsolver's AVM; and for my soul's dessert, I have Groucho's letters. It's a really good literary diet, I must say. But, just know, if you don't see anything new from me for a while, I am probably nestled in some pages, going cross-eyed.

It's Orange Outside, And God Gave Me Webbed Feet

It has been a full couple of weeks since my last post. Mom Wilson came for a visit. We took her to The International Rose Test Garden. The roses were not being tested during our visit. Apparently, they have passed all their tests for this year and are now just sitting there, posing. We also took her to the Chinese Classical Garden which sits on a corner in a neighborhood laughingly called "Chinatown." I say "laughingly" because it really ought to be called Shadytown. The garden is lovely; the neighborhood is not.
We also took her to Multnomah Falls, the Saturday Market and the Japanese Botanical Gardens. The visit was short and sweet, but it was great to see my mom.
Last weekend, Tommy's sister Janna came for a visit. Again, short and sweet, but we had an amazing time. We hiked the five-mile Wahkeena/Multnomah Falls Loop. Really, five-and-a-half miles if you count the trail BACK to the parking lot. It was a perfect day for the hike as the sun was shining, but not too brightly, and the trail was cool and green.
We also visited a vegetarian restaurant on the east side called Blossoming Lotus, or, as I prefer to call it, Buh-rossoming Rotus. The food was delicious, while mysterious. I don't know about this "tempeh" product. Hearing it mentioned previously, I always assumed it was a native cuisine of Tempe, Arizona. Evidently, its origin is actually Indonesia. It is a "plant-based protein." You have to love the vagueness of that description. To this day, I am not exactly sure of what I ate, but it tasted good saturated in barbecue sauce with spicy bean chili and corn bread.
Work has been a challenge. I am not nearly as articulate about personal finance as I expected I would be. I think they fried my brain in training; and, now, when I open my mouth to assist a customer, all that seems to pour out is mush. I anticipate steady improvement, but, at the same time, I don't want to get too good at this. Every day, I miss acting. I miss auditioning, running calls, rehearsing and performing. I even miss the occasional extra work that kept me busy between better paying gigs. I do not miss the driving. I certainly do not miss spending two hours in traffic for a five-minute audition.
I remind myself daily that everything is only for now. This job is temporary, and nobody knows what 2010 will bring. I can say with certainty, however, that I am not done with my creative work. I am still not sure what that work encompasses, but, darn it, it's going to be good.
I am enjoying the randomness of life. I am loving the beauty of this city in which I now live and the promise it holds. I am thankful for bounty. Not the paper towels, although they are the quicker picker upper. No, I mean the bounty with which I have been blessed. I am thankful for the Snuggie I received for my birthday and for the wonderful friends who were thoughtful enough to send it. Mostly, I am thankful that anyone cares enough about me to read this nonsense. I have great friends and a pretty bitchin' life. Who could ask for anything more? (That was rhetorical.)

