Nesting

For a while now, I’ve been meaning to go to Ikea and buy curtains. I guess it’s a nesting instinct. Winter’s coming; time to make my home a cosier place.

 Portland Ikea: Visible from space

So on a sunny day last week, wanting to get out of the house, I hopped on a bus and then a rush hour train out to the Cascades station, which exists only to serve a brand new, big box retail ghetto. There’s a Ross and Marshall’s and Staples and Sports Authority and, of course, an Ikea, which sits alone in its own sea of parking spaces. The doors of the train used to stay closed at this stop, and you’d look out the glass at vast, empty fields and wonder why we were even sitting here. Now, just two years later, there are streets and lights and banks and restaurants and an all-you-can-eat buffet of American binge consumerism.

And there I was, ready.

 Välkommen

 Träsh

Browsing through the example living rooms at Ikea, it at first seems like an affordable version of that most cruelly named modern furniture store, Design Within Reach. How exciting! Good, modern design actually within reach! But as everyone knows, a closer look reveals that virtually everything in the place is made of industrial glue held together with bits of sawdust. The stuff is cheap in every sense. And what I always forget to remember before I visit is that everything, but everything, is made in China. Basically, Ikea is just Walmart for city people.

Still, there I was, ready.

But first things first. I had actually planned, as part of this little four dollar vacation, to eat at the Ikea cafe. On previous visits with other people, I would look over at the wall of glass with the airport view and sigh longingly. I figured that this time, if nothing else, I could get, I dunno, tea or something. Actually, though, I didn’t have to pinch pennies. I ended up with a fresh veggie wrap in a whole-wheat tortilla with poppyseed dressing, and for desert, an almond cake. Both were relatively wholesome, filling, and enjoyable. Not bad for under five bucks. If I were a sales girl over at Dress Barn Woman, I would definitely walk here for lunch.

 Dinner

 The million dollar view from the Ikea Cafe

At the next table was a young rock hipster, all self-consciously cool, with furry mutton chops and a vintage suede bolero jacket. He was sitting with a much older couple who seemed quite conventional and very clearly Midwestern. I assumed they were his parents and that they would soon be footing the bill to decorate his apartment in a style to which he would like people to think he is accustomed. Later, I saw them all shopping. The son had a big bag bulging with goodies, and the parents walked passively behind him, side by side, saying nothing. I wondered what they thought. Did they get a vicarious thrill helping their son look cool? Or did they just philosophically accept more money down the drain?

Ultimately, I didn’t get any curtains; nothing was right. I just got a blanket (or is it a table cloth?) from the “As Is” section for three bucks. (Made in India.) And I got a box of imported Swedish cookies for one dollar. Clearly food is the best deal in the place; the lingonberry preserves ($3-ish, Sweden) are less than half the grocery store price. I made a mental note.

The trip wasn’t a total wash, though. I got a 2G XD memory card at Staples ($24, Japan). And at Ross, I walked away with a two pack of black Levi’s boxer briefs ($5, Dominican Republic) and a eight-piece placemat and napkin set, much needed, I assure you, and a steal at $7 (India).

(After writing about it just now, I feel the way I felt when I was actually shopping — kind of gross, like I’d just eaten fast food.)

 Ikea bike parking, 100% availability

It was dark when I left. The station was eerily quiet; the train, which was packed full of cell phone chatterboxes on the way there, was almost empty. All the way home, I stared at my sad reflection in the windows.

 Cascades Station

 Empty MAX

 Self-portrait

Back at the house, I knocked on my roommate Will’s door and asked him to give me a hand. With considerable effort, we slid open the dining room table and put in one of the leaves, transforming it from round to oblong. I placed the new placemats, neatened the centerpiece, and put the high back chair at the head of the table. Will and I both stood back and admired it for a while.

Growing up, all of our family meals were taken together at a dining table (and beginning, yes, with bowed heads and a prayer) — no eating alone in your room or over the sink or in front of the TV at our house. That place to sit and eat together has always been for me the hallmark of a healthy and stable home life. I had been wanting a real dining room table for a long time. Now, finally, here it was.

Double Rainbow

Today on my lunch at work, I sat in the park and took pictures. I work every Sunday at Patagonia, which is in the Pearl District, a former warehouse district now redeveloped with Yuppy lofts. Very shiny.

Almost always, I first walk to Whole Foods to get a granola bar, then eat it while walking back towards work, leaving a trail of crumbs and seeds in my wake. In the hottest part of the summer, I would sit in Jamison Square, actually a new-ish park, which is catercorner from our block. I would lie on a bench and nap and then rise with the alarm on my cellphone.

