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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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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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