Pirate Dog PDX

Did you have pi last week?

On Friday, March 14, my pal from Uncle Charlie's Physical and Biological Sciences division was in Portland visiting family. As a special treat, we got together for lunch on Friday. Little did I know Friday was a very, very special holiday for science geeks.

It was pi day. As most of us know, "pi" is a number that equals 3.14. So on March 14, science weirdos celebrate by eating pie. Isn't that cute?

I thought so. My science guy took me to lunch at Ten-01 in the Pearl District, a fancy cafe for beautiful people (like us), where we enjoyed a major manga-fest of fancy bebe hamburgers served with french fries in truffle oil and mustard aioli (if you ever can, do). We each had a glass of Oregon wine, which was a special treat because science guy and his partner own their own wine shop in Santa Cruz (recently written up in the Wall Street Journal, thank you very much), so they know what wine's supposed to taste like. When dessert time came, our perfect server gave us a fabulous list of options, but there, my pal put his foot down.

"No pie?" He asked. "No." She said, having exhausted a list that caused me to go all Homer Simpson on her impeccable apron. Instead, with the check, she brought us little chocolate candies on a perfect plate, and I ate both of our servings, since neither of the chocolates were pie. Apparently, pie on March 14 is something of a religious value for our science geeks.

Oh! And, here's a fun fact about March 14, the highest of science holidays. In addition to being "pi" day, it's also the birthday of Albert Einstein. Now, you will always remember that and never forget to send him a card again.

It was a great lunch. Afterward, we walked over to his favorite chichi chachki store, Canoe, and did a quick run through Anthropologie, where I continued my epic search for a belt I like. As I walked my pal back to his car, we passed by a woman wearing a t-shirt with pi on it. "See!" He said. It was as though a parallel universe had been unveiled for me. How sciency!

Lest you think my pals are all about the academics, I'd like to direct your attention to my science guy's homepage for his part in the AIDS Ride. He's doing an insane bike ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles with a bunch of other insane people, who really want to fight a disease that has taken so many of our friends and family in the past 30+ years. If you feel motivated, please donate on his page. If not, that's okay. Never hurts to ask.

Anyhoo.

At lunch, I realized how much I missed my UC team members. Though the politics of a large public university can be frustrating (tree sitters anyone?), my friends are smart, funny, and have quirks like obsessing about pie on March 14 and interests like saving the world and spreading good wine to the masses. In short, they are my kind of wackos. I can't wait to see everyone next week.

Remind me of that, will you?

French Clowns Celebrate Death

Portland is a regular stop for the fine folks at Cirque du Soleil. Specifically, my 'hood is home to the big circus tent that holds Cirque. Therefore, my coffee house and esplanade are crawling with French carnies this month.

Sacre bleu!

The big blue and yellow circus tent is about half a block from my apartment, where it apparently lands every year. French circus workers and acrobats are skipping en Francais to and fro for coffee, cocktails, and not one of them is in a beret.

Which brings me to my point: Why is it you can always tell the French are French even when they aren't talking? There's something so Maurice Chevalier about their gait ... their aura ... their (oh hey!) their je ne sais quois. If you guessed it's because of their bull dogs, you're wrong. These French folks are bull dog-free ... much to Rico's bitter disappointment.

This year, the Cirque is performing Corteo, which means "cortege" in Italian, which means a solemn procession to a funeral in antiquated English. In this case, it's a musical play about a clown imagining his own funeral. As much as I don't love clowns, I have to say, French clowns make me want to throw up in my mouth. Clown funerals, frankly, I never had an opinion about, but if it's going to involve clowns miming mournful tears through harlequin makeup, I'm thinking ... no. As long as we're at it, I don't love mimes either. (Don't tell Rico. He will argue that miming an under-rated talent.)

I feel like a jerk for it. Everyone who has seen Cirque du Soleil has raved. "Oh! It's AH-mazing!" I know.