 Jamison Square

The main attraction of that locale, however, was always the men. There’s a fountain that’s a popular place for kids to play, and they are often joined by their hunky shirtless dads. They would preen and strut and stretch and show off their muscle tone (and high sperm count) for the crowd of moms. I refer to the park as DILF Island.

 Tanner Creek

To get away from the throngs of screaming children, I sometimes walk two blocks further to Tanner Creek Park. It’s internationally notable for being an actual restored, functioning, one-block marsh in the middle of a city. Dogs are not allowed, and neither is playing in the “marsh.” So it is quiet and clean.

 Readers in Tanner Creek Park

 Double rainbow

Today, it was in the 80s. So beautiful. I took off my shoes and sat in the grass at Tanner Creek and snapped pictures. Shiny condos, a bride and groom, garage door, exaust vents. Whatever.

Another Sunset

It’s that time of year again, when the skies are cloudless, the blackberries are ripe but almost gone, and the apples are just beginning to turn red. I’ve been going on lots of rides to enjoy the last of the good weather, and my legs are whooped. I’ve picked gallons of blackberries up on Mount Tabor for making into jam then watched the sunset while people made out on the benches nearby.

 Sunset over downtown Portland from Mount Tabor

I recall writing about the very same things last September. Clear skies, blackberries, Mount Tabor, even the couples kissing. Now here it is again.

Growing up, I lived in a hot climate that required 24-hour air conditioning for eight months of the year. My memories of summer were of looking out the window at the glare and quietly reading books inside a sealed, climate-controlled house. It was always, always, 72 degrees, and there was always a quiet tssssss sound coming from the vents. It seemed like living in a space station or an isolated pioneer settlement on a far away planet with an inhositable atmosphere — like Moonbase Alpha, but without the sexy people.

Now in Portland, there are seasons, and my life changes and orders itself according to them. It’s cool. I plant in the spring, water in the summer, harvest in the fall, and hibernate in the winter, reading books and doing crafts. My activity level and my weight both fluctuate regularly and predictably. Without me really trying to make it happen, a natural rhythm has given structure to my entire year, year after year.

I like it. It’s good for the mind and the soul. I’m thankful to live this way, and routine helps settle the details and frees our mental energies to focus on the important stuff. But being me, I can’t help feeling uncomfortable with comfort. What experiences am I giving up to have a life so neat and predictable? What accomplishments will remain undone because they don’t fit into my orderly schedule? When I’m ninety-nine and on my death bed, will I look back and think, “Thank goodness I made jam that year intead of…?”

… instead of what?

One of Those People

A few days ago, I bought myself a new camera. Digital, of course, but I won’t bore you with megapixels and optical zoom stats. It was the last one left, and so was 50% off. I thought it was blue, but bit the bullet and got it anyway. Now that I’ve seen it in the daylight, I think it may actually be purple. Is that better or worse? I can’t decide.

Naturally, I have turned into one of those people. You know the ones. They whip out their little point & shoot for any excuse then spend endless minutes finding just the right angle and flash adjustment. Suddenly, they’re Brassaï.

Because it was actually just unbelievably beautiful out, I went on a ride down the Springwater Corridor south of downtown. Couldn’t leave my new camera at home though. Snapped some (blurry) shots of a cute blond guy fishing with some kid. He never stopped talking on his phone the whole time. Still talking when I passed back the same way an hour later. It’s the new fishing — all the sitting with none of the annoying introspection.

I also saw my share of the old fishing. There was a picture perfect pair of dudes by the river — just rods propped and beers in hand. You know they were bichin’ about their bitches. Bro talk. But hey, at least they were talking to somebody who was right there, making that human connection.

On closer inspection, one of the guys turned out to be a retro punk kid. It made the whole thing that much more charming.

Further down the path at Oaks Amusement Park, I spotted Roller Derby practice through an open bay door. That’s so Portland. Whatever your odd little enthusiasm, there’s a club, team, support group, or social network here for you.

At the end of the path, I picked some berries off an Oregon Grape bush. They look poisonous, but I went to a talk on wild & edible plants and found out that they are high in pectin. Great for canning. Got a bag full.

I also stopped to check some apples on a special tree in the wildlife refuge. Here’s some facts for ya’. Most apple trees only produce a substantial crop every second year. I spotted this tree two summers ago. Fruit so red I could see it a hundred yards off. Made myself a big batch of apple butter. Last year, no apples. Not a one. This year, a bumper crop.

The apples were not ripe enough yet. I bit into one and the tartness made me spit it out. I spotted a couple of other apples on the ground with just one big bite missing. Looks like I’ll need to keep a close eye on this particular tree if I want any apple butter.

On the way home, as the sun was getting low, I tried for the one thousandth time to get a passable shot of this one work of public art. Alas, it eludes me yet.

