15.9.09

Escape!

Escape
Escape does some solid work at times...other times, not so much. This is on the East side of the Broadway Bridge.

13.9.09

2182 N. Williams








I noticed these months ago but there are usually a bunch of vans parked against this wall. Luckily and for some strange reason they all moved on this particular evening.
I usually don't endorse going over murals, but for some reason this seems to work. I appreciate that they stuck with the color scheme.

12.9.09

ah...Ah..AH-MERKA!!!


We all know this is the breakfast of champions.
Little known fact:
It is also the LUNCH of champions!
Chew on that for a minute.
Now for something totally unrelated:
THIS JUST IN! The picture to the left is also known as the DINNER OF CHAMPIONS!


(Let the product endorsement checks begin rolling in!)

30.8.09

Duke's Landing, 2715 SE Belmont St, Portland, Oregon... I'm gonna be mean

Reasons why I won’t be going back to Duke’s Landing:
1) The guy who has the 4’ dread hanging off of his balding head and who clocks in at about 5’ 5” but is wearing the flannel shirt made for a guy who is 6’ 3” gave me the menu and said,
“Here’s our menu, the cook is doing the special a lot these days.”
“What’s the special?”
“I don’t know… it’s on the board out there.”
I looked ‘out there’ and saw that I had seen the specials sign before as it was actually painted on the sign for the restaurant. The special was two eggs, hash browns, and toast for $4.35. I looked at the menu and opted for the ham and cheese omelet and a cup of coffee. Rasta man took the “menu” (two pieces of 8.5 x 11” paper stapled in the upper left corner), sighed, ran his finger down the sheet until he found the ham and cheese omelet, looked at me like I just asked him to solve an insanely complicated math question using only an abacus and a box of toothpicks.
He walked out the front door, down the stairs, and into the basement of the building. The only other person in the place at the other end of the bar piped up and said,
“Hey, what’s up? You getting the special? I’m the cook.”
“Uh, no. I was thinking about the ham and cheese omelet.”
He was dejected.
“Oh.”
I quickly decided that either they had no food, only knew how to cook one thing but made a menu to look like they knew what they were doing, or they were lazy dick-brained mongoloids.
The Rasta guy came back up and said, “Sorry, had to see if we had ham.” He then told the cook in whispered tones what the order was, they both looked sad, then The Cook sulked upstairs.
“OK, anything else with that?”
“Uh, yeah. Coffee would be great [because, you know, I may have changed my mind from my original order of coffee and a ham and cheese omelet].”
2) The coffee was more water than flavor, but it came with a refill, so with the 40 ounces of coffee I drank I probably got the equivalent of one normal cup of coffee.
3) While I sat waiting for my food, two other people came in separately and inquired about breakfast. Rasta informed them about The Special, which he still didn’t know, and didn’t offer a menu. He must have learned from me that if you give someone a menu that there is a slight chance that they’ll want something that is printed on it. The nerve. They asked for menus nonetheless and one opted for The Special, the other wanted a veggie omelet and yet another search into the basement, followed by a pained conversation with The Cook and heavy sighs as they begrudgingly agreed to make said omelet.
4) My food came and The Cook took his seat again at the end of the bar to look at his laptop (he looked a bit like Lazlo, the genius closet dwelling burnout from “Real Genius”). So, there was TOO much butter on the toast, and even better was the fact that the butter had turned. Even better that THAT was that everything on my plate was cooked in this butter. Yum. I had the plate for only about 15 seconds, didn’t even unroll my fork from the napkin, and The Cook looked up and asked with too much perk in his voice, “How’s that omelet?”
“I don’t know… haven’t tasted yet. I’ll let you know in a minute, after I start eating.”
He looked back to his computer before I stopped talking.
5) After eating all the somewhat rancid food (thank God for the cast iron stomach!) I gave Rasta my card. He ran it and gave me the receipt and my card. Then he said, “Oh, that’s our copy.” I watched him spend two full minutes shuffling dollars around and picking up various trays in the register, trying to find the most feng shui location for the receipt. Then it struck him, “Oh, you need to sign this.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about that.”
He gave the receipt back and mentioned something about there being no space for a tip.
“Don’t sweat it, I’ll take care of it. I might need a pen though.”
“Oh… yeah.”
He handed me a pen and I took the receipt, noticing that there was indeed a place for a tip, so I gave a too generous tip because people with special needs shouldn’t be punished for their disability.
I filled it out, signed it, and handed it back. He looked at it and stalled.”
“Oh, uh, you put the tip on here?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Oh… how do I get it off of here? And I only did the card for the food total, not the tip. Will the machine know?”
“What? I don’t know, man. Someone probably runs batches or something at night? I don’t know anything about that shit.”
“Oh.” He stalled and looked at the receipt.
“Why don’t you just cross out the tip and give me the tip in cash.”
I looked at him, blinked once, blinked twice, folded my tongue up in front of my left eyetooth in an expression of confusion.”
“Look, I don’t have any cash. Just, fuckin’… I don’t know what to tell you. This is all very basic stuff.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We’ll figure it out later. A lot of work for three bucks though.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, dude. Thanks for the food.”
And then I left.

