The Loin

September 27, 2004 in Culture, Essays, Portland

The Loin

After a very pleasant walk around my beautiful Portland neighborhood, I found a letter that I wrote to my friend Cat just after I’d moved to San Francisco. Not sure why I never sent it — although it might have been a first draft:

Dear Cat,

…My life seems to have taken on some extraordinarily freakish dimension now that I’m “establishment.” I actually started a real job.

…I live in the Tenderloin — the most bizarre decayed neighborhood in San Francisco. I no longer have a driver’s license (suspended for making an illegal U-turn in SoCal and then neglecting to pay) but still have a car — unregistered, and must drive due to no parking space. I was walking downtown today and got hit in the head by a confused, angry black bird. My neighbor died last week and has been decaying next door for a week. Ok, deep breath, I guess I should start with the neighborhood. Today the bird incident, last week some guy spat on me for no apparent reason. The streets are covered with a semi-fluorescent liquous mosaic that I constantly slip in when walking to the train station. The stench of urine is constant — when it rains it is much worse because the dried urine runs in rivers down the sidewalk. On weekends and summer nights the old guys on the corner drag their living room furniture outside and sit around drinking 40 ouncers (a few have proposed. The sidewalk is littered with chicken bones — there is a liquor store that sells fried chicken from a dirty case with heat lamps. One morning I went to my car and found that it had been utilized as the fourth wall of a lean-to for a sleeping family. They appeared to be very snug and I apologized profusely for needing to drive away.

The other morning I stumbled to the street to move my car for street cleaning, backed up, heard a crunch, kept driving, finally some guy in a cross-walk pointed inspiring me to stop, at which point I found a 50 gallon plastic garbage can attached to my bumper. After much effort I managed to rip the thing off and fling it to the sidewalk..

There is a community of really tall hideous transvestites. They look like they are getting their hormone treatments from the crack dealers on the corner. and frequently run up and down the sidewalk scantily clad shouting their lovers names.

The other morning I had a flat tire at 7a and was assisted by a guy sitting on the curb eating fried chicken and drinking a 40 ouncer Men openly piss anywhere and everywhere. I’ve been chased by surly packs of smelly insane homeless people asking for change. Shopping carts with cats perched on piles of reclaimed garbage, push by demented, overweight women are all too common. There is some guy who dresses in a warriors costume and a plastic gold crown who beats the trash can on the corner like he’s calling the troops to battle.

It is complete urban anarchy.

Then there are the damn pigeons.; Hunting in packs. Apparently a month ago some do-gooder started feeding the birds strychnine. Around 40 dropped dead. Their ranks were quickly replaced.

I sleep on a deluxe air mattress. The other night I woke up sandwiched between 2 halves of the bed with miah (my cat) evilly grinning at me. Fortunately the deluxe air mattress comes with a deluxe patching kit.

…

Ah the days.

Now my sidewalks are scattered with chestnuts and it smells like autumn.

Although I’m still a lunatic magnet, and Portland has more then enough to keep me on my toes.

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Almost Famous

August 27, 2004 in Music

Ah to be a rock star band groupie ala Almost Famous. But alas I’d resolved myself to being not blonde enough or hip enough or insane enough or perhaps just too plain old. Plus I didn’t really know any rock-stars, or even guys who played in a band. Nor could I summon up enough enthusiasm to hang around scantily clad in rock-star groupie finery outside the back entrances of stadiums or clubs or eclectic music venues, since it’s usually pretty cold and often raining here in San Francisco, and I have an aversion to freezing my ass off.

However, my chance miraculously enough, finally materialized in the form of Andy Grover, good friend, and new bass player for Vancouver, Washington based TempleShock. I had been traveling in and India for around a year and upon my return to San Francisco flung myself up to Portland to say hello to Andy and see his first gig with TempleShock. Or perhaps tried to fling myself into the Portland area – not being able to summon up some kind of metaphysical fling (although after spending four months in India I was a bit disappointed that this talent had not somehow been acquired) I was forced to rely on commercial airlines and found myself weathered out of Portland for two days.

Finally airports opened and airplanes begin flying on the day of the gig –January 10, 2004. Stepped off the plane early that morning into the coldest sloppiest weather I’d seen in over a year. As I waited for Andy to retrieve me from the airport, visions of my hammock on the island of Koh Jum, early morning swims, lounging on the beach began to assault me almost just almost knocking me out of my quest for rock band groupieism. Good thing Andy arrived and he had heated seats in his car so the specter of palm trees slowly receded – well not really, although I did stop worrying that the artic air would freeze off my perfect very non-pc tropical suntan.

