Other Stuff

Yep, it's hot.

When the snow hits, people can be seen cutting through the slush, wildly over the speed limit, plowing ahead like they are riding on magical Velcro strips glued to the road. They drive in blissful and reckless ignorance of the fact that they are, in actuality, driving on hard rubber tires that are bound to the laws of entropy. It would be comical if the only casualties of such hubris were said idiots and their steel projectiles. But no, pedestrians assume the crosswalks grant them protection from two tons of automotive steel coming at them across the ice. As soon as the little white dude in the "Walk" sign is truckin', people push off from the curb with nary a glance for cross traffic. Ouch.

So now comes the heat. It was 108 degrees Wednesday, continuing the "hot as the gates of Hell" trend of the last week or so. I thank the gods of air conditioning that I managed to resurrect the antique system in my car before the Willamette Valley became an oven. However, as I drive to work in relative comfort, I see people pedaling by on bicycles with the same aplomb as someone on a cool seashore enjoying a fruit drink with a paper umbrella in it. Unless these cyclists are from an equatorial country, I have to wonder what they're thinking. I have been riding a motorcycle for decades, and yet nothing makes me feel as vulnerable as being on a bicycle on city streets. And, maybe it's just me, but doesn't roasting in such heat during physical exertion tend to slow down ones' mental facilities? Bicycling with altered faculties seems like a really bad idea. And considering that folks in this part of the country see little reason to keep the ol' AC tuned and ready, there are a lot of people driving around in cars hotter than hot-pants, people who would rather be anywhere but in a hot-pants hot car dealing with a sun-addled bicyclist careening down the street being chased by sunstroke. Say goodbye to courtesy. I get the "being green" thing: riding a bike to save wear and tear on The Mother. Heck, we at the Darkside went over to compostable cups (speaking of doing the least you can do). However, I can't help but think that the gas used for the ambulance ride would defeat the bicyclist's intent.

I have a dear friend who loves to eat at Shari's and insists I meet him there when I pass through town on my way to pick up film. (As if an ambulance ride and dining at Shari's has any relation--no, none at all.) Think of it as Denny's with more artificial foliage, and booths that are more comfortable and offer some privacy. Yes, I'm aware that just about everything they serve comes right out of the back of a Sysco truck, but I took a chance on the Pesto Mushroom Grilled Chicken Sandwich and was impressed. My buddy has been going there so long he has an avuncular familiarity with the wait staff. There is little employee turnover at this restaurant, so the help knows what he'll order before he does. By association, I am just as transparent. Usually my iced tea gets to the table before I park the car.

On this particular trip it was hot--damn hot. My friend's mom, who has known me longer than my own parents, spotted us in our booth as she lined up with the rest of her luncheon party. She came over to give me a hug.

There are about ten people in the world for whom I will strenuously watch my damn language. She is two of them. So, with that being said, she knocked over a glass of ice water, right into my lap.

Sweet Sparkling Jesus, that was cold.

It is quite a chore to ease the mortification of someone who has just applied 16 ounces of ice water to your manly bits (or whatever bits you are sporting). I smiled and made light. She apologized. I laughed, and promised I would never write a column about it.

The wait staff was on the scene with assorted absorbent goodies. With the seat of the booth dry, soon I had nothing more than soaked jeans between God and Country. I remained nonchalant as my buddy's mom made for the door with apologies trailing behind her like an embarrassed cloud. As soon as she was out of earshot I speculated I might never pee again. Suddenly the 90+ degree heat outdoors seemed enticing.

Not one to cut a good visit short, I spent a moist couple of hours finishing my sandwich and fries, my buddy's fries, and way too much of that kind of coffee that turbo-charges peristalsis. When the time came to leave, I hoped to make a stealthy exit while no one was at the register to view my wet pants. Since the coast was not clearing, my buddy suggested we go anyway. Never one to waste potential comedy, I said, "Hang on. I gotta get rid of this coffee."

In a few seconds I announced I was done and stood up, exposing my wet pants to the wait staff at the register. With more than a couple of them pretending to avoid looking at my crotch, I said, "Sorry. Diuretics." Then I turned to my buddy and suggested loudly that he leave a big tip to cover the cleanup.

Fortunately, I had a pair of pants in my car, slated for drop-off at Vina Moses. My friend had driven his conversion van to meet with me, so I had a comfy place to change. Soon I was back on the road, with the top half of my body somewhat warmer than the bottom half.