So, I know times are tough for small businesses. I know supplies might run low. I know that 35-year old men who wear their giant father’s shirts as mumus and have hair that makes me think of a cat puking up a massive hairball are sometimes not as smart as I would like to give them credit for. But here’s the deal:
- In West Africa I’ve eaten goat liver off of a bike spoke, kebab style, that was cooked directly on coal, giving the experience a little more grit. This was cooked, more often than not, by various 300-year old toothless women who more than once outwardly displayed a lot of TB symptoms. But they were nice.
- In Nice, France, I ate Chinese food that tasted like it was cooked in spit.
- In East Africa I ate prawns that tasted like a foot.
- I have ended up with goat balls and what I believe to be a fish brain or air bladder in my mouth.
- I have damn near busted a tooth on numerous occasions on various sized bits of rock and gravel that have fallen into my food bowl.
- I have eaten a chicken chwarma in Senegal and then spent the next 5 hours puking and shitting in the bathroom and puking on my balls and shitting the bed.
- I have been served by people who have unapologetically stuck their fingers in my coffee, by people who, for no reason, have openly loathed me, and by people who barely could grasp the fact that I was alive and that they were there to take an order.
Take all of this into consideration and know that when I say that eating at Duke’s Landing was STILL the worst dining experience of my life, well, damn… it must have sucked.
Dear Duke’s Landing,
Please stop.
Not your friend,
P. Royale
No X’s, no O’s

28.8.09

Oh Jesus, Really?!


Am I a nit-picking dick? Should I not be heartbroken at the sheer number of misspellings on this thing?
-Hugh
-Movig
-Nick nats
-Multnoah
-Exersise
-Cloths
-the unnecessary apostrophe PLUS a misspelling on "collectibles"
For the love of lil' baby Jesus! Call me a dick, I don't care. There is just no excuse.
And there was another one down the street with ALL THE SAME MISTAKES!

27.8.09

Free Art, Bitches! #2


Plan B, SE Portland
"Had I known they were going to Crossover, I would never have got this damned tattoo!"

25.8.09

Free Art, Bitches #1


Beulahland, SE 28th and Couch-ish, Portland, on the ceiling, bitches!

23.8.09

Untitled #[W.7 and Three-Fourths Point (as in ., not pointing because that is rude) Orange]


We told one another sweet and tender things in French, something far removed from our mother tongue. It didn’t seem as scary in a different language, the laying open of hearts for potential flayings and seemingly terminal papercuts. She had a firm grasp of the language; educated and smooth, flowing easily from her ridiculously perfect lips. My French, on the other hand, was clunky, angular and something akin to an accidental gang rape. If a native speaker had to endure the sounds that poured out of me for even one minute I’m sure that would be my last day on Earth.
But she humored me, and I was capable of understanding only about 5% of what she was saying. In fact, she could have been telling me how to make chicken potpie while I stumbled through trying to tell her that she tasted like sunshine dust.
Whatever the case, we made it work and we worked together, it was ours and it felt nothing short of righteous.