And yet, here's what the French, themselves, have to say about Corteo:

Juxtaposing the large with the small, the ridiculous with the tragic and the magic of perfection with the charm of imperfection, the show highlights the strength and fragility of the clown, as well as his wisdom and kindness, to illustrate the portion of humanity that is within each of us. The music, by turns lyrical and playful, carries Corteo through a timeless celebration in which illusion teases reality.

For $205/ticket. Tickets to the Baghdad Theater (where I saw Into the Wild with a glass of wine and a veggie burger) are only $3.

But still. It's fun to be smiled at in a foreign language. It's good to have them dans ma cite.

A Chihuahua Walks in Washington Park

This week, Rico and I went for an early morning walk through Washington Park. The city of Portland dedicated the park in 1871, shortly after they'd logged the crapola out of this hill, the entrance at the time. Felled logs from this section of woods were used to build homes for the 8,000 people living in Portland before the turn of the century.

At the time, this part of the park was a playground for area children, including John Reed. John Reed, thanks for asking, is the only American buried in the Kremlin in Moscow. As a journalist who covered World War I, Reed enjoyed a front row seat for the Communist overtaking of the Romanoff monarchy. 

Reed was a little impressed: "I suddenly realized that the devout Russian people no longer needed priests to pray them into heaven. On earth, the were building a kingdom more bright than any heaven had to offer, and for which it was a glory to die." Somebody's smitten. He turned his smit into the book, Ten Days that Shook the World, then founded the American Communist Labor Party. FYI, Americans indicted Reed for sedition in 1919. (Freedom of Speech, anyone?) He fled to Russia, where he almost immediately died of typhus, at the age of 32. Awkward for the Russians. So, they buried him in the Kremlin. Nice gesture.

Though this water fountain/wall is not Reed's, a memorial that lets short people enjoy water fountains as much as tall people seems very "Viva la proletariat." And, it's next to the moss-covered stairs that lead to his stomping grounds. FYI, the "Stearns" that Stearns Memorial Water Fountain is memorializing is Judge Loyal B. Stearns, a local resident who felt that a fountain was needed at that precise spot. Dude had money.

As we climbed the hill, Senor Suave got to engage, unfettered, in a squirrel quest.

You cannot tame the wild squirrel stallion! Don't even try.

At the top of the hill in Washington Park is the Oregon Holocaust Memorial (2004). Like so many holocaust memorials (and area water fountains), it's a wall with names of holocaust victims. What's so emotionally moving about this memorial is the long path that approaches the wall. It's littered with bronze representations of toys and belongings that the Jews and other holocaust victims would have lost on their way to the concentration camps.

A suitcase, an old doll, book, eye glasses, a broken menorah, and a teddy bear lay abandoned, littering the long walk up to the wall. I dare you not to be touched.

Walking on, we stumbled into the Portland Rose Garden. It's internationally famous as a test garden--the oldest official test garden in the United States.

The Rose Garden was established during WWI when European gardeners fought to preserve historic roses that were being lost to bombings and trench warfare. Roses bloom from May through November, so the coolest thing to see at this time of the year is the daffodils. The chihuahuas bloom year-round.

Also in bloom year-round is Portland's favorite tree, the Douglas Fir. A word about how our favorite tree got a first name like "Doug."

Though the tree was first described by Archibald Menzies, it's named for Scottish botanist David Douglas. In 1823, Douglas was sent to the Oregon territory by the Royal Horticultural Society and he was just batshit for what would someday be the state. He spent the next 20 years adventuring in the region, and discovered 50 species of trees for the Scotts.

Okay. Here's the small bummer: In 1834, Douglas went to Hawaii to gather more plant species for the Royals. Also exploring the island were wild bulls, an invasive species that developed from a gift of cattle to King Kamehameha in 1791. The locals were capturing the bulls by digging deep pits along the trails, then camouflaging the pits with big leaves. Douglas, though he'd been warned about the pits, had terrible eyesight and fell in a pit. Right behind him, fell a wild bull. Douglas was gored to death.

