He Said: Dance Class
By Zanger:

Sabrina Miller rang me up a few weeks ago.

“We’re going to do a dance class together,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Pick the one you want to take.”

Knowing that I really had no say and that there would be no negotiation, I went to the NW Dance Project website and took a peek around.

Now, I am not a very good dancer.

I’m not this bad. But, I’m still all about having two left feet.
No one wants to see what passes for hip hop dancing in my world. It’s a little like Elaine from Seinfeld. Only not quite as good.

Ballet? Oof.

Jazz dancing? I’ve got jazz hands down but the dancing part of it? Not so much.

Bhangra and Bollywood was the pick — by a mile. This looked like it would be a great deal of fun and one that could conceivably mask my glaring inability to put steps together.

When we arrived, I was encouraged by the bit of real estate in the back of the class. I was one of two men in the class (aside from the instructor), so I stood out despite trying my hardest to hide.

I was a wee bit nervous.

Our instructor, Prashant, gave us the skinny on Bhangra. It’s supposed to be “fun” dancing. That made me relax instantly. He started the music for warmups and we started moving around. It felt great and everything was going my way.

Next, it was footwork. Since I am a soccer player (kind of), I had this part licked. Sure, there were a few spots where I got a little lost, but I felt like I was keeping up.

Then, it was about incorporating arms, hands and the rest of our bodies.

Uh oh.

This was the where I really showed my lack of grace and, at times, coordination. I can chew bubble gum and walk at the same time and can do that rub-your-belly-pat-your-head-together thing. But, I was clearly out of my league.

And I didn’t care.

I embraced the Jimmy-Arms and did exactly what Prashant told us to do: have fun.

And great fun it was.

Oh, and for the record, Sabrina is a good dancer.

——————————————-

She Said: Dance Class
By Sabrina:

I was trying to think of things that I could co-write a post on with fellow OurPDX author, Doug Zanger. Trying to think of something that one of us has done or has had experience with in the past and the other that has had none. After saying “Nah” to a play, after saying, “Mmm, I don’t think so” to a museum trip, I finally knew exactly what I wanted to do. Take a dance class. I chuckled at the idea of Doug taking a dance class and even though I hadn’t taken one in years, I knew it would be a fun thing to do. After telling him…”Hey, we are going to take a dance class” I didn’t quite know how he was going to react. Positivity is what I got back.

I decided I really wanted to check out the Northwest Dance Project and after talking with the owner Scott Lewis one day, I knew it was the perfect choice. Now came the hard part for both of us…. choosing a dance class to take. I looked at the classes they had available. Ballet, Lyrical Jazz, Core Balance…hmmm, sounded interesting, but I wanted to be able to walk the next day as I know those types of classes can be challenging. We finally decided that we were going to take the Bhangra-Bollywood class on Monday night. The description from the site reads:

” This class offers a blend of Bhangra, a lively traditional celebratory Indian folk dance with athletic yet graceful full-body movements driven by infections beats, and Bollywood, the energetic, fluid and mystical dance style featured in numerous modern Indian films. A fun and casual class for all with a great blend of contemporary Eastern music.”

It was interesting to me as I’ve never experienced this type of dance before and didn’t know anything about it. I can plié or tondue with the grace of an elephant, but who knew that I would be getting a lesson in head wobbling. The class, taught by a very energetic and charismatic man, Preshant Kakad, was invigorating. I had no idea what to expect. The very first thing we did was jump around to some very cool music. And we jumped and jumped and we smiled and we laughed…we had fun.

After we did our warm up jumping we starting learning footwork and incorporated arms and then…we learned to head wobble. That was fun and really different for me. Everything that I learned in dance was very controlled or very deliberate. Having fun and having it show through the way you danced was a new thing to me and I quickly embraced it. The next hour was learning new moves and putting them together and it was ok to feel a little silly. A few times I looked over at Doug…and even though he wasn’t perfect, you could tell he didn’t care if he got it right, he was having a blast.