There are less extreme cooling measures than dropping paralyzingly frigid liquids onto your lap. Or the laps of others. I made my way to Robnett's and scored one of those mister kits, like the ones they use at da Vinci days. (I can't remember the brand; it may have been Mr. Mister.) I set it up on the deck and spent an hour with my daughter, Emily, waxing philosophic under the halo of water droplets, blessedly oblivious to the hundred-plus degree heat lurking just beyond. Not an entirely unpleasant way to pass a toasty afternoon.

Of course, the best way to fight the heat is to support your local art house cinema. The Darkside Cinema has the advantage of being situated between the first and third floors of the Book Bin building. It's pretty much a thermostatic cave, making outside fluctuations in temperatures less noticeable. Our air conditioner went south for half a day and no one noticed. Inside the Darkside we're cool, friendly, well stocked with popcorn, and cool.

Not to mention that the ice water is free and refillable. Summer or winter.

July 4th, 2009

July 4th, 2009

With the changing of the face occupying the White House comes the promise of change. However, for some there is cynicism about the change being good. Those who tend toward cranky say the decay of our civilization is in full swing, and soon our political system will be as past tense as the Roman Empire: time to grab the flag and get the hell outta Dodge.

To this I say, ""Need help packing?"

Many people notice the whisper of a Canadian accent that belies my northern lineage. During the years we Americans had to live under a Bush, people would ask why I didn't move to Canada, being that I had access. The easy answer to that is two-part. First, I like it here. Secondly, I don't like Canada.

I love all my relatives who live in Canada. I love the lay of the land in Canada. I love the diversity of the big cities and the safety amid the cosmopolitan mix-less common here. In my tortured opinion, to enjoy these Canadian pluses one must endure the huge Canadian negative-namely the seething hatred of the U.S. that is churning just below the Canadian surface.

A few years ago I was going to start the biggest anti-"Tourism Canada Campaign" my humor and venom could muster. The inspiration for this came when I was hit by a car while walking in a crosswalk in downtown Victoria, B.C. The driver was drunk and when I got up I guess I was a little scary, being that he took off in a hurry. My traveling companion insisted on calling the RCMP (cops), which I insisted was a bad, bad idea: I would live. Not inclined to listen to me, my companion made the call. As soon as the cops found out we were Yanks, their attitude turned nasty, telling us there was nothing they could do since we wouldn't likely be coming back from the States to go to court. They were not polite about it. They wouldn't even take the license plate number of a possible drunk driver. Alas, I knew this is exactly how this would play out. I've lived there. I've endured this prejudice.

Someone of a pro-Canadian bent might ask how this "Perceived Anti-Americanism" is so different than the American prejudice rampant in France. First, the distaste the French hold for us is far from subtle. Second, have you ever been to France? It's worth the crap from the locals.

But this is not the main reason I would not move to Canada. The real reason is that The United States of America is my country. The bad guys in government and business cannot have it. They are not going to push me over a border so they can have their way. I'd rather stay and fight for what I believe this country to be and can be, rather than vanish into the north, thinking I can blend in by wearing hockey jerseys and ear-flapped hats. Maybe the fight here would earn me the "Don Quixote Idiot of the Year" award, but I would rather piss off our national landlords by staying here and working to improve things, than running to another country whose residents look down their noses at me.

I lived in Canada in the 1970s, when many U.S. citizens avoiding the draft were crossing the border looking for asylum. Most of these people were not cowards. Most were thoughtful people. There is a kind of person who would simply die if forced to live in a jail or a jungle. Neither of the government options offered when their draft number came up-prison or military service-would have been survivable for these people.

This is immensely different than Alec Baldwin in 2000 publicly threatening to pack up his bags and head for Canada if Bush were elected. There shortly followed a whole wave of people, both famous and not, making the same proclamation. If you're leaving the country in protest, no one who counts politically is going to notice. Matter of fact, the very people who are trying to take over the country will hold up the border-crossing gate for you. I'd rather think that just by being here, the very presence of those who disagree with the prevailing powers are making a stand.

This town is full of people who were on the front lines of the resistance to the Viet Nam war. They can tell you what it was like to watch the escalation of hostilities, one body at a time. It was the anti-war movement that created the Case Church Amendment.