On the other hand, I could take satisfying pictures of industrial structures all day long. Here’s Ross Island Gravel, which is the first thing you see on the Springwater Corridor. Ah, nature.

Near the end of my ride, back downtown, it was just past that point when the sun has set but the sky is still blue. “Real” photographers are always on the esplanade trying to get the ultimate shot of Portland’s world famous skyline. I chose to take snapshots of the photographers, which, by this point, is almost as much of a cliche.

Later in the evening, I was telling a friend about the new camera and said I’d been taking lots of picures, “but no porn.” He was incredulous. The very first thing he did after taking his Blackberry out of the box, he said, was to take a picture of his dick. Apparently, based on anecdotal evidence, that’s the number one use of digital imaging technology. If so, I’d like to invite all you fellas to share your photos. Or at least point me to your online profile. Come on now; you know you’re never going to be President. Might as well.

East Side, West Side

East Side

We’ve finally — Finally! — settled into the daily sunshine and pleasantly warm temperatures of a Portland summer. It’s an old joke here that the end of winter is the 4th of July, which was pretty much true this year. Now I’ve got to cram three seasons worth of activity into the next two months.

The 4th itself was one of those infinitely long days, the kind that, at the end if it, when you look back at what happened in the morning, it seems like days ago. I started with tennis with a friend, Skip, then took no fewer than four seperate bike rides over the course of the day. My roommate Will and I had a cookout in the backyard, then watched fireworks on the Hawthorne Bridge, then went out to some bars and then ended up dancing on the steamy, crowded dance floor at Holocene until closing time. It was all great summer fun.

This past Wednesday, I was supposed to play tennis with a buddy, Elby, but he decided to bail and drive to the coast. Instead, I hung out with my friend Richard in his little garden at the Kailash Ecovillage. Despite the aspirational name, which refers to a sacred Tibetan mountain, the center of the Buddhist world mandala, home of the Hindu destroyer of evil and sorrow, it is in fact a generic apartment building in Southeast Portland, and if it were just a little bit neater and cleaner, it would pass quite easily for a cheap motel. Nonetheless, his garden is lovely, and I sat in a broken Adirondack chair, drinking locally-brewed (of course) beers while he watered. When it came time to gossip in earnest, we retired to his living room, and he played piano for me while we talked proper trash.

 Kailash Ecovillage, now renting

 Our own sacred mountain community

Eventually, when the beers had done their inevitable work, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Richard asked me, if I didn’t mind, would I piss in the white jug?

Uhhhh….

It’s for the garden, he said, and I obliged. It was a little weird, I will admit. But then, what the hey, I was visiting the Kailash Ecovillage after all. When in Rome…

Not five minutes after I returned to the sofa, there was somebody at the screen door asking if we had any bottles. Great, I thought, a homeless person begging for recyclables — at the door, for goodness sake. But no, instead, it was Richard’s landlord. He was coming around to collect jugs of pee.

[And now, dear reader, I will pause to allow adequate time for you to absorb this quintessential Portland moment. The landlord collected his tennants' pee. ... ... ... Okay.]

The jug was handed off quite unselfconsciously. Some time later it was returned empty. Richard’s only comment was that he would prefer something with a larger opening.

West Side

Yesterday, I had some errands to run and buzzed over to Patagonia just before closing. I naturally ran into a friend at the farmer’s market in the parking lot there. She was with her gay best friend, with whom I have, of course, had sex. (Oh, the gays.) It’s something that is never ever mentioned, though it’s always there in our eyes. (Again, sigh, the gays.) My friend and I somehow fell into that seemingly inevitable I’m-getting-older, I-suddenly-have-all-this-gray-hair conversation. The guy and I just as inevitably fell into a long discussion about the cute fixie rider who works at the pizza shop and how well you can see his dick through his jeans. Is he massively hung? Or does he just display well? We both had many well-developed theories on this subject. (Yeah, again, gay guys.)

 Numbers. Trucking company. Northwest Portland.

Eschewing a beer on the roof garden, I headed for Food Front, the co-op on that side of the river, which seems to be patronized and staffed mostly by neat Yippies, as opposed to the dingy Trustafarians at People’s in Southeast. (It make me wonder: If you ultimately inherit your parents’ money, do you have to switch co-ops?) After buying my four bars of natural soap — a two year supply — I continued on to Forest Park.

 Thurman Street winding up up up into Forest Park

I was going to hike a trail out to the Audubon bird sanctuary, but I missed my turn and ended up cranking in low gears up up up Thurman Street to Leif Ericson Drive. I rode out the gravel path for a while with the passels of lycra-clad, pot-bellied, retirement-age coots on pricey mountain bikes, trying to prove to themselves that they’re not old. There was also an infinity of joggers, each and every one of them with at least one unleashed Labrador mix, running ahead, pissing on everything. Ah, nature.

