Category: General

On my way back from my run. Tired, sweaty, it’s been hard and slow because of the heat, and because I can literally see the pollen in the air, feel the grittiness in my nose and throat and eyes, in spite of the drug I take to combat my allergies. Have you ever seen a picture of a pollen? It’s all spikes and hooks and sharp edges. It’s no wonder they’re irritating. I’m surprised more people aren’t allergic to them.

I’m three blocks from my finish line, and I’m passing a blue car I’ve seen before. On the back is an oval sticker for the Rose City Rollers, a local group of hot women roller-derby-ists. Derby-ers?

As I’m approaching the car, an attractive brunette girl is walking out of the house this blue be-stickered car is parked at. She’s wearing a flowing long skirt in a tie-dye pattern, and a loose shift open in the back showing her tanned back. She’s wearing the huge round sunglasses that are so fashionable right now, white plastic rims. And she’s leading a tiny little dog on a leash.

I slow to a stop in the middle of the street and look at her. She’s walking the dog and ignoring me.

“Is that your car?” I ask, loud enough to catch her attention.

“It’s my roommates,” she says cautiously.

“Oh, I just saw the,” I make an oval shape with both hands “sticker on the back.” She smiles, I continue. “For the Rose City Rollers.” I smile now that she’s not so guarded.

The girl nods. “Yeah, she used to be on the Guns N Rollers.” A chirping starts and she pulls out a cell phone, checks the screen, starts to open it.

I give her a thumb’s up and start running again. “I just wanted to say I’m a fan!” I call over my shoulder.

She waves at me as I go.

Out the door in running clothes (including my trusty Brooks shoes – I’m still getting used to the new Nikes), as I pass the house two doors down, I see two ladies standing in their driveway. In their late 50s or early 60s, they’re dressed in simple cotton skirts and blouses, and each has a scarf covering their hair.

They’re part of several families where the men always dress in slacks and white shirts, and the women always wear dresses and scarves on their heads. I’ve seen them on Friday nights, joining the other families from my block and elsewhere, going to the fenced-off building at the end of the street.

The building is large, with a large parking lot, but there are no signs or other markings to identify it. I’ve often thought it was a church, or a meeting hall of some kind, and have been curious, intensely curious, about the private people that march in, and dress so… antiquely. The younger generation talk without an accent, so they’re not immigrants or an isolated ethnic culture. The house on the end of the block, with another family of similar fashion and habits, often emanates piano music, but I can’t say that I’ve ever heard the sounds of a radio or TV from it. But they have cars; I’ve seen the young girls, or an older woman I take to be the mom, out washing their mini-van, but still in a dress and with a kerchief over her hair.

I’ve nodded a hello in the past, sometimes in my street clothes, sometimes, as today, in my running clothes, and I’ve often wondered if they think me immodest in shorts and a t-shirt.

Today, though, on my way past them, the two ladies are standing in their driveway. One of them holds a pair of field glasses, and on a tripod there sits a small telescope, pointed at the sky. It’s about 5:00 PM, and still daylight, and warm. I notice them, and they smile at me.

In perfect English, the lady with the binoculars says, “Do you want to see something? There’s a science lesson going on.”

Because of my previous assumptions my first thought is that this is some kind of religious pitch. But since I’m still learning to say “yes” to the universe, I nod and approach them.

“Just take a look there,” she says, pointing at the telescope. I move around. It points up and to the south and east. I look up in the sky but see nothing. “Just put your eye to the scope,” the lady says. “I’m not going to say anything until you look.” She seems to be enjoying this.

I look, and see, not the Moon, or some celestial object or event, but a large bird of prey, on top of a telephone pole.

“Oh,” I say, astonished. “An osprey!”

“Yes!” the lady says. “You missed him eating his dinner. He had a salmon, a big one,” she holds her hands two feet apart. “He was tearing into that!”

“That’s awesome!” I say. I point west, towards the river. “He has a nest down in Oaks Bottom. I’ve seen it.”

“I wonder what he’s doing up here? And why is he eating it here, and not in his nest?”

