Thanksgiving
I had an interesting Thanksgiving for many reasons; some too personal to share in this medium, but I'll share a few.
Number One:
Steve.
Or we'll call him Steve.
There's a pub in my neighborhood that I've grown to love.
For its colorful clientele as well as its cheap beer.
That's where I met Steve. At the pub.
He reminded me of the true meaning of Thanksgiving last week-- being thankful for what you have.
Steve has his health. He has family he's still in contact with, and this year, a place to eat for Thanksgiving.
Steve's homeless right now. And November was a record for rainfall. Tough time of year to be without shelter.
I had breakfast with him the day before Thanksgiving at a McDonald's and we shared our own little meal together, spoke of family, of past Thanksgivings and holidays.
"I thought about starting off today with a 211 (type of beer) breakfast," said Steve. "But I have to prep my stomach for a big Thanksgiving meal."
Here's to Steve and knowing how good you've got it; even when it seems things aren't so good.
Number Two:
Vegan after-Thanksgiving meal.
I've always been omnivorous myself when it comes to my eating habits, but I was invited this year to a vegan after-Thanksgiving meal at a friend's house, and I was very impressed.
To the vegetables sauteed in a soy, tequila sauce, to the mushroom, broccoli, tofu casserole, the meal was very good.
Not that I should be skeptical of vegan cuisine. To be honest, I haven't had a whole lot of it. It was merely a pleasant and welcome surprise with friends.
That's all for now.
Until next time.
My new coat
So apparently I enjoy wearing women's clothing.
I know. It's news to me too.
My winter coat is nearly seven years old, so I went thrift trolling with a fishing line of
$20.
It's really hard to find a good winter coat for under $20, but alas, it can be done.
I know, "Jon, you cheap, cheap, cheap, man," but hey, I went shopping for a new coat and I couldn't find any that I actually liked for under $200. That's another whole zero. At this point I'd rather save my money for other things. Tons of things.
Anyway, I found this great (or at least I think it's great) hounds tooth long coat, that wasn't too long. I'm only five-foot-seven when the humidity is just right, so wearing a long coat can prove an unwise choice. Unless I was auditioning for the Tim Burton remake of the Wizard of Oz. Now that I'm reading that, I really hope Hollywood isn't planning to remake that movie. Those flying monkeys are creepy enough.
So, yes, I found this coat and it looked good.
I stood in the mirror for five minutes. Good.
$14.99??!!
Fantastic.
Well, one problem. It's a woman's coat. Yes it was in the man's section, but it is indeed a woman's coat. The buttons are on the wrong side -- the whole deal.
So I'm wearing a woman's coat, world.
What do you think of that?
I am now a non-conscious gender-bender.
And I have to say, it looks pretty good and, hey, it feels pretty good.
I'm wearing something recycled, so what if it's a piece of woman's clothing?
It's gonna look good with my new sweater.
Gee I hope the sweater's not a woman's.
Eddie Izzard eat your heart out.
Treat your TV: Take it to dinner!
Back on the blog train.
Quick question.
Anyone ever take their television set to dinner?
I did.
The other night.
I had to buy an old tv to hook up an Atari 2600 my new roommate is in possession of. Why you ask? Because I have a severe case of arrested development and I love the games River Raid and Chopper Command, that's why!
I hauled it all the way up Hawthorne St. (don't think I'm an Adonis, it was only a 13-inch set) and decided I was hungry so I stopped by the local sushi restaurant for a bite.
Call it lunacy, but it was rather intriguing to see the reactions people had to a grown man sitting across from his television set enjoying a meal.
"Would you like to plug it in?" The waitress asked me.
"No, that's ok -- I'm good."
Because that would be lunacy.
Going to a restaurant with your television set, and actually trading all the people around you for the comfort of two-dimensional friends.
Eek.
Maybe next week I'll take a lamp to dinner.
Cheers everyone.
Just stay inside
So on a Thursday night, I heard such a clatter.
I rose from my bed to see what was the matter. Or however that goes.
Only this wasn't Jolly Ol' St. Nick outside my window bringing my non-existent children gifts for being on the nice list.
No, this was a small group of young adults, drunkenly accusing each other of something probably minor, completely incomprehensible.
There were a lot of mothereffers being tossed to and fro. A lot of "you want some of this"es and "shut it fool"s.
The spat flared quickly, and soon one of the young gents decided what was needed to end the dispute was a baseball bat, and a few, short, swift taps on another person's vehicle.
More swearing. More yelling. Squelching of tires.
Wait. Is it over?
Nope.