It's not the cheeriest story, and I like to end on a happy note. That's why I'm using this photo. That obelisk in front of the Douglas Firs was erected in 1903 to commemorate the visit of President Teddy Roosevelt who buried a time capsule there.

Somewhere.

Nobody realized that the exact location the time capsule was buried hadn't been recorded until 2003, when the president's great-grandson visited to dig up the time capsule. To give the junior Roosevelt something to do whilst he was here, the city erected a statue to Teddy Roosevelt in front of the history museum. I love that.

Raw Deal

Once upon a time, I had a roommate who was a wonderful raw foods chef. Chef Anna Masteller offered classes through Whole Foods and other venues in Monterey and Santa Cruz county, as well as potlucks that built a great raw food community and allowed us all to try our not cooking skills out with each other. Yes. We're talking hippies, since you asked. Sparkly, clear-skinned hippies.

Sometimes, Anna let me be her lovely assistant ... chopping and dicing and doing my best Carol Merrill to her creative uncooked genius. She, in turn, provided me with an entire week of raw cuisine for my first year at Burning Man. I've never eaten or felt better.

Then, I started dating cooks. I packed on pounds and though it has all been delicious, as I regain my health, I'd like to do it raw. A little more, at least. To that end, I attended meetup.com's "12 Steps to Raw Foods: How to End Your Dependency on Cooked Food." It was free. (We love meetup.com.) That's the deal part.

Raw food? I hear you. You're afraid I'm going to meet people like this:

So you know, smartie pants, this guy is Viktoras Kulvinskas, cutting-edge researcher and raw food pioneer. For 40 years he's been a raw foods authority. In the 1960s, he founded Hippocrates Health Institute. He's been featured in magazines and journals including "Vegetarian Voice," "Vegetarian Times," "Vegetarian World," "Health Street Journal," and "Alternatives."

I used to have that shirt. True.

It wouldn't be so, so bad if I met people like this.

Meow. This is Dr. Jameth Sheridan (not his stripper name, fyi) who is  a leading researcher on the effect of raw vegan foods on health and healing. He established www.RawFoodResearch.com to publish his on-going research and feature his raw medical hotness for anyone on the fence about raw foods.

I didn't meet him, so you know. Which is fine. But seriously. Look at those arms. That microphone is obviously heavier than it looks.

I looked for a photo of my friend Anna online. There's a truckload of articles about her, but no photos. Which is too bad. Her skin and eyes are also enough evidence for anyone who is considering what a raw food diet could do for them--just in case Dr. Beefcake isn't convincing enough.

Portland Buns o' Steel Tour

Every week, at Weight Watchers, we make a commitment to do something to get us closer to our health goals. I committed to doing one of the walks from the book, Portland Hill Walks, by Laura Foster, which the handsome David bought for me.

Unfortunate side note: Upon hearing about my commitment, my otherwise lovely Weight Watchers leader Shelley told the class, "This is a great book. I know Laura. She's from Ohio. We forgive her for not being from here." As a gypsy/pirate, I h-a-t-e "You ain't from 'round here, stranger" regionalism. It was huge in Santa Cruz, too. Except there it was, "Locals only, dude." Shut up.

Anyway.

Today's walk was a 3.5 miler that took me from my own neighborhood through Goose Hollow into Portland Heights.

I started the walk at the Portland Art Museum, where Rico and I have walked many times since it's close to our apartment.

I learned today that the museum was designed in 1931 by the famous modernist architect Pietro Belluschi. Born in 1899, Belluschi was educated at Cornell University. Besides designing this building, he served on the teams that designed some of Reed College's buildings, the Multnomah County Library, and the uber-cool Meier & Frank building that houses the sacred downtown Macy's. Belluschi went on to become the Dean of Architecture at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), so Pietro was something of a smartie pants.

As all people named Peter are. (Start your blog, sweetie.)

Next on the tour was the downtown Safeway. I found it unremarkable at first, since this is my regular market.