“I don’t know.” I want to get going on my run, start to walk away, laughing at myself and my weird notions about these ladies. Other than their way of dress, they seem quite ordinary. “Thank you.” I’m thanking them for the opportunity to see the osprey, and for the opportunity to talk to them, all at the same time.

How much more clean can one get than “squeaky clean”?

None more clean.

It’s the most clean one can get.

Hearing that there’s going to be a film adaptation of “Where the Wild Things Are”, one of my all-time favorite children’s books… my breath catches in my throat, and my mind flashes on all the various ways it could all go horribly awry, and fail to capture the slew of feelings I have of reading that book.

Maurice Sendak’s art is what made the book come alive for me, though the story is also a simple one that should be familiar to any child or parent – young Max is making trouble around the house, and is sent to bed without supper. In his room, a forest grows, and the forest is populated with monsters. Max conquers the monsters, being half-wild himself, but eventually grows bored and lonely. Upon his return to his room, his supper is still waiting.

“And it was still hot.”

The monsters in Max’s forest look very much like Muppets; the Muppets originally appeared in the 1950s, and Sendak’s book was published in 1964, so there may be some influence there.

There are few directors that I would trust with material that holds such emotional appeal to me; Terry Gilliam, though his production would be way over-budget and take forever to produce; or Tim Burton, though he’s a little too slapstick; or Michel Gondry, actually, might be perfect.

My anxiety was relieved, however, to hear that Spike Jonze is directing. *Phew*. Someone who handled the material in “Being John Malkovich” and “Adaptation” so well, will do a good job of translating the story of Max to the medium of film.

It doesn’t hurt that Dave Eggers is writing the screenplay, though. Mr. Eggers’ novels appeal to the little kid in me – or the little kid who likes to read at a college level, at any rate.

The part that makes me saddest is that I know people who haven’t even heard of the book! Tracy gave me a blank look when I excitedly burst into her office with the news. I asked Stacy, who works in the cafeteria here, about it, and got the same non-reaction.

I’m not even going to ask Ken about it… Though he’s free to comment if he’d like. Kevin? Have your kids read “Where the Wild Things Are?”

I’m tempted to draw a line from the lack of knowledge of this wonderful book, and the terrible state of affairs in the world today. Doesn’t President Bush, strutting around in his flight suitseem exactly like Max, running around in his wolf suit, scaring the dog and knocking things over? President Bush thinks he’s the King of the Monsters, but we’d be so much better off if he would just come back and finish his supper…

At any rate, I’m very much looking forward to this movie now. I’ll be sure to see it with my youngest nephew… also named Max.

One day, I post about going to Chicago instead of Vegas. And within days, I meet and spend an afternoon with a woman originally from Chicago, who’s traveling back home at the same time I’m going to Vegas.

She had just watched “The Man With The Golden Arm”, a Frank Sinatra movie. And while spending time with me, we had gone to a music store, on my suggestion. And she was floored when, as we approached the check-out, she spotted a postcard bearing the poster for that movie, by itself on a rack of postcards. She purchased it, to send to the friend who had recommended that movie.

When that friend receives that postcard, what event will happen shortly after that shows the connection continuing?

To: TriMet Contact Us
From: Brian Moon
Subject: Driver early, inconvenienced riders

TriMet line #33 McLoughlin, Bus ID 2630. Driver was early and knew it because she waited about 5 minutes at SW 1st and Madison before crossing the bridge. Waited again at the Hawthorne Bridge stop (east side of river), then again at the next stop on MLK, while she talked on the phone with dispatch.

While on the phone, another #33 passed us.

There were about 6 passengers on the bus with me. When the driver got off the phone, she let us know that she had to wait for 10 minutes because she was early “and I can’t be that early.”

Driver should have communicated with us about being early BEFORE being passed by the on-time bus.

When I pointed that fact out, the best she could do is tell me I could get off the bus if I was in a hurry. That’s simply adding insult to inconvenience, and very poor customer service.

Good thing I wasn’t kissing anyone or I would’ve been thrown off and blacklisted by the drivers.