Anyone could take this class and I highly recommend that you at least give it a try. I guarantee that you will love it and it’s a great workout too!

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I’ll be the first to admit that I was a very lazy track athlete in high school.

The term “athlete” might actually be a stretch.

As a sprinter and jumper, I looked at practice as more of a place to work on my tan. Suffice to say, the University of Oregon would never have recruited me for my glaring lack of commitment.

As I got older, though, I started to become more fond of running. Admittedly, I would much rather chase a soccer ball around but I have slowly come to enjoy running. I’m not what one would call and endurance runner by any stretch, but I am perfectly happy to get out there and knock out a 5k.

A few weeks ago, I was researching content for one of my shows on pdx.fm (shameless plug) and came across this little gem.

It’s an all-comers track meet.

This is where younger and older alike converge to try their hand (or feet) at an array of events. This may not be Hayward Field, but it is a Portland tradition, with nearly 2,000 participants in 2009.

It is definitely a scaled-down version of a “real” meet, but it’s great to have a tradition like this in a state that values its running so much.

There are two meets left in at the Lake Oswego HS track, July 21st and 28th. After that, there will be cross country meets starting in September.

I have July 28th circled on my calendar.

And we’ll see if I can manage to clear four feet in the high jump.

But at least I might be able to work on my tan.

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"My ride's here..."

Ever taken a bus ride and wonder, “How does the driver put up with this nonsense every night?” Those of us who work with the public know how much fun it can be; you see humanity at every level. A sense of humor is crucial.

Being one of the wacky late-night denizens, I see a lot of commuter nonsense, but not as much as this guy. Meet Dan Christensen, the unofficial voice of TriMet drivers.

Dan has a blog, and he does podcasts. He also has a Twitter feed. (I’m *sure* he only Tweets on break, thanks to new rules…) He relates his adventures on the road, and offers insight when the transportation system is under the spotlight. He created a video to share the driver’s point of view after a recent downtown tragedy. He reminds us that drivers are flesh and bone, and not automatons. He’s recently revived his blog, and I’m hoping a bit of friendly pressure will keep him posting on a regular basis. Heaven knows he’s not lacking for source material.

How do you know if you’re riding with Dan? He’s pretty low-key, focuses on his driving, but he has a couple trademarks. One is the top hat. It is a grand chapeau, featured on his Twitter avatar.

The other is his standard departure announcement, issued as he pulls away from each stop.

“Hold on, we’re rolling!”

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Portlanders crowd the Mississippi Street Fair

Yesterday, my sister and I went to the Mississippi Street Fair.  I had heard that this was Portland’s largest street fair, but I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of people!  Never having attended before, I cannot state whether or not this year was the highest attendance, but I would not be surprised.

The first thing that greeted me was the smell of BBQ.  We entered the fair from the south end of Mississippi, where most of the BBQ vendors had set up.  I immediately noticed that many street vendors I love were here; Sol Pops had a cart doing brisk business in the 88 degree heat.  I saw the newly opened PBJs, and met the owners Keena and Randy, who took time to talk to me despite the crowds of people.

There were also hundreds of vendors lining the street; my sister gravitated towards the dresses, while I ogled the hand-crafted earrings.  When I spotted Vintage Journals, one of my favorite local craftswomen, I stepped into their shady tent to take a look.  Amazingly, I spotted a journal called “The Donkey Who Wanted to be Wise”.  Items to add to our doneky collection are often difficult to find, so I snatched this one up.  Incidentally, Vintage Journals will buy your old hardcover books…check them out on Facebook.

Meatball Hero from Garden State

We finally made it to the north end of the fair, and stopped at Mississippi Marketplace.  While The Big Egg was already closed, I did catch up with Kevin at Garden State, met his lovely wife, and ordered his delicious Meatball Hero sandwich.  I also met Kirsten Jensen at The Sugar Cube, and by sheer luck, Nancy Ettinger from Savor Soup House–one of my favorite Portland carts–was helping her out!  Kirsten had a special street fair menu, and her chocolate chocolate fleur de sel cupcake blew my mind; moist and sweet and oozing with yumminess!  I’ll have dreams about that cupcake.