Wish I Were Here

Today is my graduation day. After three weeks of snoring through new banker class, I will receive my "diploma" and a pizza before being reassigned to the call center, or, as I call it, the lions' den.
Our trainer is very good, but I have discovered anew that I am not an auditory learner. Never have been. I am a visual learner. I remember things when my brain captures an associative image and records it for later use. The sound of a person's voice, any voice, but especially one with a nasal droning tone, just sends me off. Off into the wild blue yonder. If I have had caffeine and am sufficiently rested, I may be able to hang in there with a lot of effort and focus, but it's a challenge.
And that's what I keep telling myself. This experience is a challenge and a moment in time. This entry into the banking world is the bottom rung of a ladder I can choose to dismount at any time; or I can choose to climb it to a more exciting and fulfilling level. That choice has yet to be determined.
Back to the learning process, I was journaling this morning and trying to think of ways I would improve the training process. I started to write "more writing exercises demanding more product review," but then I realized we have been given those assignments and I never take advantage of the opportunities to delve more into the product details. I get those assignments, and just race through them, writing out the bare minimum answers to get a passing score. It's just like school. I never wanted to be there unless I was distracting people and getting some sort of attention from the teacher, good or bad. Funny how some things never change.
Yesterday, we all spent time on the call center floor. That's bank lingo for taking customer calls. It doesn't mean we were all sprawled out on the floor; though I would have been okay with that. Anyway, I got to listen in on some phone calls. My favorite was from a teenager, born in 1990 (!!!), who wanted a $2000 unsecured loan (for no apparent reason). She worked part-time and earned $4000 a year. And I thought my income was meager! Strangely, her request was declined.
I can remember the humorous details of that call. But can I recall where to find APRs on our credit cards? Heck, no.
Here's what I can recall.
Last weekend, T and I walked down to the north park blocks to attend Art In the Pearl. The day started cool and sunny, but there were clouds coming in. We did not take the threat of rain seriously as we have begun to think that rain is an urban myth here. We have had nothing but warm, sometimes hot, weather since arriving eight weeks ago.
As we walked through the park taking in the unique and beautiful artwork, the cloud cover became heavier and it started to sprinkle. Then it started to POUR. And when it pours here, it's not like California where it stops after five minutes because the sky has run out of water. It continues for hours. Well, this particular rain wasn't touching us because we were walking under a shelter of high tree branches. As we strolled, we looked up, and, through the openings between the trees, we saw sunlight shining on the rain as it came down on top of the artists' tents and the uncovered ground. It was gorgeous. It was a sight I don't remember ever seeing. It was uniquely Portland. When I witness that kind of beauty, my senses are awakened and I can't help but smile. That's the reason we came here. That's what will keep me going when I am in my cubicle taking calls. I may be physically removed from anything beautiful; but, in my imaginative little pea-brain, you can bet I will be dancing in the park under the branches of the tall trees sheltered from the rain.

Inglourious Food, Inc.