Turns out that pre-gig preparation is very serious business, takes hours and encompasses a plethora of stages. After forcing Andy to listen to various bits of “world music” – Ethiopian and Indian – in addition to a few other activities — stage one of pre-gig preparations began – departure for the home of the band man in charge and the place where all the equipment lived. For me this meant donning the perfect rock band groupie outfit. Well I’d been on the road for a year and my threads were more then a bit threadbare and it was f-ing cold thus the scanty rock-star band groupie clothes I had twirling around in my minds-eye were not really an option. I managed to slap on a pair of tan suede pants, low-cut black clingy top, accessorized with funky Indian and African jewelry, added tall black leather boots and lots of Chanel and was all ready to slip into my calf-length black leather coat.

Andy on the other hand was lacing up his brightest, whitest tennis. I sort of looked him up and down – faded green lucky t-shirt – one of our activities involved washing the lucky t-shirt (I asked a mutual friend about this t-shirt after and found that this t-shirt had been the lucky t-shirt since their college days), jeans and the afore mentioned tennies “What the hell are you wearing. Andy, “Huh?” – blank look Me “You’re supposed to be a rock-star where are the black leather pants and the silk paisley shirt with feathers flowing off the arms? And what’s the deal with the shoes. Andy (As he tucked a black eyeliner pencil into his pocket. “Hey it’s a rock band gotta wear the sneakers. This is when I also learned that the bass amp got the front seat – which included the nice seat heater.

After folding myself into the backseat to a background monologue of “We need guns Neo” and other Matrix witticisms (long black leather coat appeared to be very inspiring) we drove to Washington State not Canada and stage 2 in rock band gig preparation commenced. As we entered the house of Josh a.k.a. TempleShock headquarters I found myself more then a bit nervous. What sort of etiquette was expected from a rock band groupie? What kind of attitude should I cope? Friendly and effusive? Cool and nonchalant? Hip with great musical acumen throwing dry, cyncical quips to my left and right? Alas opted for – awkward and silent. Figured I looked good though. We tromped through the house down the basement stairs into the TempleShock lair. And so it began. Many gigs later, through a new lead singer and the firing of the new lead singer, and those suede pants are a little too tight due to the cheese burger reward system (oh, you were in Africa for 8 months have a cheese burger, in India all the cows are sacred, plus you walked up those 1000 steps at 12,000 feet, you now deserve a cheese burger. With bacon), but managed to summon some tattered jeans and a chiffon long coat  from my closet. Then there were the boots. Dark red. I never learned the songs, and never saw Andy in eyeliner. But it is with very fond adieu, that I bid Templeshock goodbye (just came from the last gig at the Roselands — a really big place.

And look forward to watching Andy play his bass somewhere else.

Even his house is good. Might even be better then a Templeshock concert since I won’t have to wear ear-plugs

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I Live in a Church

August 20, 2004 in Culture, Essays, Portland, Society

Politics, politics and more politics. I once was a canvasser for a few environmental groups (Clean Water Action Project, Greenpeace). To canvass used to mean knock on doors, commence a very polite discussion about a variety of issues (with your foot wedged in the door to avoid slamming), have an occasional squirrel scale your leg, avoid getting bitten by dog and having to hold some weird guys “snake,” collect some cash, a few signatures, increase public awareness about the toxic waste dump down the street, maybe drink something cold (beer!) and get a glimpse into the lives of fellow humans.

The trend today seems to be “let’s stand outside the cool coffee houses and shout things at people walking in, and then make disparaging remarks when they don’t respond.”

I mean how does one respond to some disheveled activist holding a clipboard shouting “Do you want to help defeat George Bush?” A “NO not at this moment” doesn’t seem quite right, a “YES” not so apropos since I’m already registered to vote and would really like to wrap the damn clipboard around the shouter’s neck. Could go for a “Vote Nader” just to be contrary. I guess I just don’t like shouting pre-coffee, and well an “excuse me, do you have a moment?” might be a tact. Besides they are supposed to be registering voters. Because everyone should vote. Regardless of whether or not I agree with your political slant. In India, elections are won and lost because the people living in slums — these are nothing like what we believe slums to be in the US — these are acres and acres of humanity living in cardboard shacks, washing in muddy streams with fecal contents unimaginable in the West, cooking 1/2 a cup of rice over small charcoal burners for the families one and only meal — line up for days and days to cast their vote.

But at least here in Portland people are talking about their government.

On the MAX Friday on my way to the Airport avoiding the traffic from the Bush and Kerry rallies, I found myself surrounded by “average” people talking politics

Well sort of average.

The primary discussion was between a man? in a flowered shirt-waist dress with fish net stockings, high-heels, bouncing a multi-racial baby named Anthony on his (?) knee, the man sitting in front of him had the look of one of those former Vietnam vets you see wandering around the streets and sitting on the steps of substance abuse recovery centers smoking cigarettes, conversing in exclamation points about their ex-wives. It was a sane, fairly informed conversation. Mr./Ms.? fishnets was voting for Kerry because he/she? was worried about his constitutional rights — particularly since Anthony was his adopted son.