Glub XXII



15.8.09

Quotes from Camping, 8/7/2009



So, I went camping which some of you may realize is out of character for this city kid.
But what else is one to do when an atrociously cute girl says, "Hey, you wanna go camping?"
One says, "Yeah."
When a cute girl says something like "Hey, wanna slam your junk in a heavy duty filing cabinet drawer?" the only answer is also, "Yeah."
It's hard to tell how hardcore a new crew is about such things. When the inevitable "Let's hike around the lake!" proposal popped up I was ready to hesitantly though with great vigor hike up a mountain and try not to die. Then someone opened a beer for "hydration purposes" during the hike and I knew all would be well.
It was a great time and thanks to all who made it as such. Here are some quotes, names reduced to initials for the sake of maintaining the integrity of others.

Quotes from camping, 8/7/2009 in a much-inebriated P.M.

“Well, it used to be nothing NOW!”
- L. forgetting how to use tenses

“Who is this Jesus everyone is talking about?”
- J. after enough J-Bombs were dropped in regards to the haze of mosquitoes

"What the FUCK?! SAVE IT!”
- ?, i have no idea what this is in reference to

“Mosquitoes everywhere… but not a drop to drink.”
- L. & J., self-explanatory

“No, I didn’t get stabbed with a dirty needle… in the face.”
- J., referring to 5 mosquito bites on one face

“The chicken’s gonna start.. fuckin’… JUMPIN’.”
- R., in reference to the chicken cooking particularly well on the fire

“Like a moth to an iPOD.”
- ?, and ?


The ‘Dear Whiskey’ sessions:

Dear Bushmills,
You’re Protestant crap!
XXOO
Love,
- J.

Dear Southern Comfort,
You’re not very comforting.
Yours,
- J.
XXOO

Dear Glen Livett,
You’re harsh and that sucks! It doesn’t matter if you’re 12 or 15.
Love,
- J.

14.8.09

SE Francis and 27th


A lovely ex-housemate, Roz K., dropped this pic in my inbox. We all know I LOVES me some radio. Thanks Roz, hope your days and nights squeal with delight!

13.8.09

Home Depot in New Jersey


One of my lovely exes, Christi, sent this to me. It's amazing because in Oregon all of the paint cans are locked up TIGHT. Racking this shit would be a lot easier out east, which is strange as they have had graffiti problems a hell of a lot longer than we have had out this way.
How punkish is it to tag the effing floor in front of the paint cans... though if you're gonna call an area yours this is a good place to lay claim to.
Thanks, Christi. Hope all is well out in Brooklyn.
Missing ya!

12.8.09

HOMEWORK ESSAY: Four People I Would Invite to Dinner


Ghandi, Jesus, Mohammed, and you. But I’d tell the other three that we were meeting in the Middle East at a hookah bar. It’d be a trick for sure, but hopefully they’d take a moment whilst in the area to tell everyone to chill the fuck out. Then you’d show up at mine, look around, and say “Hey, where’s Jesus?” and I’d say something like, “Look, with our schedules being what they are these days we just don’t get a lot of quality time anymore. We’re always bouncing all over the place like frogs on a hotplate. You’re always volunteering at the children’s burn unit, I’m tied up freeing puppycats and kittydogs from bear traps all day. So I thought I’d just have you over, light a coupla candles, open a bottle of wine, put something mellow on the stereo, and just take some time to get reacquainted. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to leisurely tell you how beautiful you are.”
Then the other three would show up all pissed off and bust up my house.
But not before I kissed you and we conquered a little corner of the universe that we could call our own.