There is just so much goodness to keep us entertained these days. Last night, we watched a greatest hits of SYTYCD show, and it was so inspiring. Those dancers are amazing. I can't decide among the Samba, the disco, the cancer dance or the addiction which one is my favorite. Or maybe it's Neil and Sabra in the office, or Mark and Chelsea dancing to Frozen. Oh, it's just too much goodness. Anyway, that has nothing to do with today's post. I just hope that you, dear reader, have had the privilege of watching these talented artists.
Now, on to other talented artists. T and I went to see Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds last week, and I was hooked from the first scene. Why this movie was not on the top of my priority list the minute it came out I'll never know. Tarantino has yet to let me down. Now, some people may not like talky films; and, if this applies to you, by all means, stay away. The first scene could be thirty minutes long for all I know because the characters talk and talk and talk. But the talking is soooo good. The scene had me a nervous wreck right from the get-go. I think I devoured most of my fingernails in that first act. The rest were gone by the final act.
It is not a perfect movie (but what is a perfect movie?). There are moments in the middle when it gets a little drawn out, but never for long, and there is always a WOW moment coming soon.
I would like to take this opportunity to warn anyone faint of heart who perhaps has not seen a Tarantino film or is living under a rock that this may not be the best introduction to his oeuvre. That is, unless you enjoy watching nazis get scalped. In that case, it may be just the ticket.
Last night, we strolled down to our beloved Living Room Theater for croque monsieurs and bevvies. I enjoyed the seasonal red ale while Tommy had a very potent pomegranate martini. It's rare for Tommy to request extra pomegranate juice, but he did.
We saw the brilliant documentary Food, Inc. Please, please, please go see this movie. Wherever you live, seek out the indie movie theater, and see it ASAP. I thought this was going to be a film to further the vegan agenda, so I went in with trepidation. I am happy to report that I was wrong. It does show some stomach-turning mistreatment of animals in the slaughter factories we so laughingly refer to as "farms," but it also shows the other side--the real honest-to-goodness farmers who are still doing it the old-fashioned way, who have not been bought out or intimidated by the big companies. I found this to be very inspirational, and it was great validation for my spendy shopping habits at the local farmers' market.
They show how food and agriculture has changed drastically over the last fifty years so that our eating habits as a society have been horribly altered. It's no news that fast food, chips and soda are much more affordable these days than fresh fruits and vegetables, even in your local supermarket. Consequently, we are getting fat and unhealthy. Big surprise, right? Well, what WAS a surprise to me is that we truly CAN do something about it.
In the film, they document how Wal-Mart took the initiative to put organics into their grocery aisles and get rid of milk from rBGT-enhanced cows. While Wal-Mart may not be your idea of a healthy food store, their actions put the nail in the coffin of dairy farms using rBGT on their cattle. That's not to say it doesn't still happen, but consumers are aware now and they are not supporting it on the whole. This was a great example of consumers changing the grocery business. Wal-Mart made these changes because people spoke up.
Huge corporations, a very few in fact, now own the factories that produce all our fattened chickens and cows and our abundant crops of corn and soybeans which are used to produce just about everything we buy. They do not create healthy environments for the animals or the workers or the environment. And, certainly, not for the consumers.
People say, sure, we know, but what can we do about it when McDonald's and Doritos and Coke are all affordable items, and a head of lettuce is more than a combo meal? We, as a society, can change that. It won't be a fast change, or a cheap change; but we can change it by choosing to buy locally, knowing where our food comes from, opting for locally grown in-season fruits and vegetables rather than out-of-season chemically-enhanced foods that have flown thousands of miles. Yes, the food at the farmers' market is more expensive than that at Ralph's; but have you tasted it? The difference in flavor and quality is huge! We are lucky enough to have a great local market just around the corner every Thursday, and I am going to be heartbroken when it goes away next month. The peaches, the berries, the lettuce, tomatoes, apples, all taste so much better than what we get in the supermarket. And we are supporting local growers. That food arrives on a truck from a farm just outside of town, not flown in from South America where the workers undoubtedly are not being compensated or cared for properly.
I could go on and on, but I could never get the message across as effectively as Food, Inc. does it. Please go see it. But I suggest eating beforehand.