In fact, I was there last night when a man with no teeth told me that I could take his place in line, even though I had as many groceries as he did. When I said, "That's okay," he said, "Don't you know that Deepak Chopra says you should accept gifts?" So I thanked him and took his. While I checked out, he told me "3:10 to Yuma" is his favorite movie. I told him I saw the first one (from 1957), but not the new one with Russell Crowe. He said the old one was better. Glenn Ford was a teensy baby when he made the movie, and, in fact, it was very good.

The guidebook states that "This is not your mother's Safeway, with suburban parents carting their toddlers around. The customers are a bit more eclectic here." Indeed. Quoting Chopra and all.

Besides dispensing historic and "not-my-mother's whatever" facts, I love that this book reveals secret staircases that lead walkers from one neighborhood to the next. Here, Senor Suave revels in 158 steps of freedom.

The book also brings celebrity to countless microdots on the planet, you'd otherwise miss. This tree was planted in 1910. It is called by the book, "a giant curb-eating sequoia."

The house whose curb is being eaten used to contain Nan Wood Honeyman, who was a gal pal of Eleanor Roosevelt and in 1937, she became the first Oregon woman in the U.S. Congress.

Next on the tour is a cool house at 2030 SW Vista Avenue. Built in 1885, it's the oldest house on the street.

AND, it's for sale! For a mere $1.7 million, you, too, can own 6,000 square feet of 12-foot ceilings and fancy molding. I must have it. Shiny, shiny.

It's right around the corner from an "authentic ruin."

This is the antique brick gate house for the city's reservoir that was deemed insufficient for the city's use by 1895, when it was abandoned. Still, cool.

Not in the tourbook was this cool public sculpture.

And this private one--honoring Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July.

It belongs to this house.

I only bring these last points up because it's the microdots on the planet that make walking in Portland worthwhile.

Like San Francisco, it has painted ladies and gorgeous cityscapes. Like Santa Cruz, it has natural beauty. (That's Mt. Adams in the distance. I gotta learn how to shoot volcanos.)

But, it's not either of those places. And, these walks reveal details about Portland's specialness that leads me to understand why Shelley is such a protective native. Still, I'm staying.

And, I'm telling everyone.

Color+Light='MILF' Flattering? Horrifying? Both? Don't the Germans have a word for that?

With a wardrobe that would make a UPS guy say, "Enough with the neutrals," plus brown hair and blah earth-tone makeup, I was ripe for a fashion intervention. A brown-ectomy. My dad was kind enough to provide this photo, illustrating the problem. (Did you know I used to be short, in addition to being heavy?)

Frankly, the long Portland winter hasn't helped. I was plodding along, head down, until Groundhog Day. When Punxsutawney Phil doomed us to six more weeks of winter, I thought, uncharitably, "They should fricassee that fat squirrel." Winter must die, no matter what the groundhog thinks.

Thus, I spent most of the rest of the week pining for sunshine. Which the universe generously granted on Saturday ...

If memory serves, this is what is known as "blue" sky. The glare is from what we Californians call "sunshine."

FYI, that's my apartment building, right above the boat in the middle (with the pointy terra cotta roofline). It's a great neighborhood, when the sun is out.

The sunshine even perked Rico up.

(Or maybe it was the geese. "Hi geese!") Either way, Rico and I went for an epic three-hour walk to bask in the fine day we'd finally been granted. Hello, outdoors! It's us!

And, of course, the universe had plenty to say on our tour:

Right. We'll get to back to my "wear no evil" quest in a minute. Remember, the point of the weekend was to take me out of my UPS-inspired fashion rut and into clothing-of-color, blond highlights and a Bobbi Brown color-i-fied makeover. Ahhhh, three hours is a long walk in the sun. Bask, bask. Copywriters (and probably groundhogs) could see their shadows downtown on Saturday ...

The sun even made the downtown sea lions sparkle. As a boaty girl, I hate to say anything sparkly about those rotten bastards (even the bronze ones). Sigh. Dry sidewalks and sun render me charitable towards sea lions ... and, now that I think of it, groundhogs.