9.8.09

-[Untitled #Q.12/Orange]-


It had only been 10 hours or so since we last said goodbye, but we kissed like it had been eons.
We separated our lips, our tongues; we smiled and held hands with fingertips. You let go of one of my hands and pulled up your shirt, exposing a soft white belly that I live to rest my face on—the one action that I can positively and without a doubt say I was born to do.
You made a mischievous ‘whoops’ smirk. I looked down and saw a rash of sorts. It took only a second, a quick troll back through fresh memories to put two and two together and come up with ‘rug burn.’
My eyes got big and I returned the mischievous ‘whoops’ smirk.
We both blushed, we both laughed, and then the sky opened up we didn’t let the night end until we gave it permission to. Sleep would come, suns would rise and tiny stars would go supernova, but it was all going to be on our terms, no doubt. This world, this darkness, was ours to command.


07 Lover, You Shouldve Come Over.mp3 -

1.8.09

Uh Huh




And THIS is why I don't go on dates. Girls are insane, as are women... and men... and me. I need a new button-up I suppose.

31.7.09

A comment on the Grime


Maniac Mix - Logan Sama

So, grime. Click the imeem link to check it out. THIS is where hip-hop went, in my opinion. Too many "rappers" over here just phone in half-assed rhymes over half-assed beats and pull in a shit ton of money. How this happens can only be explained by people having no taste, which is obvious considering the popularity of swill like American Idol.
Fiddy Cent, people? How in the FUCK did he get so big? He's the worst rapper on the planet. Do we blame Dre for making some admittedly catchy beats and then selling them to some knucklehead? Really? OK, the crunk thing was exciting for a minute, they can still occasionally pull a rabbit out of the hat. But a quick spin through the radio will give you nothing but a bunch of lazy, self-inflating dick bags who can't rap for shit.
So THIS Grime business... I don't know about you, and I know it's been kicking around London for awhile, but THIS is exciting to these disappointed ears. These guys work for their sound. If they do end up getting lazy they would just have to stop as you can't pull this shit off without jamming both balls into it.
Maybe they'll get old and tired (Snoop Dogg, Busta... oh wait, Lady Soverign... yeah, I guess it can happen to the Grime) and drop off, but for as good as Snoop and Busta may have been (The Coming is a wicked album... to bad he just decided to take the money and get fat) this stuff kicks it in the neck.
Anyhoo, I'm no scholar on the subject as you can probably tell. All I do know is that this sounds fresh, sincere and energetic, and in a scene that is getting mopey and lazy and doing what it can to replicate the mood of that whole Grunge thing, well, it's great to hear someone trying.
For more, go to Logan Sama's site and download all kinds of live shit.

29.7.09

Gaslamp Killer



Those DJs that just stand with their cocktail and chat with their friends whilst occasionally clicking something on their laptop should take note of this guy.
If the DJ is bored then the dancefloor will be too. This guy owns the joint without a doubt.
And that grumbly dubstep drop at the 23 second mark is WHAT I LIVE FOR!

27.7.09

Buraka Som Sustana



Shit!

Back to the Drawing Board--Parts Uno y Dos

UNO

I Thought I Saw a Shooting Star,
But it Was Just Your Fist,
All Small and Pale in the Moonlight,
Arcing Towards My Head.
That's The Last Thing I Remember.


DOS

[...] through a mouthful of blood
and a few chipped teeth I said
"I love you?"
I meant it with all of my heart,
contrary to the inflection,
but that didn't stop her from hitting me again...
and again [...]

25.7.09

The Dilemma and the Solution

[A halfway intelligent man]

-would contact you in some manner and express-

-interest in taking you out to dinner-

-sometime-

[soon.]

(---)

[A fully intelligent yet idiotically presumptuous and over-thinking man]

-would do the same but believe that in these-

-modern new-fangled days that some women-

-don’t WANT to be taken out dinner and-

-approach the-

[situation from a different angle.]

.(---).