Still three people left. One car parked in the middle of the street and one gentleman, obviously upset. But he wasn't yelling racial epithets or sexual insults. He was trying to apologize.
He told the gentleman whose car had been hit with the bat that he could not defend the actions of his drunk friends. That he respected him. That he respected his property. That this was all a misunderstanding. That he lived here. That this was embarrassing. That his family was here.
The person in the vehicle got out, walked around the car to the gentleman offering his apologies and shook his hand. The two men, and a woman who was also in the car, began to talk more quietly than before about what had happened.
Here's where I come in.
Because I was touched by the maturity of these three young adults, I decided to go down to the street to tell them I thought it admirable that they were able to work their difference out with words, not with bats.
Honesty though, I had called the police just minutes before I stepped outside, which in hindsight, I should have thought of before I went down there.
After finishing maybe two sentences with the three folks in the street, I turned around to the sound of footsteps walking sideways. It was three officers with guns drawn commanding each of us to put our hands on the vehicle in front of us.
I explained quickly that I was a neighbor who came down to see if everything was alright and that . . .
"Please step to the side, sir," shouted one officer.
One officer was placed next to me while I was ordered to put my hands in the air.
The other three were patted down — one was handcuffed, the other two remained as me, with their arms lazily reaching for stars.
Soon there were four officers there, (eventually six) and each one of them took a witness, separated us and got each of our stories.
I was asked to return to my apartment to sleep.
I watched the rest of the event from my bedroom window. There were questions. Some seriousness. A little laughter.
"Wouldn't it be of interest to the police that there was a man who bashed my car with a bat?" said one witness.
"I'm a police officer and it doesn't interest me," said the female officer. "Sounds like it interests you. Sounds like it might be a good idea to not hang out with people who swing bats in anger."
And that's just it.
Why hang out with bullies and haters and people who have some macho agenda to prove?
Indeed.
And also, if there are people outside your home involved in swinging bats, call the professionals and leave it to them. Stay inside.
You just might have a few guns drawn on you, let alone muddle the situation even more.
Height cure
So this week I cured my fear of heights.
A colleague at work with a pilot's license took me up into the wild blue yonder over Portland and Vancouver in a single engine Cessna prop plane.
We took off from Pearson Airfield in Vancouver, Wash., flew over Forest Park, downtown, Lake Oswego, Oregon City, then back up over Clackamas and East Portland.
The highest altitude we reached was about 2,300 feet. The fastest we went was around 120 miles per hour.
And let me tell you, at 1,500 feet, 120 miles per hour seems really slow.
Why is it that in the air, when things are so small below you, speed is of no consequence? Maybe it's just my fear of falling slowing everything down. Maybe it was the four Dramamine I took for the bumps. By the way, never take four. You're only supposed to take two every six hours. I think my friend Les could have flown inverted and I wouldn't have cared. My body was at a slant already.
It was a very comfortable flight actually. Les was extraordinarily confident and detailed in his approach to taking to the skies.
I watched him meticulously go through his pre-flight checks, fuel the plane, wait for the clear signal from the tower for take off, make sure the doors were locked, make sure I was comfortable.
"It's the taking off and landing that are the exciting parts," he said. "The flying part is just like driving a car."
Well, Les, my friend, my car doesn't have that many knobs and dials. I don't have to radio someone every so often to make sure I don't run into any other cars, (although I do listen to the traffic report I suppose every once in awhile) and also, my car, a white Buick, doesn't hover at 2,000 feet above the city.
At 2,000 feet things seem smaller, but not as small as on a commercial airliner.
The details are still there. The moving cars up Macadam, the sun reflecting off the windows of homes, the outlines of the Doug Fir trees of Forest Park, the fishing boats near the I-205 bridge in Oregon City hoping for their first catch of the day.
I was reminded of my contribution to the city's life and how small it is, but also how significant it is.
I could've been in one of those boats, driving one of those cars, hiking in the park where those trees were, chilling in one of the homes receiving its daily dose of sun, and how all of us and everything we do contributes to what the canvas of this city looks like.
And you know what; it's a beautiful place. Sure there are problems below our feet everywhere from the viewpoint of a Cessna, but there's a lot of beauty down there too. And that's what I tried to focus on. For myself. For my city. For my Dramamine-filled stomach and my fear of heights which floated away when I realized how lucky I am to be here. How lucky we all are.
Little League
I don't own a car right now.
Errands take on a whole new dimension when you don't own a car.
So when someone gave me a Target gift card for my birthday, it became more of a burden than a thankful gift. "When am I going to get to Target?," I kept thinking to myself. "Man, I'm gonna have to ride my bike. I guess I could walk."