Feeding the Artist Within

I started training for my new job at US Bank on Monday. It is a "perfect" job for me, and I imagine I will do very well at it; however, it is depriving me of nine hours a day that would otherwise be spent loafing, eating, working out, exploring and, most importantly, exercising my insane brain. My sane brain is getting plenty of exercise. In fact, it's on overdrive. But I find myself in class every day, by about lunch time, getting very antsy. My fingers start tapping, my leg shakes, my eyes dart around between the instructor, my classmates, my computer screen and anywhere else thay can go. And my brain goes to La La Land for undetermined periods of time. I will snap out of it and realize that the teacher has moved on to a totally different subject, and I better start paying attention.
It is not that the material is uninteresting. On the contrary, I have always found personal finance fascinating. Really, even as a child. My mother will testify that I would see ads in the newspaper or in magazines for financial service agents to talk about investing in stocks and bonds, and I would call them to discuss ways to invest my money. I was ten. I had no money, other than paper route and allowance. When they would finally ask how much I was looking to invest, I am sure that $40.00 must have been a heartbreaking number to hear.
Anyway, I love what I am learning, but I inevitably find myself in a theatrical mental state. Our instructor will be talking about interest rates, and I am hearing the entire score of "Next To Normal" or I am participating in a comedy sketch about bankers. My brain flys away for a little trip, and before I know it, class has moved on, and I am not sure what all I missed.
I am grateful to be employed by such a respectable company, but I am quickly rediscovering the importance of feeding my artist. For me, and for many others, creativity is more than a pastime or a hobby. It is a necessity. Like oxygen. Well, maybe not as important as oxygen, but certainly more important than, say, chocolate. Oh, I know. It is on the food pyramid above grains. I have never understood why grains occupy such a large space on that pyramid. Honestly, who eats eight servings of bread, rice, pasta or cereal a day?! I am replacing at least half that space with creativity. When people deprive themself of a creative outlet, it ends up hurting them elsewhere. I have seen it in my own life as well as in others. When we get too busy or too focused on work or on other people's problems, we cheat our artists of exercise and playtime. Wait. Stop. I am getting preachy, and what I really wanted was to provide an example of me on the job.
Yesterday, we were given some quiet time to take an online course in workplace harassment. Now, as you may know, there are few workplace topics with more comic potential than harassment. I was reading a scenario about Banker John who has been persistently asking Banker Sally out on a date. She has turned him down three times, but he is just not getting it. When he asks for a fourth time, she responds by saying "Look, John, I have told you three times I am not interested in going out with you. Your persistence is making me uncomfortable, and if you don't stop asking, I am going to report this to my boss." At this point, we are given four multiple choice answers for what would be John's best response. The third option was "What about tomorrow night?" When I read this, I guffawed. Not a little giggle, but a guffaw. Strangely, I was the only classmember who found it that funny. I don't recall anyone else in class laughing. And there were other scenarios that cracked me up too. I spent a good portion of classtime laughing. And then, of course, the natural progression is to imagine myself in a Saturday Night Live sketch about sexual harassment in the office. This, for some reason, satisfies my brain much more than learning about actual serious harassment issues.
Having worked in theatre for so many years, sexual harassment is a part of daily life. There is a reason actors have no organization for countering harassment. They would have to be open 24/7 and have offices staffed in every city with theaters. Plus I think actors inherently enjoy it. Any attention is good attention. They would probably complain only if they were not being harassed.
Anyway, there I go, rambling again. And it's after 7! I have to go to work so my mind can wander some more.
Normino out.

Attention, Ikea shoppers!

MOVE!
A phenomenon of the retail world is the human wall. Nowhere can this phenomenon be more observed and more frustrating than at Ikea. And apparently you don't even need to visit on a weekend because it seems that Ikea is packed with shoppers all days of the week by all sorts of people. And, evidently, they like to bring all their family members with them when they shop.
I am somewhat of an expert on this now as I visited the Portland Ikea not once, not twice, but THREE times last week. I am not a good shopper. I rarely get the enjoyment from shopping that normal people might derive because I deliberate over everything. Whether it costs six dollars or three-hundred dollars, I argue about every little detail before I can confidently make a purchase. What exacerbates this problem is when I am at a store like Ikea where I am trying to match items like, say, a nightstand and a table lamp which are in different sides of the showroom. Every time I try to walk from one section to another, my stride is brought to a screeching halt by--
A. a family of six spending the day together at the store (and yes, they clearly intend to be there for the day),
B. a trio of very large companions strolling in such a way as to block anyone from going around or through their human wall, or
C. the mom with the super-stroller that is at least eight feet wide and has every possible contraption hanging off all sides. This mom is generally the slowest of the human walls as she is slowly and carefully viewing every piece of furniture all around her throughout the showroom. This mom is rarely able to take more than one step per ten seconds, and her every step seems to be taken directly in front of me in whatever direction I am walking.
Despite these setbacks, I managed to procure the furnishings needed. We have a ludicrous collection of DVDs and CDs, and we have never owned a proper storage solution for them...until now. We are the proud new owners of a large DVD/book shelf unit and two matching CD towers, upon which we have neatly organized and alphabetized our DVD and CD collection.
Furthermore, I treated myself to a little nightstand and table lamp for the bedroom. At first, I was looking at all kinds of cheap floor lamps and little generic bedside tables. Ultimately though, what made me happy was a cute little white nightstand with a drawer and a little table lamp with a pull chain. I didn't know at first why I was so attracted to such simple items; but then it occurred to me, they remind me of my childhood. The simplicity of the one little drawer at my bedside and the chain on the lamp remind me of all that old furniture that surrounded me growing up. It's so quaint and comforting, and it makes my bedroom feel like home.
And, I have to say, as much as I have cursed assembly-required furniture, Ikea gets it right. There's a reason so many people shop there. Because when you get a piece home and successfully put it together, there is a feeling of satisfaction as if you created and built the whole thing yourself, and that feeling makes you cherish the item just a little more than if someone else put it together for you. Ikea instills a false sense of superiority in us shoppers, as if we are pioneers settling in our new land and building our homes. Cutting down trees, chopping wood, hammering nails.
"AH HA!" as I tighten that last cam lock on the bedside table and begin to channel Charlton Heston. "I am a great builder of furniture and have succeeded in making a home for myself and my partner. This is not just a nightstand, and these are not just bookshelves. They represent my great abilities as a builder and provider for my family. I am a strong and able-bodied man, and I will continue to shop at Ikea. I will brave the throngs of people who seem to be unemployed and yet have plenty of money to buy massive amounts of furniture each and every day. I will patiently, but stalwartly, navigate my way through the walls of human flesh in order to reach the self-serve furniture aisles and obtain the materials needed to create my home. My castle. My Ikea palace. Hail to Ikea!"

