Author: Brian

In six days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

In the past decade, since the instigation of my family’s tradition of traveling somewhere warm for Christmas, many of my birthdays have been spent on an airplane. At least in the early years, before I began making my own travel arrangements and not leaving it up to my sister.

Because of the position of my birthday, perfectly balanced between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and with the generally high cost of travel on those two holidays, my sister would typically book our return on my birthday. Whee. I get to spend my birthday shuffling in and out of airports or crammed into an airplane.

The second Christmas trip I participated in was perhaps the first one filled with meaning for me. It was 1998, and I had moved away from my hometown to take a job in Austin, Texas, working as a contractor for Apple Computer. Austin was home to many tech companies, and Apple kept their sales support and tech support people there, rather than in Cupertino, California, where their corporate HQ was (and still is). My position was in Customer Relations – not tech support, not sales support, but the team that solved customer problems and dealt with complaints.

Being so far from home (2,315 miles) made being with my family more important than before, but I was working hard trying to get a “white badge” at Apple – not just a contractor, but a full employee, with all the benefits and prestige that entailed. Well, it was prestigious to me, a confirmed Machead. So I let my sister, back in Portland, make the arrangements. That year our destination was Cancún, Mexico.

However, I was having trouble navigating the politics of internal Apple; even though everyone around me acknowledged that I was following protocol, two of my customers had complained about me all the way to the top… Steve Jobs himself. One would wonder how one man was capable of micro-managing a company of (then) 8000+ employees worldwide, but such is the genius of Steve Jobs.

The Friday before I was set to fly off, my boss pulled me into his cube and laid out the scenario. He knew I loved Apple, and I knew the company and products backward and forward, so he had fought to keep me at Apple. But I couldn’t stay on the CR team. It was too high-profile and they couldn’t allow the highly-emotional customers to keep complaining up to the iCEO. It was bad for the whole team.

My choice: go to straight tech support, or sales support. They both paid less, and even being offered the choice was demoralizing. I picked sales support for reasons I no longer remember.

My boss urged me to have fun in Mexico, clear my head, and come back and keep trying.

What a way to start a vacation.

I kept this secret from my family the entire time we were there; mom and dad, my sister and her husband, my sister’s mother- and father-in-law, and their adult son, David. And I threw myself into “having fun” mode from the first moment I landed. Story for another time, I suppose…

When it came time for us to all return home, though… I was broke. I had overspent. And the reality of what was waiting for me back in Texas was sinking in again.

We were all traveling together, on the same plane, as far as Dallas. Then I got on a plane to Austin, and everyone else continued on to Portland.

When we got to the Cancún airport, though, there were problems. I didn’t pay much attention to those problems, but we eventually got onto an Aeroméxico flight to Dallas. I was hungover, headed back to a demotion and completely broke, going to a city I had failed, in six months, to make my home.

When we got to Dallas, we were late for the next flight. My sister and her in-laws managed to wrangle tickets on the next flight out that night to Portland, but my dad was not so lucky. He did talk Southwestern into putting him, mom and me up in a hotel overnight, as the least they could do for all the problems (it was Southwestern’s problems that caused us to be bumped back in Cancún).

I remember us almost losing mom in the tram system at Dallas, before we could get to the hotel. It was cold outside, and we had to walk a long long way with our luggage. It was made to seem even longer because we had to deal with mom’s frailty and complaints. The reason, or one of the major reasons, we had begun to travel for Christmas was because a few years earlier, mom had fought, successfully it seemed, lung cancer; the trips were our way to celebrate that. But the treatments had left her weak.

The three of us finally got to the hotel, after having flown and walked and argued, with airline personnel and each other, all day. It was exhausting. Travel often is. We were mostly silent as we checked in.

As dad and I said goodnight in the hotel corridor, outside our rooms, dad said, “It’s your birthday.”

It was after midnight. Technically it wasn’t my birthday at all. But we hadn’t gone to sleep yet, and it felt like the longest day, ever. And we would all have to be up early to catch our respective flights back to our final destinations. I laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Let me at least buy you a drink for your birthday, son.” I agreed.

He got mom settled in in their room. I dropped off my luggage. Then we set out to look for the hotel bar.

Which was closed. We had a good laugh over that, then shuffled back to our rooms.

The next morning I got up early and flew back to Austin. I didn’t stay very long; by February I was back in Portland.

But that’s a different story.

In seven days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

As a kid in America grows up, there are certain milestone birthdays to look forward to. Reaching the age when a driver’s license is possible, or the age when one can vote, or the age when one can drink, legally.

Lost in the midst of all those, however, is the age imposed on people who love movies: the age when one can see R-rated movies.

Seventeen years of age.

That was the age at which a person could see an R-rated movie without having their parent or guardian there. So when I turned 17, I wanted, more than pineapple upside-down cake, more than presents, I wanted to see an R-rated movie.

And my first “legal” R-rated movie was “Sharky’s Machine”, a Burt Reynolds cops-and-robbers thriller.

I picked it because most people in my family liked Burt Reynolds. This is not surprising. Lots of people liked Burt Reynolds. He was a huge star back in the 70s.