So this weekend that's what I did. I set out walking from my apartment to the Mall 205 Target store. (Which is two stories by the way, if you haven't been there. Very fun to haul your shopping cart up to the second floor on the escalator — carts get their own escalator which you can race to the top, an added bonus to your Target shopping experience — seeing if you can beat your cart to the top on the escalator. I won. Yes!)
Anyhoo, I'm walking to Target from near Madison High School, up 82nd Ave., home of the #72 bus, my favorite bus for many reasons.
On my walk, I pass by Montavilla Park. There's a healthy game of Little League going on. Parents sitting in their camping chairs, staring at their children with hopeful eyes. Bratwursts on the charcoal grill, filling the air with sweet pork smoke.
I played Little League. I loved Little League. I played baseball into high school. The pace of the game, the salty sunflower seeds, the smell of freshly cut grass — it was a welcome respite, even if I didn't get to play all that much.
And then I remembered that baseball wasn't always full of cherished moments of victory.
Nope, for me it was also a stage for what would be many of life's haunting embarrasments.
I was a junior in high school and a member of the junior varsity baseball team. I got to start a game for the first time that year. Everyone on the team seemed really excited for me — I got a lot of pats on the back.
At this point during my failed career in puberty, most of the athletes my age had surpassed me in talent and ability. My love for the game and my camaraderie with my fellow teammates was the only thing that kept me on as a member of the squad.
I once had a teammate tell me I should be on varsity if merely to supply comic relief to the players in times of stress.
I started in right field that day. Had a good game.
I went 2 for 4 with two singles. Everyone was very excited for me, shouting congratulations and affirmations from the dugout.
Yet, those same kudos were passed along with giggles. Every time someone shouted out, "Way to go, Jon!", there was fits of laughter that followed.
By the sixth inning, I had chalked up the laughter to my teammate's surprise over my .500 batting average that game.
I was on first base. I got the signal to steal.
As soon as the pitcher let fly a curve ball to my base running advantage, I took off for second.
I had no idea if the throw from the catcher was even on its way, but when I hit the dirt on my right thigh with my left foot first, a giant flash of white came over me.
Turned out it was a pair of my mother's underpants which apparently had been static-clung to the back of my jersey the entire game.
Both teams burst out in laughter as I finally realized the cause behind all their laughter at me the entire game.
Walking by the Montavilla Little League game I made a quick scan for static-clung clothing on the backs of anyone's jersey.
But I wouldn't of said anything even if I would've seen it.
'Cause that's the day I learned to not take myself so seriously.
That's the day I learned that just when life sends you something good your way, it always finds a way to humble you.
Ah, Little League.
Good times.
Step Ladder
I was hit by a step ladder in New York City.
Well, not literally. It was actually some other poor guy who got thwonked in the forehead with an aluminum ladder in SoHo. But it felt like it hit me.
An entire three day visit to the city and I saw nothing but a gritty kindness on people's faces. And then, the ladder guy.
But there was the gentleman who stopped on his way out of the subway to help two women down the concrete stairs with a giant box holding a computer printer, scanner, faxer, fixer, upper thingie.
And there was the bicyclist who stopped and wrote down the license plate number of a car who performed an eloquent hit and run off of Broadway and 42nd.
And then there was Anita.
I was looking for the Gramercy Tavern in Gramercy, but every place I went to ask where the place was, I got the same annoying response: "over a couple of blocks, I think," sending me around city blocks in circles. And those are big blocks.
So I gave up looking for the Gramercy and stopped at the Barfly. Seemed clean. Seemed open. Not one for the name, but hey, I needed a cold beer and a booth seat, and whattya know, they had both.
My waitress was Jen. Jen lives in Brooklyn. Jen gave me free drinks after I tipped her handsomely with the first round. I realize its an ugly premise, but money can sometimes make you temporary friends, and I needed a friend that night all alone in New York City, even if it was the person waiting on me. And Jen deserved that tip too. She was good at her job.
Anita came in after I had been there about two beers and a whiskey. She looked (and please forgive me Anita if I'm wrong) to be in her early 60s. Aged well. Hair dyed crimson, a nice contrast against her dark overcoat.
"May I sit with you and have dinner?"
So we did.
We had dinner together.
Me, a visitor from Portland, Ore. She, a born and raised New York City woman. We talked about life, love, love lost, hope, pain and sacrifice.
So, yes, New York City has its share of violence.
The scar on the forehead of that man in SoHo is testament to that.
But after walking around the streets of New York City, seems to me there are more Anitas, Jens, and concerned cyclists then ladder-swinging thugs.
New York City, my friends. The greatest American city for a reason.