Step In Time

Window dining, step in time
People watching, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Window dining, step in time

1, 2 , 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Man in all orange, step in time
Full orange jumpsuit, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Man in all orange, step in time

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

He had pink hair, step in time
Orange and pink hair, step in time
Never need a reason, never need a rhyme
Made our evening, step in time

Eating Out

I think that if you try to avoid dining out in Portland, you are essentially defying the laws of nature. We have tried, semi-successfully, to be frugal since moving here; but when you have the assortment of dining options that we have, temptation is always at your door.
Yesterday, I had a yen for Indian food, so at lunchtime I headed downtown because I had read about a food cart called Indian Chaat that is very popular with locals. I failed, however, to note the location. It turns out there are many, many food carts downtown, and they are not concentrated in any one particular block. They are all over, as abundant as the panhandlers, the street musicians and the homeless people hawking Street Roots newspaper which I really should read because I have no idea how it appeals to anybody un-homeless.
I never found Indian Chaat; however, I did happen upon the Rialto Cafe where I scored a delicious veggie quiche and side salad for $6.00. Later, I went online to discover the location of Indian Chaat as well as two other Indian food carts. Even the food carts have a website! They don't have a permanent address, but they have a website!
Last night, Tommy got home from work and wanted to go to our local McMenamin's for dinner and a movie. McMenamin's is a chain of pub-movie theaters in Portland where you can go get a burger or a pizza and a beer and watch a movie in a very relaxed living room style fashion. That's a big motif here. Beer and lazing. It's not relaxing enough to sit in an air-conditioned auditorium watching a film. One needs an intoxicant and a carb-load while doing it.
Anyway, the flick was Star Trek which we have both seen, and I wasn't in the mood to see it again. Tommy seemed a little disappointed and went downstairs for a workout. Feeling bad, and hungry, I checked out the website of a restaurant called Mother's that our friends Amie and Chris had recommended. After drooling on my keyboard, I called to make a reservation.
It is not a cheap restaurant, especially when you add the pre-dinner martinis and the wine, but it is so worth it. I started with a Ruby Red martini which was their house vodka infused with grapefruit, fresh grapefruit juice and sugar in a sugar-rimmed frosty glass. It went down like fruit punch. I could have had three more. Don't worry. I didn't.
For dinner, Tommy had the fried red snapper with sauteed spinach and spaetzle. I had the...I need a moment as my heart is starting to race...okay...macaroni and cheese du jour which was fettucini with smoked salmon, whipped cream cheese and capers. It was rich delctable comfort food at its finest. I ate half of it and brought the other half home.
Upon receiving the check, which came with a slap of reality, I remembered that we are supposed to be on a tight budget and probably should have eaten at home. But at home no one would be cooking for us, or serving us, or cleaning up after us. And that just doesn't seem right. After all, isn't it our responsibility to keep people in the service industry employed? And what if all those other diners at Mother's had decided to be frugal last night. Where would Mother's be then? In the red, that's where. I think it's our duty as Americans to get out there and support our local restaurants. They want to cook for us! In some countries, it is considered shameful to turn down a gift. Don't deny someone the privilege of serving you. Get out there, America, and eat! Eat for the children! The children of that server who need a good orthodontist! Get out there and fix those teeth!
Tonight, we go back to frugality. No expensive dining out. McMenamin's, here we come.