[A crafty fucker,]

-one who daily laments the fact that no one appreciates his craftiness-

-which is, in reality, nothing-

-more than highly calculated stupidity,-

-would know what a fully intelligent man knows-

-and come up with something like a fake contest-

-and inform you that you have WON a free meal-

-with said fellow who happens to be on the board that-

-picks the winner of said-

[contest AND is the one who chooses what the prize is, which is dinner.]

-(---)-

[A complete and utter chickenshit of a child]

-would ignore the hankering to ask you out-

-to dinner and just tell you that,-

-actually, he is a liar and in fact DOES think that-

-Eddie Money-

is the best songwriter of the last 70 years,-

[then stay at home and read a Miranda July book, alone, for the next 8 months.]

...

OK then… “The Shared Patio.”

23.7.09

Mmmmm...

This pic appeals to the sap in me. I found it here on a link for some crap music. Just forget the music, I gave the link just to keep honest. The PICTURE is where it's at.

18.7.09

Oh, what?! Come on!!! Jesus!

So I just read that Jackie Chan has signed on to play Mr. Miyagi in the remake of The Karate Kid.
Ridiculous! WHY REMAKE IT?! WHY REMAKE ANYTHING?! CAN'T ANYONE IN HOLLYWOOD WRITE A GODDAMNED SCRIPT?!
I've had it up to my tits with these remakes. They are obvious cash-ins and they work for some damned reason, which just keeps encouraging the studios to keep taking either good or shitty movies and remaking them with a soundtrack that is 5,000 times more obvious and asinine. Please, people, STOP going to see these things. Then they'll stop making them?
Oh, and Footloose is being remade as a musical.
Who wants to take a roadtrip to Hollywood with a bunch of duct tape, some knockout pills and a pair of pliers? I think we can do it in a Zipcar.

13.7.09

A Polaroid of Wishful Thinking

So here we are and all things blow up into one another on a lazy afternoon or a late evening, all comfortable with a small chill in the air. It’s the first time, maybe the second, quite possibly the third when we know a bit more about how to work one another. It may start off slow, but then again, it may not. We may be tender and curious like impending lovers, or at one another like wild animals. Regardless, only good things come of it, and we are a knot, a mess, a crumbling tower that may start out up against the wall, or in the middle of the room, but the gravity overwhelms, the desire for angles that aren’t all that easy to achieve while upright, so we tumble, collapse, reinvent geometry and take nothing for granted. Hands explore, eyes hone into eyes, lips are put to use, legs are like prehensile tails, holding on, repositioning, and life becomes a blur, yet highly focused at the same time. Outlines become targets to aim for. Arms—soft yet strong—around torsos, waists. Hands pulling, grazing, swirling, and prodding.

And it goes on until an unspoken agreement falls from the sky, we pull back, smile, blush, catch our breath. Someone needs to go to the bathroom, or get a glass of water, or maybe a walk in the fresh air is in order and now where are my boxers? Digging through the destruction of passion (the room was clean and tidy before this all started). At the foot of the bed, somehow tied in a double Windsor around the cast-off sheet, down at the left side where the corner of the fitted sheet popped off, exposing a faded, pillow-topped mattress that has seen this all before and will no doubt see it many times more. Standing up, equilibrium a little off, we try to dress, one leg in your pants, or one leg in my pants, and the other comes up and wraps arms around, interrupting the dressing process, lips lace together, tongues say things like “Don’t go” and “Come back soon” and “Do that again” and “I’ll meet you back here in 15 minutes,” all wet and warm and comforting, an anchor to a place that we all want to stay rooted in forever, however unreasonable that may be.

“No, I haven’t seen your sock. Just get some others, I’m sure it’ll show up” as we regard the explosion of a comforter, a sheet, a few pillows, that fitted sheet that wouldn’t stay on even if we were just sleeping peacefully in one another’s arms. Here’s your shirt, or mine, and I hand it to you with a grin or you hand it to me with a grin and grab my hand and pull me to you again, or I just go to you as you try to put on your shirt and there is more to say, with no words necessary. Sly smiles, fingertips drug down the length of a soft arm and I sit to tie my shoes and admire your shapes, your outlines, the soft edges that define you, that make you something I want to hold.