On our way back down Mississippi, it was clear that the crowd had grown in size.  We squeezed our way back south, seeing solar baked cookies, a car painting project, the happiest dog in Portland, face painting for grown-ups, beer gardens, bike shops, balloon artists, and a young girl rocking a blues guitar.  The Mississippi Street Fair is filled with all the things that make Portland great.

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Oh bowling alley, how you are majestically rising to the sky,
and I sometimes wonder why.

Where there were once fields of wheat,
there shall be funky-smelling feet.

I can see my future in bamboo lanes,
a turkey I shall try to tame.

As a younger lad, Grand Central was where good times were had,
where pitchers of ale flowed, no time to be sad.

Later in this life,
with the sound of mediocre scores Sunset Lanes were rife.

Na’er did I give the noble game a second thought,
a bowling ball I never thought would be bought.

But, here you are, with the moniker of Al,
And I’m quite excited to become your pal.

A league I may try,
with friends close and those gone by.

My days may be spent trying to break two hundred,
but I can’t really thing of anything that rhymes well with this so I will just leave it at that.

Suffice to say I am excited,
to try my hand at bowling unrequited.

And the truth is that the poem is somewhat lame,
but I am looking forward to making your acquaintance just the same.

Big Al’s is opening a new location near us at Progress Ridge on Barrows Road in August. Never thought I’d get so excited about a bowling alley — but it looks really cool and I have it on good authority that Big Al’s is really fun.

The best news, though?

Next year, we’ll be getting a New Seasons and Cinetopia across the street from the bowling alley.

Living out near the country ain’t so bad after all.

And yes, I am aware that this poem is really silly.

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After a year as a vacant space, it looks like there is potential suitor for the old Ritz Camera shop on SW 4th & Taylor. Coming soon?

There is no shortage of convenience stores downtown. There are three Plaid Pantrys and two 7-Elevens dotting the perimeter, with a cluster of mom-and-pop stores throughout the grid. Some keep banker’s hours, others are open late, a couple are 24/7. Would another one hurt? Help?

When I asked my bud at Peterson’s, he gave a “Good luck with that!” eyeroll. Apparently Peterson’s has been attempting to expand in the downtown core, but keeps running into opposition. (Unofficial, of course.) With all the restrictions and conditions on alcohol sales, and all the conditions they agreed to in order to remain open, it’s no wonder they’ve instead focused on improving business at the existing locations. Given the current economic situation, only one of their stores now stays open all night. There just isn’t enough late-night business.

An all-night Quik-E-Mart across the park from the courthouse and jail? They should do a brisk business in shoelaces and single Newports. (“They took my motherf#@%ing shoelaces!” “I need a cigarette!”) On the other hand, cops and guards coming and going all night makes for good security, right?

It’s this part of the sign that makes me wonder. Are they saying goodwill is free? Or that Southland should expect no mercy because they are a mega-corporation seeking to expand where well-established local businesses have been rebuffed?

We shall see…

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I heard the rumor about it.

I didn’t really believe it at first.

Then, I remember my “growing-up-in-Minnesota” days when we went to the Minnesota State Fair and were treated to freshly-made mini-donuts that came off a conveyer belt piping hot.

This was the same way that these alleged pancakes from a machine were made.

I still didn’t believe it. I had no photographic proof. It was just a few tweets from people traveling from PDX who happened to be enjoying some time in the Alaska Airlines Board Room.

One day, I read, “pancakes at the @AlaskaAir Board Room at PDX.”

All I could think about was someone over a griddle, pouring batter and flipping flapjacks on to plates. Kind of like an omelette station but with pancakes.

On our trip to New Jersey, we arrived early and visited the Board Room.