There’s something in the air tonight. Is it a full moon? I’ll have to check (sadly, I don’t just automagically know the phase of the moon. That would be a dumb super-power). Is it the fact that the summer solstice was yesterday? Is it the weather – a little sun and warmth and everyone’s suddenly running around with a heightened sense of sociability and friendliness and, dare I say it?, sensuality?

‘Cause I’m feelin’ it, too. And I’ve been putting out feelers here and there, and getting responses like crazy. I smile at an attractive woman and she smiles warmly back. I say “hi” to another one and she says “hi” and pauses to talk, for all the world giving me the impression that she was just waiting for me to say something, or for anybody to say something, to give her the opportunity to interact.

Earlier I was sitting in a coffee shop by the window, employing my male gaze and watching the attractive women go by (and don’t get me wrong, I have a wide variety of tastes. You might be surprised) and the least response I get is a quick, last-minute swiveling of eyes in my direction, to see if, in fact, I was looking their way.

And some of the responses are almost unbalancing, startling me with the hunger and need to be entertained, laid naked and bare with the simplest of opening lines from me. I’m no Casanova. I’m not “smooth” or a player. I’m just a funny guy who’s learning to put aside his fear and take some small chances in the world. I’m trying different things. And it seems that companionship (yes, I’m being vague on purpose – I’m not just talking about the lowest common denominator, but the wide spectrum that the phrase represents) is right out there waiting for me to take, if I want it.

This sudden availability is causing me some whiplash of the heart. It’s challenging my assumptions. And, like the over-thinker I am, I’m trying to pinpoint the reasons, the causes, of this change. When instead I should be reveling in it, rolling in it like I’d roll in clover; itself a phrase that is linked in my mind with love and embrace and crazy childlike joy and, especially especially, with just plain winning.

Here I was, steeling myself to dive into water that I expected to be freezing cold, mentally braced for the iciness and frostbite, telling myself “I can handle it and it will be fine once I’m in there”, taking deep breaths for my plunge to the bottom… only to find that it’s blood warm and buoyant, supporting me on comforting waves. Imagine my surprise.

Imagine my surprise.

Is it illusion? Am I imagining it? How much “real” is this, and how much is like faerie gold, golden yellow at first but turning into dry leaves if I try to spend it?

Aw, poetry. Can I just enjoy the looks, and the “hello’s” and the brief conversations about nothings? Is it enough for my eyes to trace the curve of cleavage only to look up to knowing, smiling eyes? Is it enough to put out a call “is there anyone out there?” and hearing “I’m out here, too”?

Maybe. And maybe the more of those I get, the more of those will advance to the next stage. I’d hate to reduce the music and dance of human interaction to mere numbers – but numbers have their own music, as any geek will tell you – or any musician, for that matter.

I’m so ramble-y tonight. I’m going to go out and prowl the night for a bit before I hie me hence to bed.

And apparently the moon is only 57% full, according to this page.

Everyone who knows me knows I’m a brand loyalist. Apple computers. Levis jeans. And for running, my beloved Brooks shoes.

Sure, I’ve tried other brands of running shoes. Had a pair of Nikes when I was first starting out. Tried Adidas Supernovas, and a pair of Asics Gel GT-2100s at one point. But I always came back to Brooks.

The Adrenaline line has been my personal running touchstone, always in a men’s size 10 EE. But with the Adrenaline GTS 7s… something changed. They were loose, floppy. My feet felt supported but my foot rolled around on top of the support like they were on pillows. And my heel, my right heel, got sore, and painful, and stiff, and in spite of several-times-a-day stretching and icing, almost every day, the pain and stiffness never completely went away.

I knew that the shoes were part of the equation. Tracy just knew that my wearing Chucks, with their complete lack of support, all the freakin’ time I’m not running, might be aggravating the problem – or even causing it in the first place.

With all that in mind, yesterday I wandered into Portland Running Company’s SE Grand store, with Tracy as my chorus and cheering section, to try something different.

Rob was funny, and agreeable (almost too agreeable, actually), and he sniffled a lot (it’s allergy season) but I got the impression that he knew shoes. And after much trying-on and running-while-Rob-watched and shoelace-adjusting and thinking…

…I bought a pair of Nikes.