Keep Portland Weird, Man!

Keep Portland Weird is a saying that has been slung all over for years, on bumper stickers and T-shirts and billboards, etc. And now that I am a Portlander, I am discovering why it is so important to the locals. They are like animals of the forest, bizarre and primitive, protecting their culture.
The other day, I was in my apartment, and I heard some Tourettes-like shouting and carrying on. I had only to look over my balcony to observe the native Portlander pacing and hopping and dancing around in his native dirty ragged clothing in front of the H&R Block office across the street. He had quite an act. I was tempted to throw money at him as one might toss peanuts to the monkeys. I felt quite privileged that I was getting this show for free.
Yesterday, while walking down Tenth Avenue, we passed a rather typical middle-class-looking fellow who was standing at a phone booth. We observed that as people would approach (everyone walks here), he would grab the phone off the hook and start muttering to himself while pretending to dig in his pockets for change. Then, as we got within earshot, he said "Hey, can you spare fifty cents?" The best part was that he had what appeared to be an iPhone in his other hand. I figured his iPhone must be out of service.
Finally, there is the bizarre and colorful Portland dressy casual moviegoer. As we sat at the bar at the Living Room Theatre enjoying our local beverages (beer), in he walked in all his glory. A young man wearing a collared button-down striped blue and white dress shirt which was half-tucked in to his cherry-red running shorts which were pulled up high revealing his snowy white legs, and the outfit was completed with black dress shoes and no socks. What a sight! It made us both take pause from our frosty beverages and give thanks for the visual delights we discover each and every day in this wild landscape that we call Portland.

Movies Then and Now

I love old movies. I love new movies. Movies provide the perfect opportunity to look at other peoples' lives and sneer.
Yesterday, I watched a film from 1938 entitled Test Pilot. It was directed by Victor Fleming, about whom I have been reading in the most recent biography of his life, and it starred Clark Gable, Myrna Loy and Spencer Tracy, a glossy cast if ever there was one. I enjoyed the chemistry among the stars, but it was funny just how much our sensibilities as an audience have changed over the years.
Clark Gable is a, you guessed it, test pilot whose plane runs out of fuel right over Myrna Loy's farm, and he ends up making an emergency landing at 6:00 in the morning on her property. Out comes Myrna, fully made up, hair, face, dress, to flirt with our hero. They end up spending a day together during which Clark wins over her parents, takes her into Wichita for a ball game and a movie, and pretty much wraps her around his little finger. That Gable is a fast worker.
The next day, when Clark doesn't profess his undying love for Myrna, she ends up getting engaged to an old beau who lives nearby and rubbing it in Clark's face the night before he is scheduled to fly back. When he doesn't freak out and beg her to change her plans, she gets all emotional and ridiculous. After all, he did spend a day with her. What a cad.
Filmmakers would not get away with such insanity today. First of all, what did she expect? They have known each other 24 hours! I want to tell her, "Myrna, you get all dolled up by 6 in the am just in case some hot guy falls from the sky; and, when it happens, you get depressed if he doesn't whirl you away. Girl, you don't need Clark Gable. What you need is to get the hell off this farm! Plus, you're no spring chicken. You are clearly past 30. Aren't you tired of living with your folks? Get to the city. Heck, Wichita is only 20 miles away." I said these things to the TV, but, as usual, it did not affect the outcome. My favorite moment was Gable and Tracy attempting to buy a nightgown for Loy, and Gable struggling with the word "lingerie."
Then, last night, T and I went down to the Living Room Theatre for tapas and drinks and a movie. Our film selection was a little indie from the PNW entitled Humpday. This movie made me laugh a lot, and not for the same reasons I laughed at Myrna and Gable. Humpday is about two guys who are old college friends, one is now married, and they decide to enter an amateur porn festival by making a porn together. Yes, together! And they are straight. This idea is hatched, as so many are, during a night of drunken silliness. After sobering up, they decide it really is a very artistic idea and they should follow it through. They don't think about details like, oh, I don't know, flaccidity.
The hilarity ensues when the married guy has to explain this to his wife. The conversations between the characters in this movie are what had me LOLing. They are ridunculous. At one point, as the guys are in their hotel room prepping, they start trying to remember what exactly about this they thought was artistic.
I found the movie refreshingly honest and funny, and I highly recommend it. While I don't necessarily recommend the double feature with Test Pilot, I did like Test Pilot a lot, and it is an excellent example of where we used to be and where we are now. As I watched the guys in Humpday try to recapture the "artistic" qualities of what they were doing, I enjoyed the comic irony that, in fact, there is nothing artistic about much of what we do in our lives, but in the retelling. That's where we can be artists.