The time flew. I had to run Rico home so that I could get to my color makeover. And, here it is:

To get the blond highlights and makeup in one photo, I have to do my best Clockwork Orange pose. Even so, you still can't see that I have big, chunky Cruella-de-Ville streaks of bu-londy blond blond.

Here is my best "Muppet doing the Clockwork Orange pose."

Screw you. It worked. On my walk home from my makeover, a carload of 18-year-old dudes yelled out their window that I was a MILF. I have decided to be flattered, particularly since I haven't had 18 year olds shouting out of their cars since I was 18. So. Yes. Flattered. I still look like a soccer mom, but as I've said, I believe that's terminal. Besides, that's what the "M" in MILF is for.

David said that since I am unmarried, and have no children of my own, I'm actually a "SILF." "Spinster-ILF," which makes the soccer-mom-face especially unjust. Lucky for David, it's sunny and I'm granting amnesty to sea lions, groundhogs, and boys who call me "spinster." As long as I can maintain the "-ILF," regardless of the first initial, I'm doing okay. Beats delivering packages in brown socks and shorts.

Save the Nerds

After a lifetime of charitable work, I am so burned out on saving the gay, black whales for Jesus, I sometimes dream of clubbing baby harbor seals, myself. (They won't club themselves, ya know, as PETA will school you in graphic Donna Karan-hating detail.)  And, yet, even I can still fight for ...

IPRC is Portland's nonprofit Independent Publishing Resource Center. They provide a safe space for creative expression and the celebration of a freakishly awkward dork community: Writers.

By providing access to resources and tools for the creation of independently published media, the fine folks at IPRC are making it possible for me to NOT wait for the publishing world to discover me. And, they've been doing that since 1998 ... long before I even needed or knew I wanted nerd community. I only wish I still had braces.

So, what's the first item of business on my IPRC agenda? Their Chinese New Year Celebration on February 7 includes a timed, judged write-off about rats, in celebration of the Chinese Year of the Rat. Adios, Year of the Pig.(February 18, 2007-February 6, 2008) You had your chance.

As it happens, I am a rat-writer from way back. At Peninsula Humane Society, I penned the highly acclaimed "New Homes for the Little Guys." Missed it? Hm. It is considered by some to be the definitive work on rat adoption in San Mateo County.

Since IPRC is between my apartment and Chinatown on SW Oak Street, I think I might swing by, pen a little rat-prose, grab my "prizes for the most versatile writers," and still make it to the Chinese red underwear party at the bar formerly known as "Hung Far Low."

It's good to be a nerd.

Weird is a "Thing" Here, Too!

I must get a post done about the fabulous folks at Bean Tree Coffee on the Riverwalk, around the corner from my apartment. Tracy and Chad (and their Bernese Mountain Dog "Kona") own Bean Tree Coffee House. They're awesome, doggie friendly, and they've been my designated coffee providers of choice since I broke up with the Dave Matthews coffee dudes next door (except today, since Bean Tree is closed on Tuesdays). This is not that post, though. The Bean Tree folks are super cute, and their post will include photos. Which we don't have right now.

This post is about the Weird.

If you live here, you've seen this bumper sticker. If you live in Santa Cruz, you've seen our own "Keep it Weird" bumper sticker and thought, "Handled." Kabuki Pink Umbrella Guy, anybody?

In Portland, keeping it weird means buying local, which is why I mention the Bean Tree. Though there are Starbucks and other chains-a-plenty in Portland, there are a surprising number of independent vendors of all shapes and sizes that give Portland an actual personality all its own. Local "weird" businesses even have their own chamber of commerce, and, as today's graphic indicates, their own bumper stickers. Here's their walk through the streets of weird Portland. Enjoy.

PS: I would do anything if we could get Portland a pink umbrella guy, too. "Robert" just dresses a city up ... like a set of pearls with jeans.

The French are all Hype, but Nice Anyway (By Rico)

We've got this dream that someday we can bring joy to old and sick people as pet therapists. Scratch that. SHE has this dream, that I will entertain old and sick people while she takes the credit, and maybe, just maybe, that will karmically balance all the outfits she puts me in and the off-color jokes she's been known to make. So many outfits. We are going to have to visit a LOT of old people.