The Case-Church Amendment was legislation approved in 1973 that prohibited direct U.S. military activity in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia without Congressional authorization. This ended direct U.S. military involvement in the Vietnam War, although the U.S. remained a belligerent of the war providing military support to South Vietnam until the Fall of Saigon in 1975. (Wikipedia)

The people who made this happen were not in Canada. They were here in the States, on the campuses and in the streets, fighting against creeping imperialism. They were, in effect, fighting to save their country. These people are patriots. These people were in it to make their country better. Okay, that, and for the chicks.

The peace movement in the 60s and 70s against the Viet Nam war armed future generations with the tools to fight against wars today. It fertilized the grassroots movements that moved the powers that be into the powers that were in this last election. We just saw a fundamental change in the usual White House occupants. This was best stated in a popular e-card: "We've now learned that a decimated economy, a clusterf***ed war, and the worst-run Republican campaign in history is all it takes for America to elect a black guy."

There are warriors, those who go over the oceans to fight in a war against forces that have been deemed a threat to the United States. The lesson some people have learned from Viet Nam is that there is a difference between the war and the warriors. Spitting on returning soldiers and calling them "baby-killers" proved to be an idiotic welcome for the returning disenfranchised. Those sadder-but-wiser soldiers could have been helping to bring others home-before there was a need to bring them home in body bags. Today we see people like Stephen Colbert, working with the USO to show support for the men and women sweating out their tours in the Middle East. Colbert's distaste for the war machine explodes from his show on Comedy Central four nights a week. With bludgeoning sarcasm, he lashes out at the most flagrant constitutional eviscerations perpetrated by our elected officials-violations that perpetuate the war. Stephen Colbert backed this up by going to Iraq for the troops (and the ratings). And maybe in a small way, he helped with that important distinction between the war and the warriors. In a rare break of character, the real Stephen Colbert ended his USO tour acknowledging the very real distance between the perceived service of soldiers and the "holy shit" way they really live over there.

To me, this is a sign that people on both sides of the picket line and the aisle are working together to end something-regardless of how it started and for what. This is my United States.

The tobacco industry was brought to its knees because of the work done by those who chose to stick around and fight. Now I can eat dinner in a restaurant without breathing in exhaled crap from the smoker at the next table. This was a fight against the most entrenched and virulent form of political influence and lobby. We won. Our country won.

This is the country I will not leave. Gandhi pointed out that everything we do is insignificant, but it is very important that we do it. Sometimes the key is to just hang around and be one more point of light in the wash of hope that change will come. In many ways the mighty have already fallen. The machinery is turning. We can still poke at the remaining Goliaths with the sharp stick of free speech, and the right to assemble, and the right to intone the god(s) of our choice. This is real hope.

This is work that cannot be done as effectively from afar. You can see our Fourth of July fireworks from Canada. They can be viewed as a glorification of war, or as the celebration of freedom. Pick one. Or both. Or, you can see fireworks as a call to action to make this country stronger. There have been many dark clouds over this country and chances are good there will be more. However, today there is no smoking in bars. Tomorrow all children will have access to health care.

We have unprecedented access to information that we can use to effect change. Yeah, you have to surf through oceans of porn, spam, and search results topped by those who can pay the most. But with less effort than moving to Canada, you can quickly find out who is gathering to talk about, to do something about, to show movies about the clouds that darken American skies. This doesn't remove the responsibility of thinking for yourself, or the responsibility of considering the skies over other countries. But, the Internet is a tool that can make things different this time around.

For this, I am excited and grateful. I think I'll stick around and see what happens next, eh?

Reentry

The Avalon reigned over the Corvallis independent and foreign movie scene for ten years, until it blazed out in a flame of glory to the songs and dancing of THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW on the last night of her valid liquor license. Costumes and toast and noise filled the hollow of the auditorium--an auditorium that had been seeing less and less attendance due to the proliferating number of movie theater seats in a town already over-screened. But this night was the last night of the Avalon Cinema. The whys and woes were not part of the picture. It was the culmination of a grand experiment that rode a wave--a wave that was sure to crest limply, into the sands of time.

When midnight dawned on that final show, beer sales stopped. The screen became dark and people walked out into the street, stunned momentarily silent by the cool and quiet of the contrast, by the simplicity of buildings and skies compared with the chaos of revelry behind them. They walked away, leaving a trail of neon feathers and echoing laughter behind them skimming along the sidewalks trying to catch up. But when the gay partiers rounded the corner, peace stayed behind, drawn into the night sky. I stood there watching this, feeling the permanence of this change; knowing I had to shake it off since there were interviews to give and cleanup to be done and hearty pep talks to be spread among the remaining faithful inside.

