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.

Instant Cellphone Karma

I was recently hanging out with a friend, who, for reasons that will soon become obvious, shall remain nameless. He was checking his calendar on a big, new, sports-utility phone. Since I’ve been shopping for a new handset myself (going on six years now), I asked what kind he got. It was a Something Something. I don’t remember; the names all sound like bullshit to me.

Anyway…

He told me his last phone got wet. Could I guess how? “It fell in the toilet,” I remembered. Yep, he confirmed, but how?

“It fell out of your pocket?”

“Is that the best you can come up with?”

Sadly, it was. So this is what he told me: He was really drunk (which in most cellphone disaster stories is pretty much a given, right?), and he went to take a piss. At the same time, standing over the toilet, he decided to text a friend.

I laughed, “Oh, no! And it fell out of your hand while you were texting?” But he wasn’t done. He rolled his eyes impatiently and went on.

See he had trimmed his pubes recently, and there he was pissing and texting. So he looks down and thinks, “My dick looks really big right now! I should take a picture!” And turning over his phone to get a good shot, it slipped out of his drunken hand and fell right into the toilet. Plunk!

Efforts to revive the victim were unsuccessful.

“It was like,” he concluded with a shake of his head, “… instant karma.”

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.

Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians

I do believe the title of this blog says it all: Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians.

Matthew McConaughey, Paul McCartney, Bruce Jenner, Jack White, Stephen King — you’d be surprised who makes the list and how much they deserve to be on it. All men (and for that matter, all old lesbians) should study this site and learn to recognize the warning signs. You may be okay with the fact that your testosterone level is now typical of the opposite gender, but do you really want to advertise it?

Exactitudes

Think you’re special?

Then maybe you should check out Exactitudes, a website about a book about a portrait series by two Dutch photographers who “provide an almost scientific, anthropological record of people’s attempts to distinguish themselves from others by assuming a group identity.” It’s compelling.

Even though they’re actually from Rotterdam, I found a lot of typical Portlanders — “Ecopunks,” “Dreads,” and “Emos.” Those looks are international, apparently.

I also found my father, my mother, and my sister. One type I couldn’t find, though, was my own. Seems like I really am incredibly unique. But honestly now, wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?

This

It was an unbelievable 78 degrees yesterday, and my two new roomies and I went down to the river for a ride.

 Kansas vs South Carolina. Joel & Will on the Esplanade.

You can tell a lot from their pictures. Joel, left, is a folk singer from Kansas. He loves this girl’s bike and wears oversized eye glasses and snug check shirts. He couldn’t be more Midwest… or more Portland.

Will, right, is a recent college grad from South Carolina with a vintage hand-made road bike in mint condition. Everything he is wearing, with the possible exception of his bandana, was chosen for its label. Seriously.

Joel peeled off early to go to a show; musicians have to network constantly. Will and I continued along the river, heads spinning around at all the cute guys out in the sun. Since it was all new to Will, we stopped whenever he wanted to look at the view, and he marvelled frequently at how amazing the path system is and at Portland for building it. “I hate to say, ‘wow, Oregon’ but….”

 Teen fixie rats nest their bikes and play along the Springwater Corridor

As we sat on a bluff with a view of the city, late afternoon sun blazing in our eyes, soft warm air drying our sweat, I said, “This is why people stay here. Just think, three days ago, everybody in town was thinking about moving, but now… this.”