And there it was.

The pancake machine.

There is nothing overwhelmingly impressive about it. It’s a machine. You press a button and two dollar-sized pancakes come out after about 45 seconds to a minute.

But, people can’t take their eyes off of it. Even if people don’t want pancakes, they go right ahead and push the button and get pancakes. There is no second thought. There is no debate. You see this machine, you want pancakes.

This latest trip, the pancake machine welcomed us again.

Being a bit of an “expert” on the pancake machine, a mom and daughter walked up as I was watching my pancakes drop to my plate. They stared for a minute. The pancake machine does look like some kind of odd machinery — and people sometimes can’t figure out what it is.

I jumped in and answered the question before the mother asked.

“It’s a pancake machine,” I said proudly.

“Really?” she asked.

“Indeed it is,” I crooned. “And it is a delight.”

The mom replied with, “wow. Neat.”

My last words were probably most profound, though.

“The only thing better than this would be a bacon machine.”

That got a nod and an “amen.”

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As the Church Lady would say, “How conveeeeenient!”

While walking past the Multnomah County Courthouse yesterday, I spotted this outside the secured entrance on SW 4th Avenue. The gang at Busted! Magazine has the angles covered on distribution of their mugshot rag. Talk about targeting your audience.

Since it takes an average of ten days to two weeks for mugshots to appear, this is brilliant marketing. After showing up for your court date or sentencing, you can purchase a photograph commemorating your experience, right outside the door. It’s only a dollar!

I have to wonder, though. Considering the target audience, can we really trust the folks buying Busted! to limit themselves to one copy?

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Disclaimer: After reading a number of really offensive comments yesterday on the Kyron Horman disappearance, I was pretty visibly upset. This post was what came out. For my more, eh, religious friends, please take it with a large grain of salt – I was pretty worked up. you might skip to the last paragraph before you read it to understand where I was at the time. Thanks.

I am terrified.

I’m sitting in a bar, typing away on my “other” laptop, watching a bald, bearded basketball player on 3 televisions raising his sweaty palms in outrage over a questionable call from an indifferent referee. I’m sharing the room with small groups of people who seem to know each other, variously congregating at sticky wooden tables over lemon-flavored heffeweizens and 3-dollar appetizers, ads for chainsaws and a Cameron Diaz film most of us will refuse to admit we’ll eventually see, an underpaid middle-aged waitperson with Jennifer Aniston hair, straight teeth, and I’m guessing sore feet who is tending tables with a patented ironclad tip-me smile and a notepad, sweatshirts with Cruise for the Cure 2005 printed on the back next to mismatched sweatpants sharing company with fake gold earrings and untied Vans. All of it normal, and yet all I can muster is a sense of wonder at what the fuck is wrong with us.

In Portland, we the masses of indirectly-affected onlookers are currently sitting on the edge of our seats waiting to hear of the return of a child with an unusual name, Kyron, who disappeared mysteriously and abruptly from the safety of his school last week. This child is 7 years old, as innocent as anything that was ever imagined, smiling ear to ear in the photograph of him in front of his 2nd grade science project, in a photo where you can virtually see him bouncing from foot to foot in anticipation of the other children gazing upon the glorious work he has come up with, shortly before he vanished.

And yet, all I can seem to do is hide. I’m hiding from the unspeakable heartbreak that is gathering at the collective doorstep with each passing hour, and I can hardly bear the thought, because as much as we all know we cannot open the door and just let that spirit waft in, with each hour that passes we are increasingly fearful that we are not waiting so much for his safe return, as his discovery and identification. It’s a cold-hearted thing to say, and we all hope to God that it’s not true, but the horrible possibility is shrouding over all of us like the aching shadow of a building on the verge of collapse, or the look we imagine in our partner’s eyes when we have to choke out that we have a standing date with a doctor and his radiation machine.