And we are outside, still didn’t find that sock, and there is a chill in the air, and we meander a few blocks in no particular direction, filling our lungs with the air, both secretly glad that the night is turning cold as that guarantees the need for body heat later on, the longing for 5-15 hours of constant spooning.

After not too long you shiver, or I do, and you notice, or I do, and suggest we head back, and we do, our pace only slightly faster because really we just want to get back to one another, and we do, after a glass of water, a comment on the cold, a dig through the junk mail on the counter, then still under the guise of innocence we are back in the bedroom and “Geez, it’s cold. Wanna spoon?” and we try to put the bed back together, there’s your sock, somehow on the far side of the room. How did that happen?

And spoon we do, but hands, as they are wont to do, begin to roam, bodies press into bodies, and once again and forever more, a special forever that doesn’t conform to the old definition of forever, we explore one another until breaths quicken, then fade, then off to sleep as one of us stays awake a little bit longer than the other, watching sleep happen, the relaxed face, the gentle breathing, and I nuzzle the back of your neck, or you nuzzle mine, and plant a soft kiss, prompting you, or me, to turn and hold, mumbling soft nonsense and you are back asleep, or I am, but if it is you then I lay there, marveling, waiting for the universe to start laughing as this must be some epic, cosmic joke that some beautiful creature would fall asleep in my arms like this; that the past few hours were merely a crude prank to shatter my heart.

But it isn’t, and we are here, and I silence the shitty voice that never expects that I deserve these things, and I kiss you on the forehead, and breathe in gently the baby-like air of the breath that comes out of your nose, and for now I can be quite sure that people who claim that nothing is perfect are sad souls, and utterly wrong in every sense of the word.

19.6.09

Jujo Cadien- 1837-2009, Rest in Peace

The world lost a brave and brilliant warrior today. Jujo Cadien, old man child of Mary, friend to all, took his last breath today and traveled on to the great beyond, a land of bacon and sunshine, belly rubs and endless laps to sleep on.
Jujo was a great unifier and was adored by all who met him. Dog lovers and dog haters alike had no choice to agree that Jujo was, simply put, The Shit.
Where he came from, no one will ever know, but where he ended up is as potent a love story as there ever was. Confused, cast-off, of mysterious origins, he ended up in the arms of Mary who saw through his tough exterior and the two quickly became inseparable.


He was sexy...

He was a good sport. Hell, he even looked cool with a fry on his head...



He was a muse...

He was a (reluctant) Arctic explorer...
He was photogenic... and loved... and beautiful...
and he will be missed by all who knew him.
Good luck and godspeed, tiny warrior. May the afterlife keep you entertained with edible mailmen and neverending sunbeams until we all end up in the same place, due to the mechanics of life, reunited again in the great unknown.
You, my good man, were a good friend to us and no one will ever top you.
Kisses and hugs.




6.6.09

There's a Retina Burn at the End of the Tunnel


Kids

It's no secret that kids and I aren't meant to be together. I do however love that they say the "darndest things" (eat it, Cosby).
My friend Shosh is in town with her lil' Sammy (Davis Junior, Jr.). He's 5.5 years old... or 2.5 years old. Something small. Anyhoo, apparently one day he dropped the word "obviously." Shosh was surprised and said, "Oh, obviously, huh? What's that mean, Sammy."
"It's Spanish," was his response.
"Really? What's it Spanish for?"
He thought for a second and then replied, with what may hopefully one day turn into perfect comic timing, "Peanut Butter!"
Brilliant.

30.5.09

Walking the Tracks, part 9






And that's that... for now. Well, for Walking the Tracks, that is.

29.5.09

Walking the Tracks, part 8






We can all agree that Six, whilst talented, is a severe wall hog.
And the VRS tag is impressive only for the sheer size of the damned thing. It's about 15 feet high. I appreciate that.