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.

Happy Monday Epic

Every once in a blue moon, on a Monday, or within four days of a Monday, I post photos of guys smiling.

This time around I’m starting off with a local builder of custom bikes. I assume that means he welds, brazes, drills and screws everything together from scratch. We’ve got quite a handbuilt scene here in Portland, and it’s getting to be almost as common as home-brewed beer. Every heterosexual dude in town is dreaming of fabricating sweeeet frames in his garage, and also dreaming of the inevitable devoted following that will extend his waiting list years into the future.

Though relatively new to the profession, the builder on this page, Tony Pereira, has enjoyed some degree of acclaim. I will admit, however, that his appearance here is for no other reason than to enjoy his charming grin.

I stole the image from Rapha.cc, the website for the maker of astronomically expensive cycling clothes. They have a whole section of thier site called Rapha Continental, which is devoted to “epics” — rides of epic distance and difficulty. In reality, though, they are tough-but-doable day-trips, usually within easy reach of a major city. Fifty to a hundred miles of canyons, gravel, hairpin curves, impossible grades and forest, bookended by coffee on one side and beer on the other. Perfect for the wannabe road warrior with a day job.

It’s all very well done, I admit — photos, descriptions, maps, elevation profiles, etc.. — all ridden and presented by local somebodies. Portland’s rides feature this racer, Ira Ryan, also a frame builder, who is like the Paris Hilton of our hero worshiping bike scene. His presence provides that all-important celebrity athlete endorsement to the ride. Ira would do this ride. It’s worth trying because it’s good enough for Ira. This is no mere stroll in the park if Ira would do it. I must be pretty tough if I could do a ride that Ira could do. Oh God, I want to be Ira.

So, yeah, they cover all bases, and it works. This is heady daydream material for anyone who wants to slip on an old wool cycling jersey and pump and sweat and crash and bleed and maybe even puke away his day off all alone (or with some buddies) in the woods. I’ve got to admit that one of those daydreamers is me.

I heard about Rapha Continental at work, where all the guys love to do outdoorsy stuff — mountaineering, snowboarding, surfing, kayaking, biking. It’s just a retail job, but I feel entirely underqualified. One of them mentioned recently that he had done the Dutch Canyon ride in Forest Park, and I looked it up and swooned.

It’s only 50-ish miles and close to town, but I already know I wont be doing the ride. I don’t have anybody to go with me, and I don’t want to tumble off a hillside or break my collar bone (again) or even just get a flat tire when I’m thirty miles from home down a gravel road, two hours before sundown, and all alone. It just wouldn’t be fun.

That’s the thing, I guess. That’s the pleasure and pain of the site. It’s all doable. It would be awesome. But it’s going to remain, like so much else in life, just another dream.

You Are Beautiful

You’ve seen the stickers. Now see the website.

 Portland

 Philadelphia

If you send them a self-addressed, stamped envelope, they’ll mail you stickers for free. Be the first on your block. Or the tenth. Whatever.

Chair Whore

I am the proud owner of 18 chairs and one stool. How did this happen?

 Almost all my chairs

Some people take home mangy stray dogs; I take home broken chairs. Every one I own needs some kind of repair, and I’ll get to it someday. A couple of weeks ago, my roommate Becca bought a house and told us she would be moving. That meant I might have to move too since everything is in her name. Nonetheless, when I walked home from the grocery store the next day, I picked up another old chair somebody had put out with the garbage. I couldn’t resist; it had genuine leather. (It’s the modern one above. Top row, second from left. Black and chrome.)

I can only imagine how many of the sad old things I’d own if it weren’t for Burning Chair, my annual Labor Day celebration. This year, five were sacrificed. They were the ugliest ones or most unfixable, which makes me feel a bit like I’m casting out the weak members of the tribe or abandoning my sickly grandmother on an ice floe.

 Little white chair after years decorating the front yard…

 … it had to be put out of its misery.

I’m going to stay in our house after all, but I have been surprisingly busy lately fixing my chairs. It’s like I want them to be presentable for the new roommates. I want people to think they’re cute, to see that they’re perfectly good. I’ve gotten kind of attached to my little flock, you see; I don’t want to part with any of them. I feel responsible, and if I don’t take care of them, who will?

Tower

I was downtown shopping tonight (REI, of course), and I stopped to snap a picture of the Union Bank of California Tower, one of the better buildings in Portland, architecturally speaking, and also one of my personal favorites. It has a companion tower of sorts in San Francisco, and I always liked that one. So when I moved here, I noticed ours right away.

Like all distinctive things in Portland, the building is controversial, or in any case people like to complain about it. Their main beef seems to be the tower’s air of superiority, the prideful refusal to fit in with its neighbors, but I think the real issue is something else entirely. As much as the folks here congratulate themselves on being liberal, open-minded and progressive, the reality is less noble. Fact is, they’re insecure comfort whores. They want pretty; they want cosy; they want nice. And they want traditional, unchallenging architecture, which this building quite plainly is not. There is no evidence of humility, no attempt to pander to the local yokels and help them feel okay about themselves. So a friendly building it ain’t, and that’s the ultimate taboo in a town obsessed with huggy affirmation.

Critics of the Union Bank tower complain that it is rigid, austere and self-important, and it is. But then, it’s a bank, and not just a bank, but a bank tower. A display of power and pride is exactly what you’d expect, and I think that that is appropriate for an important edifice. In fact, I think it’s a civic responsibility to make just such a display. It’s like wearing a suit to the office: That may be overdressed for blue-collar Portland, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do.

Besides, as arrogant and aspirational as the building is, it is also intellectual, sensual and sculptural, with high quality materials and attention to detail that suggest, if not overt friendliness, then at least a certain respect for Portland’s people. It’s relatively sophisticated for a generic office tower in a second tier city. I don’t mean to say it’s a masterpiece. For one thing, it’s painfully dated, and for another, it’s entirely formulaic. (… but then so is the classical architecture everyone loves so much. Formula is the result of trial and error, after all. It’s what you get when you’ve perfected a style, and it helps to avoid past mistakes, of which there are many in Modern architecture.) But the Union Bank tower is something in a town where there’s not a lot of anything. In fact, that may be it’s main disctinction.

Last year, Andy made a lovely little short film about this very building, and his friend Brian Libby, an architecture journalist, provided commentary. It’s an interesting acknowledgment of a minor gem that might have gone unrecognized in a larger, more glittering metropolis. At under three minutes, there’s no reason not to watch it. So go to shoeintheroad.com and click on “Union Tower.” Then you can judge for yourself.

The Esplanade

 Steel Bridge leading to the Esplanade across the river.

I went on a ride a few days ago, one of my standard routes: down to the river, around the downtown Esplanade loop, then south along the Willamette on the Springwater Corridor. Downhill, uphill, city, and nature. It’s fifteen miles, more or less, and only five of those are on the street. The rest is all smooth, flat, riverside paths. Three hundred million dollars just so people could enjoy their lives. Gotta love Portland for that.

The light was perfect; it always is in fall. Warm and mellow, illuminating faces with a golden glow, but also casting long, foreboding shadows. On Sunday the reflections off the river lit the undersides of all the bridges, and I took a lot of pictures.

More photos at my new flickr account devoted to Portland’s “built environment.”

Whenever I consider moving away from Portland, I wonder whether I could ever find another place to live that’s nearly so pleasant. Whenever I ride around the Esplanade, I wonder to myself, “How could I ever leave?” Yet I still consider it. Is there any excuse for wanting more when I already have so much? Maybe not, but I do.