So. To achieve HER dream, I have to get over my distaste for other dogs. To that end,we're attending Miss Caroline's Night School for Stoopid Puppeez. If you've been reading along, you know how that's going.

Now, we're doing playgroups. Yesterday, we went to LexiDog Boutique and Social Club. They offer a free Sunday playgroup for dogs of all sizes. I played in the 12-30 pound group.

According to LexiDog's website, "playgroups are a time for you to bring your dog to play with other dogs in a warm, dry indoor environment, while you get to visit with other dog loving humans."

According to reality, French Bulldogs OWN the LexiDog mid-size playgroup. This is good news. The French have such a cool look, like mimes. As you may know, I want a beret so bad, so mom got me to go to this "playgroup" deal suggesting that the French Bulldogs could tell me where to buy a beret in my size. And, you know, maybe give me some tips on growing a tasteful pencil mustache. Tres Francais, I thought.

Not so. Here's what I went through:

Do you see berets? Striped French sailor suits? I do not.

Ppfffffffttttttt ... You smell like beans, monsieur.

Dude. You look like a loaf of bread. Not even French bread.

She smells like bouef bourgingnon. Pretty, too.

The French are insane. Know that.

The French obsession with Jerry Lewis totally makes sense now.

Is that a pencil mustache? No. They're teeth. Wait. You're not even FRENCH!

La femme jolie, avec treats!

"Bonjour? Je suis 'Winston.'"

BTW, they were all named "Winston," as in Churchill or "Sherman" as in tank or "Butch" as in tough little fireplug of a lesbian or "Tulip," you know, 'cause it's ironic. But, they aren't French names. What gives?

I thought the French weren't supposed to be f-a-t. They're hitting le fromage a little hard, n'est pas?

Okay. In fairness, I smell haggis. Maybe I really do smell like beans.

That was my day.

I have to say I like the French (and all the dogs I met at LexiDog) better than puppeez.  The LexiDog staff was super nice and I loved their fashion-forward boutique. No berets, but they had sailor suits (I think French) ... for $60! Maybe for my birthday.

Hung--Just Right in PDX

There are two Chinatowns in Portland. Old Chinatown includes mostly Cantonese speakers, has a homeless shelter on every block, a walled historic Chinese garden, giant ceramic foo dog gates, and narrow, dirty streets. It's walking distance from my apartment.

The new Chinatown has more Mandarin speakers, and it is more organized, but we keep it on the East side, way out on SE 82nd street. Strip-mall city. Soulless. Blech.

Back in the day ...
In the 1800s, the Chinese firmly established their community in Portland, between what is now called the Pearl District and the Willamette River. The Chinese were busy, busy, busy in shady Stumptown. Bars. Brothels. Kidnapping. The birthplace of the Shanghai Tunnels, Chinatown boasted a honeycomb of underground passages that are still in existence and visitable in this part of the city. We no longer use the tunnels to bop people on the head and send them out on commercial boats to serve as crew. (I wish!) Now, the underground tunnels are used by ghost tours and the homeless.

In 1928, Chinese bar owners with "Porky's"-grade humor opened "Hung Far Low." Wait. Not "Porky's." It was Molly Ringwald's "Sixteen Candles" that featured Chinese exchange student "Long Duk Dong," which might have been an even better Chinese restaurant name.

Anyway, the food at Hung Far Low was, by all accounts, hard to swallow, but the establishment had an impressive sign, as you might expect. Before Hung Far Low moved to the East side, the sign said "Cocktails" at the bottom, but "vandals" had long ago blacked out the "tails." Of course. How could they not?

In 2005, the Hung Far Low bar/restaurant moved to SE 82nd street. While locals worried the sign would disappear when the bar/restaurant did, it did not. The building's owners simply altered the sign, so that it now says "building" where cock(tail) used to hang.

History du Jour, served up fresh and hot ... by your Pirate Dogs.