Soon the very large black man (ok I refuse to use the term “African American”, if you want to know why I’ll tell you sometime) sitting behind me started weighing in with his opinions which seemed to be of a more economic slant. He then laughed out loud and related an old skit from Living Color.

Soon the primaries disembarked leaving Mr./Ms.? fishnet, who commented to his traveling companion:

“No one seems to mind about the gay thing.”

At that moment I remembered the greatness of this thing we have going in the US, and the complete and utter strangeness.

end politics

So am no longer inclined to go sit in the nice park just down the street. At first I spent a lot of time there — amazed by the lack of insane creatures drooling on the benches. Unfortunately, my “oh come speak to me weirdest of the bizarre” magnet seems to have kicked in, it could also be due to the “I haven’t had a job in almost 2 years” look plastered on my face — the corps think I’m one of them.

Thus, I’m finished commenting on nice shoes found in the dumpster up on 23rd and how much improved the feet are looking.

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A Few Words About India and the Intestinal Tract

November 27, 2003 in India, Travel

While typing up my travelogue, I realized that there is one topic that pretty much warrants its very own paragraphs. I apologize in advance for offending anyone’s sensibilities — but hey, let me know and I’ll take you off the list.

Excrement, a.k.a. shit is a topic that is thoroughly explored whenever a group of travelers come together here in India. It may be over breakfast, a few beers, a cup of tea, or while waiting for a train. Generally the catalyst is the one poor soul clutching a roll of toilet paper sitting in very close proximity to the “toilet.” There is always 1 whenever you find yourself in a group of 3 or more. He or she generally tries to dissuade the sympathetic and knowing looks, and inquiries as to how long, consistency, do you know where you got it, and are you drinking enough liquids. Eventually the topic is seized upon by all present, albeit delicately at first. The hardest part is coming up with a word that is understood by the mixture of Scandinavians, Germans, English, American, Belgians, French, Russians, Spanish, and Italians. Diarrhea is usually initially attempted by some English speaker, but the difficulty and rather crass nature of having to describe for understanding in the multi-lingual community usually results in the term “the shits” which interestingly enough everyone always understands.

After inquiring about the status/health of the person clutching the roll of toilet paper, the conversation will then lead to the merits and disadvantages of Imodium. This generally encourages a lively debate — you have your purists who refuse to ever take the pills, the pill poppers who have been on the stuff for 2 months, and the more moderates who agree it has it’s uses for long transportation bouts. The conversation will usually segway (or deteriorate) into personal stories of encounters with the shits, then move on to the worst “toilets” encountered with everyone trying to top the other’s stories. Then it is impossible not to address the sheer amount of shit that seems to be smeared across this country. People offer counts on the numbers of people spotted squatting by the train tracks on their last journey, the variety of shit, human and animal that they had to wade through to reach the guest house, and the train stations with the worst stench (no one seems to pay attention to the “do not use toilet in station” sign whilst parked in a station). Once I heard 1 man offering instructions on how to follow a trekking trail in Ladakh, with “make sure you follow the donkey shit and not the yak shit if you’re not sure where to go next.”

In my case, I was plagued for a good two weeks. The entire Ladaki family (running the guest house) and all the guests, would inquire several times a day on the status of my affliction. The family often had serious internal debates with regards to the best treatment. The grandfather would suggest one thing, while the grandmother would disagree. The mother completely censored my food intact and I was not allowed to eat or drink certain things like mint tea or porridge. Even the 9 year old girl got involved by trying to force me to eat — at one point arguing with her mother that I hadn’t had dinner or lunch the previous day and was now only having tea and bread. At the end I was ready to check into the local hospital (this tells you how terrible I felt), when the French anthropologist also staying at the guest house dragged me to the Tibetan Amchee for a cure (I think he was looking for a patient to observe more then anything else since there seemed to be a scarcity of observational subjects and he was studying the transmission of Tibetan medical knowledge). The Amchee felt my pulse in both wrists, and then gave me 3 sets of pills that closely resembled the fecal matter of rodents and possibly a small deer — wrapped in old newspaper, along with strict instructions regarding my diet (glass of boiled water before and after eating, no eggs, and no fresh fruit or vegetables). The pills were awful, but after 1 day I was completely cured.

One of my favorite fellow traveler quotes is from a French Canadian who was visiting India for his 4th time. He commented that occasionally he’d encounter an open sewer in Montreal where there was construction or some sort of infrastructure improvement — the smell always made him extremely nostalgic for India.

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