So what kind of behavior does this bring out of all of us? People fall into predictable categories. Some unrelentingly positive and hopeful, others idiotic in their narcissistic theories, but most of us somewhere silently in between, posting notes on Facebook or checking in several times a day hoping the relief has been delivered through the gauntlet of spam filtration and unfeeling computerized categorizations. Is it better to be any of these things? Can anyone say whether we are right or wrong to speak or believe as we do about situations like this?

Some of us look for someone to blame. It must be the school’s fault with it’s lack of cameras, or it’s failure to autodial the parents earlier who could presumably have rushed to the scene and what – stopped it all from happening? Others concocting outrage over why it is that Amber’s all-powerful Alert can’t be sounded for this child; still others deduce in their infinite wisdom that the culprit must be the mother who expresses in grief and utter despair that she just wishes she could go to the gym and presumably forget it all, as if this horrible, unimaginable hole that has been ripped into her universe was never inflicted. Of course, thanks to Scott Peterson the parents are not allowed to express this tiny bit of a whisper of relief for fear that the community of nutcases and narcissistic self-proclaimed Law and Order conspiracy theorists will accuse them of the most heinous act possible.

Still others turn to their only sources of comfort, namely their current flavor of religion, casting desperate and heartfelt prayers, soon lighting candles and clinging to a childlike sense that if they just wish hard enough the sleeping giant in the sky will somehow shake off his seeming hibernation just this once, to sweep this precious lost creature up into His arms to be delivered safely, gently, into the strong hands of the ever vigilant and (by contrast) tirelessly unsleeping authorities. For me, a long time ago I started wondering why the great Absent One never seems to be around when the rapist strikes in broad daylight or the earthquake hits, another child’s parent raises their hand to their child, or the oceans turn to corporate bloody death, or the pregnant mother dies of complications and “not what Jesus would do” insurance coverage. And I think horrible thoughts, like “As if ending your goddamn Facebook prayer with “In His name we pray!!!” will make a fucking difference to the great in-His-image-we-are-wrought uncaring and disinterested power in the sky.” In this world we’ve made with the plans He vaguely outlined in a handful of disjointed books, argumentative follow-up theories on what he meant in the first place, and a tradition of blood-lusted religious nutcases dominating man to his injury, apparently nobody prays hard enough to get His attention. Apparently our narcoleptic God needs another angel. As if he didn’t have enough already.

Yeah me and God, we don’t talk much lately.

As for the rest of us, the mass of people that are somewhere between making excuses for every time God fails to pay attention, the “everything happens for a reason” flawed philosophical bar of soap on a rope, and trying to figure out what life alternatives are left, we sit, and we wait. We rack our brains trying to think of what could have happened or where he could be, but holding our thoughts in check out of respect for those who might be reading. We quietly wonder in terror, hoping we’re wrong, hoping somebody checks their toolshed just one more time and finds little Kyron tinkering with the lawnmower and eating a Crunch bar, hoping that this was all just some big misunderstanding and he’s actually floating through the sky in a giant peach or comfortable basket with a talking turtle, drifting under a latex weather balloon to get out of the weather for a change. It’s too hard to face the alternative. It consumes you, and keeps you up in the dark hours; it eats at your esophagus as you look in on your own sleeping angel faces, desperate to protect them, desperate to keep them within your arms, desperate to keep the unseen demons lurking just beyond the school doors at bay, desperate to just breath in, and breath out, which you know in the end is all you can really do.

You could say a prayer. It couldn’t hurt. You could pass out a flyer or two, or change your Facebook image to Kyron’s image and write unapologetic comments and blog posts describing your theories, or blog posts like this one berating the narcissists with their goddamn deductions. Or donate money. You can take this as an opportunity to talk to your own kids about safety, explaining how God might not care much for other kids, but he sure as hell cares enough for our family to never let that happen to us. Whatever you do, you do. And that has to be good enough, because you’ve got nothing else, and I’ve got nothing else. We’ve got nothing else but an ounce of hope, and holding our breath, and sucking it up, and wishing to God that this never happened, and in futility that everything could have a neat and tidy answer like so many logical spam filters and email folders.