The Nike Air Structure Triax 10, to be exact.

You thought I was going to say I got the Brooks, didn’t you? It’s OK to admit it. I was surprised myself.

Rob was also able to sell me on some shoe inserts. Biofoam, I believe they’re called. Because of my heel pain, he suggested I needed more support, and I will give them a try. I’m also wearing the inserts in my Chucks – which feels odd and weird but they do seem to help, even after a single day. Tracy likes being right about stuff… and she’s been right about a lot of things lately. She’ll like this being pointed out in “public” (as public as a blog that gets about 500 readers a day is, at any rate…).

Ken and I were on our way to lunch (delicious Taco del Mar) (oh, and Tracy was with us, but she was on a phone call so might not remember), driving down SE Grand Ave.

Ken said “Wowsers” in response to… something. Probably an attractive woman walking by or something. Yes, actually, I’m sure that’s it.

I replied, feeling kinda rhyme-y, much like Fezzik, “Bowsers!” But then I added “…but that’s not really a word.”

“Yes,” Ken said, “it is.” He pointed out the window, in front of us. I saw a large tanker-type truck. “That’s a ‘bowser’.”

“Really?” I was excited at learning a new word.

“Yep,” Ken said. “I drove bowsers all the time in the Air Force. It’s basically a big tank on wheels.”

“Oh, I see. Is that just military slang? I’ve never heard that word before. Is it new? Old?” Anyone who knows me knows I love learning new words.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. We had these tanks on wheels, fixed in the back, steerable front, and we’d fill them up with fuel and tow them around with trucks.” He paused significantly. “Hence, we called those fuel bowsers.”

“Oh. Oh, cool.” I thought a moment. “So that one” I pointed at the truck, still ahead of us “is a milk bowser?”

Ken nodded. “Yes.”

“And one filled with…” What, I thought, would be an outlandish liquid that you’d cart around in a truck? “…canola oil, would be a canola oil bowser?”

“Right. Though that could also be used as biodiesel.” Ken’s a big proponent of alternative fuels.

We arrived at the restaurant and the conversation shifted to other topics.

All of this is prologue to explain why I sent Ken an email, containing a link to this story from the Oregonian, with nothing else but the phrase

“Pig’s blood bowser!”

in large, friendly red letters.

I hope he laughed out loud when he read it.

As I alluded to earlier, I had an idea for an awesome road trip. I’ve been doing some preliminary planning, and it looks like it would be a bit expensive. I’ve decided to start saving for it, and tentatively plan on doing this next year.

But, what is it, you ask?

I call it, “The Home of the Blues”. The idea is to start in Chicago, and drive south, tracing (basically) back along the Mississippi River all the way to New Orleans, stopping along the way in the towns legendary in American music, representing country, jazz and the blues; St. Louis, Nashville, Memphis, before ending up in Crescent City, my favorite city in the whole wide world.

(Being a baseball fan, I’d likely also make a side trip to Louisville…)

There’s so much to love about this trip, at least for me (Tracy, though a big fan of driving, greets this idea with a shrug – for herself, anyway). Except for the Big Easy, it’s all part of the country that I’ve never seen before. The cities I mentioned are (according to Google Maps) all between 3-5 hours driving time apart, so if I took a week to do this, I’d have about a day in each city to do some sightseeing. And since New Orleans is my all-time favorite, and since anticipation is as much, if not more, of the pleasure, I’d have it to look forward to the entire time.

But riddle me this, Batman: why is a one-way ticket from PDX to ORD more expensive than a one-way ticket from MSY to PDX? That seems odd, though it might be a result of the dates and times I was using to plan my trip.

(Random things one finds out with “teh google” – MSY is the airport code for Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans because the airport was situated on the former grounds of the Moisant Stock Yards, named after a regional aviation pioneer, John Moisant, who crashed there.)

Alas, between a car rental and the two one-way flights, this is out of budget for me on a spur of the moment. I will put it off a year and start saving up for it. That will give me some more time to plan out the stops I’d like to make along the way.

I so want to do this, though.