The coffee bench

Holy cow! That wasn't a blog; it was a novel! OK, seriously, I am going to try to be shorter-winded when I write. After that first entry, I fear I may have lost any readers.
Yesterday, T and I went shopping for a coffee table. We knew we wanted something relatively small and something we could prop our feet upon or eat at while watching telly. After scouring the Sunday Oregonian for ads, we drove to Cost Plus World Imports at NW 23rd Ave. I used to think Cost Plus was the place for fun and fancy Indonesian pieces. I did not remember that it apparently is also the place for rickety scratched gnarly-looking pieces that literally fall apart when you touch them. After we almost broke a small table (actually, we may have broken it), we took off to check out the fun and fancy furniture store on NW 13th. As unique as their pieces were, nothing reached out and grabbed us enough to spend the $1200 for it.
Almost as an afterthought, we stopped in at West Elm where I had opened my first Portland credit card four weeks ago on my first evening here when I discovered I had no shower curtain. West Elm is more pricey than IKEA or Target, but their stuff is also a lot prettier. We found a darling little storage bench that most people would probably use at the foot of their bed or in their entry way; but it looked perfect as a coffee table for our living room. When the sales clerk told us it requires assembly, I should have just run away. I usually am smart enough to avoid such obvious catastrophes, but in this case I was optimistic since I loved the piece and it was so small. How hard could it be!?
It turns out it can be very hard when you only have one size of screwdriver which is too small for the screws, the screws provided are too big for the holes that have been pre-drilled (or pre-tapped as it were), and the instructions are in the most basic of English as written by the Indonesians providing the materials. After much struggling to figure out what goes where and not being able to get a proper grip on the fasteners, we called our friend Rick to seek guidance. Our first misstep was asking if he had a power tool. The conversation only went downhill from there with obvious setups like "it's too big for the hole," "we just can't get it in," etc. That was fruitless...ironically.
Anywho, we ended up having to go back to the hardware store we had already visited earlier and picking up a new screwdriver. Voila! It fit perfectly, and we got all the screws and cam locks tightened. Then, as we moved the coffee bench into place, I lifted the lid to see the inside storage area and the first thing I noticed was the sticker on the bottom panel that says "Bottom." Hmm. You know, I think that is the BOTTOM of the bottom panel. But look at that. It's on the top.
T, at the peak of frustration, wanted to tear the whole thing apart and re-do it, but I protested. I said "Babe, leave it. I want to see that sticker every time I open that lid." I mean, it is pretty funny. I want to celebrate our ineptitude and always remember that furniture requiring assembly is from the devil. Also, I like the sticker inside the bench that says "do not let children play inside storage area". The storage area is six inches deep and about a foot wide. There should never be a child that small in our apartment.