But it rarely is that tidy. It is usually far more like a messy call from the seemingly indifferent referee administering fairness, who may or may not be biased, or bought off, who makes a call that makes no sense to the offended team, a call about which there is nothing you can do. At least the referee has the decency to show up when the victims raise their hands to him in disbelief and ask, “Why?”

To cope, some of us look at our precious children and keep our eyes fixed on them intently as if our gaze will keep them safe, with our throats shoved up somewhere below the backs of our eyelids, keeping the utter terror and sadness a safe-feeling distance away from our easily penetrable hearts. Some of us explain it away with theories and prayers, or conspiracy theories and blame.

And some of us go to the bar with our electronic devices, wearing our good shirt, watching a game we’re not interested in, ordering the half-off appetizers and specialty beer on tap, hiding behind a coward’s keyboard lashing out at God and everyone else, but really just in terror that such a thing as this could happen to us. God forbid.

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Let’s just get this out of the way: Road House the Play is fun, highly entertaining, energetic, and creative as hell.

Adapted from the 1989 movie starring the late Patrick Swayze, Road House the Play is a farcical production that follows the story of a bouncer that is hired to clean up a not so tame bar. In the process of managing the locals, conflict with the rich bully in town ensues. Taking place at the Someday Lounge, the producers and creators of the play found a perfect venue, a perfect cast, and the right blend of humor to tell the story in their own way, on their own terms.

Having just seen Road House at a Cort and Fatboy Midnight movie a few months back, it was still fresh in my mind as to who the characters were, how the story unfolded, and what the relationships were. For those that haven’t seen the movie, you’d get the play as you don’t have any preconceived notion of what this adaptation could be like. For those that HAVE seen the movie, you might be a bit more jaded in watching someone else’s take on the small stage. The play is meant to be funny. It’s meant to make you suspend belief in what you might have already known from the movie. It’s meant to give you a fresh perspective on how ridiculous the dialogue and the action can be. It’s meant to make you laugh.

Aside from some of the cheese factor from the movie, did it make you chuckle? Were you laughing at the hairstyles or the clothing or the ridiculousness of the relationships between the characters? Probably a little, you can admit it. And that’s ok. We live in the year 2010. Looking back at 1989 has us all in stitches now. It didn’t then.

Road House the Play had all of those cheese factors. Because it wanted to. Founder of Bad Reputation Productions and actor Shelley McLendon, along with Live Wire’s Courtenay Hameister, adapted the play from the movie. They created an original script, threw in some original songs, found the perfect cast, and found a great home for the production.

The actors were already in character when I got there, about 30 minutes to curtain, including one standing outside that gave the impression that he was going to be checking for ID’s (with an awesome fake mullet too I might add).  The suave “cool” dude, the loudmouthed slut, and the staged fighting bouncers all helped to set the stage for the performance to come by mingling with the crowd beforehand.

During the 90 minute play, we all got a sense of who each character was and what was going on. Some of the actors played multiple parts and it was clear who they were – everyone from the bouncers, to the bar douches, to the sheriff and fireman, they all did a great job at quick changing their costumes and characters to eliminate any confusion that can sometimes come from playing multiple roles.

Director John Breen did a fantastic job at making sure every second was filled with some of the most creative moments and movements that I’ve even seen in local theatre – A black eye patch to represent a black eye, makeshift office chairs with a steering wheel taped to it, sound effects from the actors, licking of faces. The musicians they had on stage to provide interludes from scene to scene were great and never got in the way of the comedy that was being exuded on stage.

Huge props to Shelley McLendon and Courtenay for brilliantly adapting this to the stage. I loved every second of it. Unfortunately, the second run of the play has already ended to a sold out audience and may or may not be returning. I really hope they consider doing this production at least once a month, as it had been selling out, what do they have to lose? Hint, Hint…..

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