The Darkside had recently stirred to life a few blocks away, inhaling the soul of the now dead Avalon.

With the cameras and hangers-on shooed into the street, I shut off the Avalon Cinema sign one last time. The buzz of neon had been a background noise in the Avalon for a decade. The room became stark in its absence.  

That was two years ago--June 2007. Now, in June 2009, I am finally able to walk back into the Avalon building. First time in two years. Oh, I'd been by there at night, peering into the window like an errant ghost afraid of its haunt. Cloaked in anonymity, I would say hello to the familiar shapes and shadows that remained of the old theater. Maudlin, yes. So what?

The nocturnal visits dulled the pins and needles of the inevitable daylight visit. The first step was to stop in at Sibling Revelry, the clothing store that came into being the same time the Avalon did. We sowed our businesses together, planting our hopes in the once fertile economic soil of enterprise. Our lives had become entwined by all the hours we spent in the same building at the same time. The Sibs, as they were known, managed to maintain a solid core of workers. Since the Avalon also saw little worker turnover we created a snug little community. We saw each other through deaths, life, divorces, and illness. We shared secrets, fears, love, and politics over counters and in the hallways. We knew each other's kids and kept up on how they were doing, while maintaining the respect necessary to get along for ten years under the same bow trusses. Dramas came and went with circumspection--as they do in every genetically or geographically bound collection of people.

The first time in two years I parked on that street in the daytime, I knew I had been missing the Sibs more than I cared to admit. The decorated pole was still outside their front door--standing there like a flowered welcoming sentry. Years of life had streamed by, but the sibs were as warm and welcoming now as they'd been throughout all the years before the Avalon became a husk.

The other part of the building that wasn't Sibling Revelry had seen two incarnations since the Avalon closed. It was this distance and change that made me feel like both an invader and a resident when I walked into what was once the Avalon lobby--my lobby. New walls turned this part of the building into something I didn't recognize. I pulled out and dusted off old memories as I looked up and saw the colour of the ceiling above and the slope of the floor below.

Two years before I wasn't sure I would survive losing the Avalon. I have in fact lived through all the losses I was so sure would take me down.

This is but one story played out in the storefronts of this town. Windows that once displayed the goods of one business now are draped with promises of a newer enterprise. One of the disadvantages of youth, besides thinking those bug-eyed sunglasses are beguiling, is having traveled fewer miles down troubled waters...without a paddle.

For many of us, this is not the worst we've seen it. The good thing about having spent some miles bailing out the boat is the knowledge that even if it sinks, the sun will come up, coffee will still taste good, and Rayban Wayfarers are still the best damn sunglasses ever made. Most of us will not think twice about once again casting ourselves into the rapids of commerce.

I think my river metaphor has been dried out into an arid creek bed.

It was one of those Oregon afternoons that's a payoff for staving off depression through the winter--except maybe this day was a little toasty. We had spent the hottest part of the day making short work of the cool mountain roads. Now we were back onto the valley floor, standing at the end of a dusty driveway. It was where its owner kept his shady oak tree, under which we now lingered. Listing on their side-stands were our motorcycles, singing out crackling and popping noises as the exhaust pipes and shields flexed their way back to ambient temperature. We three men of unsophisticated dress stood about, each with one hand in a pocket and the other holding a beer. The conversation was not likely to end up in an award-winning screenplay about quantum physics. But it was okay. It was a day off and our families were somewhere other than in earshot, and our pagers were turned off.

A sound rose from behind the rise. Like cheetahs zeroing in on an errant gazelle, we stopped our intellectual wanderings and turned toward the sound. It was a combustion engine set upon two wheels; of that we were all sure.
 
"It's an old Triumph one lunger."

"Nope. It's a side-valve Harley 45."

"I'm leaning toward a Shovelhead with loose tappets."

The sound got louder.

The first thing we were sure we'd see over the hillcrest would be a motorcycle helmet. Instead it was an exhaust pipe. Rising like antique grey sun, an old Ford tractor came into view.

We watched it go by, like we were the opening credits of King of the Hill. When it passed, after a puzzled pause one of us said, "I could use another beer." The other two nodded solemnly as we all walked from under the shady oak toward the house.

This story hasn't got a damn thing to do with the first part of this piece. However this whole essay seemed too short. In my defense, every year when the temp breaks 90 degrees I remember this particular summer afternoon.

No one said it was a good defense.