 The gently curving Leif Ericson Drive. BIG

I will admit that, unlike the mountain bikers, the joggers were, to a man, incredibly fit and uniformly handsome. It was like they had all just come from a Navy Seals beefcake calendar shoot. Running shorts come right up to here, ya know, and all those iron thighs were in full view. I became distracted.

 Ivy-covered garages on Thurman Street

One tall, handsome Viking of a man in little red shorty shorts caught my eye in particular. Since I stopped to take pictures from time to time, he would pass me. Then back on my bike, I would pass him. It happened all the way up the gravel road, then down again, and then even down the street into town. He paid me absolutely no attention whatsoever, which must certainly be true love, right? I wanted to say, Dude, stop following me! Just ask me for my number already! But I guess he was just too intimidated. I have that effect on exceptionally good-looking men.

 Bike path under the I-405 / Fremont Bridge on ramps

On my way back through town, I passed under the ramps for the Fremont Bridge and took some photos. Yeah, it’s a total cliche, but with their dramatic swoops, taking a picture of them is practically a rite of passage for anybody with a camera in this town. I think there’s even a law.

 Requiste arty shots of highway overpasses

I went home to the east side of the river for a while, but wound up back in Old Town to go to a “queer night” and stroll between some gay bars, which, despite my six years in Portland now, I have never done before. I went out alone, but my (straight) roommate Joel got roped into being the designated driver for two gay pals. We all showed up in the same place then decided to make a night of it. First the Eagle Underground, then Boxxes, then Silverado, which has male strippers, another first for me and maybe a last. Not a fan of the shaved butts, thankyouverymuch.

It was all mildly creepy — all these places I never go (with good reason) filled with stereotypical gay guys. It’s a side of Portland I never see and have long imagined extinct. You’d think by this point that absolutely everyone would realize that that gelled swoop of hair in the front looks ridiculous, or that Abercrombie is now right up there with Old Navy in terms of quality, style, and social cachet. It’s like 1996 all over again. With all of the thousands of examples of male hotness in this town, all of the utterly sexy oddballs, all of the incandescently beautiful freaks, even all of the simply natural hunks, why would anyone want to be a generic mall-store clone?

The evening wound down in the same way they all do downtown, with a trip to Voodoo Doughnuts. I got my usual maple cruller. Sometimes I try something different but always regret it. Let this be a lesson, kids: change is bad.

 3 men, 1 nervous doughnut. Billy, Graham, Joel & a sweet little peach fritter.

It had cooled into the 50s; I put on a sweater. (And this is July, folks.) Billy, one of us gays, kindly offered me a ride and put my bike in the back of his mini-van (mini-van!), leaning well away from his own shiny, orange, vintage frame fixie. They dropped me off at home with slightly inappropriate hugs. Strings of Christmas lights cast the backyard in a timeless glow. I parked my bike in its place, turned off the lights, poured another drink and settled down, at last, for the night.

Sue Me

I haven’t been writing for a long while. I keep trying to get started again, but I’ve been busy. Sue me.

This week, we finally had a beautiful day. The east coast was sweltering in a heat wave, and we were having highs in the 50s. On Thursday, with the first warm, dry weather, I was out taking bike rides, one after another. Even as the sun was going down, I rushed up to the top of Mount Tabor to watch a blazing orange sunset.

 Mt Tabor resevoir was empty when I last rode by

On Friday I put fresh “flowers” on the mantle in our woefully bare living room. A month ago, I put some lilacs from the yard up there, and my roommate Will loved them. He said, “It looks like… human beings live here.” So I’ve kept up the habit.

 Flowers on our mantle. Bare white walls.

I also decanted our second batch of Kombucha, which turned out nicely. I’m a convert. There was a tiny paper thin “mother” at the top. The first we’ve gotten.

Mentioning kombucha in Portland is like talking about your chickens or tomatos (or pickles, or saurkraut, or home brewed beer). Everybody chimes right in with their own story. We all bond over our urban neo-agrarianism.

Saturday was the World Naked Bike Ride. Fourth year in a row that I’ve ridden. This time, I got a group of friends to go together. There were reportedly 3,000 people. It was nuts… so to speak. Quote of the night from this straight dude to a total stranger: “Man, you’ve got a biiiig wiener!”

 The view. World Naked Bike Ride, Portland, 2008.

I stayed as late at the after-party as I could, but I have a weekend job now. Had to be up at 8:30. I’m a sales girl at Patagonia. When I rode my bike in to work this morning, I passed all of the marchers in the gay pride parade getting set up in the park blocks. So much going on around here these days. You suffer with nothing to do all through the damp, bone-chilling winter, and then suddenly, everything happens at once.