I wanted a movie that promised lots of action. A “boy movie”. I remember reading about the showpiece stunt in the film prior to it’s release: a 220-foot stunt fall that has never been surpassed even today.

But I have to admit that, mostly, I picked that movie because, to me, an R rating meant one thing and one thing only: nudity. I knew that Rachel Ward, the starlet playing a mob boss’s girlfriend in the flick, would probably, very likely, show her boobies.

So, after my birthday dinner at home, after some delicious pineapple upside-down cake, me, my sister, and my parents drove down to the Southgate Theater, a cinder block warehouse of a theater, and bought tickets for “Sharky’s Machine”.

…wait, what? I was 17. I did not have to have my parents’ permission. I did not need to be accompanied by my legal guardian. As long as I could prove I was 17, I could see any R-rated movie I wanted to.

And yet, my parents did, in fact, go to see it with me.

Now I look back and am a bit embarrassed by that. Details are fuzzy, but I’m certain that the reason mom and dad came with me was because I had no job of my own, therefore no spending money of my own. But maybe mom and dad just wanted to see that movie themselves?

In fact, waaaaaaaaay back when I was 7, I remember my parents taking me and my sister to a drive-in theater (remember those? Also, GET OFF MY LAWN) to see the R-rated “Fuzz”, staring Burt Reynolds. My parents made us kids hide in the back seat because they could not find a babysitter. I remember peeking up over the top of the front seat and seeing Burt Reynolds and his partner dressed up as Catholic nuns; Burt had a line complaining about his balls. Even at that young age, I knew what balls were and I thought that line was hilarious, a fact which scandalized my mom.

At 17, ten years later, watching a movie with much profanity, a tiny bit of nudity (there’s a quick scene where Rachel Ward is getting dressed while talking to Burt and we get a glimpse of boob), and lots of fake action (of the 220′ fall, only a brief moment of it was used in the movie; the rest was obviously a dummy), I had come full circle and, perhaps, made my parents a bit uncomfortable watching that movie with me.

Probably not dad. But probably mom, at least.

Harsh weather brings out the good and the bad in people.

The Good:

• Earlier in the, the #70 bus driver stopped for me even though I was a block away from the stop. Then when I realized I had forgotten my wallet (and bus pass), he waved me on, anyway. That rocks! (Sadly, I needed my money at my destination so I had to decline. But I thanked him profusely!)
• This afternoon, while waiting at SE Milwaukie and Powell St., a bus driver who wasn’t on a regular route (his sign said “Center Garage” – funny story, for the longest time, as in, for all the years I’ve been riding the bus I thought that meant “the central, or main, garage” but only realized recently that it means “The garage at SE 17th and Center Street”) stopped to let me and several others on, after warning us that he was only crossing the bridge and going downtown, which is all I needed. That rocks!

The Bad:

• On my way home from a movie tonight, the driver of the #19 Woodstock got to SE Milwaukie and Powell and told his passengers that he’d broken a chain and that he had to return to the Center Garage, and that we could not stay with him while he got the chain fixed, stranding us. The next #19 wasn’t due (according to Transit Tracker, which isn’t that accurate during the Snowpocalypse!) for another 45 minutes! That’s not rockin’.
• Since I was stranded near an AM/PM Mini Mart, I decided to wait inside. After about five minutes, the guy behind the counter asked me what I was doing there, and told me I could not stay there, kicking me back out into the snow on the snowiest day in Portland in my lifetime. I told him he was awesome and wished him a Merry Christmas. Motherfucker. That’s about as far from rockin’ as it’s possible to get.

Got any stories of the weather bringing out the best or the worst in people?

Three days ago:

Today:

I am about sick of all this fuckin’ snow.

THAT IS ALL. FOR NOW.

In eight days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

…Then there was the year a plane crashed in Portland on my birthday.

1978. It was a Thursday, according to the calendar. It was cold and rainy, and I was 14. Just 14. I don’t remember what presents I got that year, but I do remember that the family, dad, mom, my sister and I, all went out to the Cattle Company restaurant on McLoughlin Blvd. for dinner. Or maybe it was the Sizzler?

Steaks, anyway.

No, now that I think about it, it was Cattle Company. I’m pretty sure.

I got my presents and unwrapped them at the restaurant, and after dinner we all piled into the Datsun 810 to drive the couple miles back home. Dad turned on the radio, and I remember him shushing everyone in the car so he could listen to the news report.

United Flight 178, a DC-8 with 181 passengers and 8 crew, had run out of fuel while flying from DEN to PDX. The crew was apparently trying to solve a problem with the landing gear.

It crashed at 6:15 PM in the Parkrose neighborhood. There were 10 fatalities – 2 of them, crew. I can’t find information on whether or not anyone on the ground was injured or killed in the crash.

We didn’t know most of that at the time. We drove home and immediately turned on the news to see a reporter standing in the dark holding a microphone.

I can’t distinguish, now, 30 years later, between my memories of seeing fictional plane crashes in movies and on TV, or my actual memories of watching the news that night. I don’t remember how much is true. I don’t even remember how I felt, other than, “how strange that a plane would crash on my birthday”.