In the beginning

Well, not exactly. I won't start with my birth, though I am sure the details of my angelic childhood would excite and inspire you. No, instead, let's jump forward thirty-something years. Last year, my partner and I started thinking about moving to a new city. Having lived in Long Beach, California, for twelve years, I was ready for a big change. As a native of Southern California, I have never deigned to consider living anywhere else. At one point when mentioning my interest in living in the Pacific Northwest to a friend, he gasped. I asked what's wrong with the PNW, and he replied "It's not LA!" There's no arguing with that kind of logic.
My perpetual state of wanderlust began in March of 1999 when I took my first trip abroad and spent four weeks exploring the UK and France. I have embraced any opportunity to get the hell out of LA ever since. There's just so much to see.
Last year, we took it a step further and started discussing the prospect of not just traveling elsewhere but living elsewhere. This presented all kinds of frightening and unconsidered possibilities. New careers? We both work in theater-we pretty much have two choices. Weather? I have never experienced actual seasons. I don't know what might happen. My skin could fall off. I could have severe allergic reactions if I experienced an actual winter. I might get COLD!!
Fortunately, Tommy has lived many places all over the world, and he put my mind at ease about some things. There are cities that are not LA or NY that actually have theaters! And even other arts and cultural venues. And believe it or not, the restaurant business continues to thrive in many cities across this great nation, not just ours. That was important. We both love to eat...and eat...and drink. Because you have to drink when you eat; otherwise, there would be no alcohol to absorb all that food. Water. Sorry, Mom, I meant water.
Anyway, I digress. We took a road trip in March of 2009 up the gorgeous, stunning Pacific coast. Truly, people, do it while you can. What an amazing testament to nature and all its beauties! Along the way, we stopped in towns that sounded interesting to us. These included San Francisco, Sacramento, Ashland, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, BC, and a couple others that require no mention. While all had their distinct charms, Portland is the one we fell for, hook, line and sinker. I mean, where else can one experience hail, snow, wind and sunshine all in one hour?
Portland is also a foodie mecca with a plethora of fabulous restaurants, wine bars, breweries and markets. The Pearl District neighborhood especially impressed us for its walkability (see www.walkscore.com). We can walk to a number of restaurants, shops, markets, museums, movie theaters, live theaters and events within minutes. Should we not want to foot it, we have a street car, buses and a light rail system all within walking distance as well. Furthermore, Portland has, believe it or not, a huge theater community. There are several small theaters, a few big ones and many, many artistic folk. Heck, I would venture to say that the vast majority of Portlanders are, shall we say, artistic. This can be evidenced by the increasing number of fully tattooed arms and young people with dread locks that sleep on the sidewalks for fun.
I am happy to report, however, that these types do not live in our neighborhood. No, the Pearl is an enclave of yuppies and highrise buildings that were originally intended to be luxury condos and instead have been converted to affordable apartments. Far be it from us to pass up a deal, so we jumped on one of those affordable leases, and here we are at the corner of NW 10th Avenue and Lovejoy (yes, as in Reverend). Oh, that reminds me...as if there weren't enough reason to move here, the streets in our neighborhood inspired Matt Groening in naming his characters in The Simpsons. Flanders, Lovejoy, Quimby, they are all in our neighborhood. I consider that a sign from God that this is where we are supposed to be.
We moved here four weeks ago, and we have been incredibly blessed. A good and generous friend has given us a ton of gorgeous furniture. I have auditioned for three shows and been offered roles in all three. And we both have found employment. T starts his new job today, and I start mine next week. If we needed any validation of our decision, we have it.
While I miss being so close to friends and family, I am hoping that this blog will allow them a window into our lives, and perhaps they will be motivated to come check out Portland themselves, at least to pay us a visit.