Thinking about it now, though… surely most of those people were either flying to, or flying from, family for the holidays. Death is perhaps the most unfair thing about the universe we live in.

Which makes life itself the best part, I suppose.

In my review of “Milk” I drew a line from gay activism and their growing acceptance in society, and the atheist community:

“Harvey Milk’s idea of making the fight personal by putting a face on what is otherwise an abstract idea is a good one. And the goal of getting more atheists elected into office is also a great route to take. The atheist community is only now beginning to organize and speak as one group. It’s going to be a long fight, but studies show that, as education rises, so does non-belief. Education doesn’t just mean advanced degrees; it can also mean just talking to your neighbor or friend.”

Over on Open Left Chris Bowers notes that Pastor Warren has explicitly said he hates atheists, as well, to absolutely no one’s surprise.

Bowers, who normally writes strictly about politics, is apparently a private atheist. He has internalized the social pressure, the privileged status that our society has given to religious belief.
Bowers says he rarely discusses his atheism:

“Now, atheists, like the LGBT community, are not as numerous as evangelicals. The most recent poll I could find on the subject showed 78% believed in “God,” 14% believed in a “universal higher power,” and only 7% believed in “neither” (1% was “unsure”). When you are an atheist, it is pretty obvious to you that you are in a small minority. Further, since many people, not only Rick Warren but often members your own family, consider your atheism as somehow an affront rather than just a personal lack of belief, to make life easier you do your best to never bring up religion as a topic at all. Just being left alone about it becomes both the short-term and long-term goal. I don’t even like writing about it on Open Left, because I know that some members of my family read it.”

I have never met Chris Bowers, but I have read his posts for the past 4 years or more. Based on his words, I do not take him to be bashful about voicing his opinion. He is passionate about getting involved and speaking up; and he does it in a thoughtful and well-reasoned way. That’s why I found his submission in regards to religion a bit of a shock.

That a man who has gone from being a student to being one of the leading lights of the progressive political blogosphere would suppress a significant part of his identity just shows me how marginalized atheists are.

That someone I admire would then draw the same conclusion as I is immensely satisfying; because Bowers goes on to draw the same parallel between gays coming out of the closet and finally beginning to be accepted by society (though unevenly and with still so much struggle ahead) and the fact that most atheists yield to the social pressure that says stating our non-belief in gods is, somehow, an attack on those who believe:

“However, as atheists, it is probably time that we stopped being withdrawn about our beliefs. Our public image is lower than even that of homosexuals, for example. The reason it is lower is because they fight for their rights and they fight for inclusion. We atheists don’t. If we are all working together to try and end homophobia as a tolerated, mainstream position worthy of the inaugural benediction for a Democratic President, then we should probably work to make intolerance of atheists unacceptable, too. When we start excluding certain groups, it has the potential to spill out over into all groups, as Natasha wrote yesterday at MyDD.

If I am not speaking up for my owns rights to tolerance and inclusion, how can I speak up for others? A lot of the problem is probably my own damn fault, because I have never bothered to even ask for inclusion and tolerance of my beliefs. So, let me start with this: I am an atheist, there is nothing wrong with my beliefs, you are not going to convert me, and so you are going to have to live with it.”

Absolutely right. The more of us that speak out and identify ourselves, the more people will realize that we are everywhere. Everyone knows an atheist.

When we talk about what we believe (or don’t believe), it does not mean it’s an attack on what others believe.

It is not OK to hate us or marginalize us. It has never been and it never will be, for us or any other group of humans.

And pointing out that others hate us is not equivalent to intolerance.

In nine days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

When mom would ask me what kind of birthday cake I wanted, early on, I remember being very impressed with the pineapple upside-down cake.

So sweet and decorated without frosting. Yum. And the sugary, sort-of crust that formed on top around the rings of pineapple… delicious.

Mom would make it in a rectangular Pyrex baking… thing. Pan? It was Pyrex and see-through, the kind of thing you’d bake a lasagna in (which was another item on my mom’s small menu of recipes). Not a traditional layer cake. I would always request a corner piece – I don’t know why, because it’s not like it had extra frosting. The candles would go in the middle of the pineapple rings – or maybe mom filled those holes with cherries? I remember it both ways.

I don’t remember how or when I first heard or tasted the pineapple upside-down cake. I imagine that my mom must have made one during the year, and it so impressed me that I had to have one when the opportunity came up for me to choose one special cake for my birthday.

Everyone in my family had their favorite cakes for their own birthdays. My dad’s was white cake with cherry bits, and cherry-flavored frosting. My sister loved chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

Sadly, I don’t remember what kind of cake my mom wanted for her birthday. Was it just that she never requested one because she was the one who had to make it? Or did she have a favorite and I have just lost that memory? Alas, she is gone and has been for over 7 years so I’ll be unable to ask her.

As I grew up, though, my tastes changed, and my requested cake was simple: white cake, chocolate frosting. This cake was made as a layer cake and slathered in frosting. And to this day, that’s what I choose when I have to choose a favorite kind of cake.

Mmmm… birthday cake. Why am I hungry now?