The Marty Mask

Marty and Jacob @ Creep Van/Going St.

I've wanted to publish this photo on Halloween for almost half a decade now, but each go 'round it slips through the cracks to haunt me later.  Contraband tends to do that in old vans and in files full of photos.  What's possibly odd about this undoubtedly odd photo is that it was taken long past the spooky season.  It's indicative of an era of buds hanging on a Tuesday night in Northeast Portland, drinking beers, and playing Marty Ball.  To play, you'd put on the Marty Mask (either Marty's Marty Mask or Jacob's Marty Mask would suffice), throw a ball at a doorknob, and snatch it up.  Something like that, anyway.  Winner gets to go home with a Mormon!  Further details are lost between the cushions of my mind, but, man, what a blast!  Good times turned golden oldies; it's the way of the world.  Better late than never posting this ol' fave.          

America

Vanessa & Erica @ Lloyd Center

The strange and ethereal American light in it's natural habitat. 

Authenticity

Mike Midlo @ LaurelThirst Pub

Mike Midlo is a busy man.  He is currently working on a "folk-opera", fronting the (awesome & authentic) roots-rock American band, Pancake Breakfast, and delving into his id through his newfound interest in writing heavy rock songs.  The cards he chose (3 of Pentacles, 10 of Swords, and The High Priestess) suggested that the onset of new challenges & expectations is conflicting with his creative process perpetuating the eternally frustrating condition of "writer's block".  Fortunately, respite, and ultimately inspiration, could be achieved by giving himself over to silence, to mystery, and to nature.  "I don't believe in Tarot cards," he confided, "But that's pretty accurate.  I'm heading up to Wallula in a few weeks to get away from everything and work on new songs."  For a folkie like Mike, the muse is revealed in nature's cadence.  It is evident that the songs he sings were heard in the absence of machinery, an expression of truth that undercuts the myth of progress and reminds us of the world's songs, the authenticity that is so rare to find in the monotony of urban life.         

The Room

 Duncan @ Cinema 21

Have you ever seen The Room?  It's trash of the highest caliber.  Within the first few minutes of the film, the very concept of "taste" collapses upon itself like a dying star, leaving the audience to gaze in wonder at the cinematic black hole unfolding before their very eyes, crushing all preconceptions of what makes a "good" movie.  In this stuttered disruption of space/time, up is down and bad is good and people throw spoons at the screen in a vain attempt to repel the onslaught of insanity. Underwear is lost and by the time a group of tuxedo-clad movie buffs start tossing around a football in solidarity with the characters, it becomes apparent that this absolutely horrendous, incompetent film, a film that may very well have been made to launder drug money, has become one of the most beloved movies of it's time.

 Tommy Wiseau @ Cinema 21

This is Tommy.  He's the director, writer, producer, executive producer, and star of this terrible, terrible movie.  At a recent screening of The Room, he signed numerous body parts (faces included), head-locked some poor schmo, and almost got hit by a car while playing football in the middle of a busy intersection.  This was all within ten minutes of his arrival; the man wastes no time!  By the twelth minute a cop was hassling him.  By the thirteenth minute he was back in the street trying to explain the proper way to throw a football.  The highlight of the night, however, came later during the Q & A when he made a shocking revelation of his recent discovery of bisexuality and claimed that the only difference between dating a man or a woman is "the sounds they make when they go to the bathroom".   

   

Kimi (as "Lisa") & Celso (as "Johnny")

Tommy is a cult of personality.  He is a bit deranged, but a total chaos angel.  The man's certainly a far cry from the wooden characters he unleashed onto the big screen.  The couple pictured above have adapted the look of The Room's main characters "Johnny" (the doting, tortured boyfriend) and "Lisa" (Johnny's sociopathic "future wife").  It's a sordid affair that ultimately destroys them both in the most hackneyed way possible, while invoking the age old cliche:  Love is blind.  It truly is a trainwreck for the ages.     

Sorcery

Mishaela

Sorcery works at creating around itself a psychic/physical space or openings into a space of untrammeled expression-- the metamorphosis of quotidian place into angelic sphere.  This involves the manipulation of symbols (which are also things) & people (who are also symbolic)-- the archetypes supply a vocabulary for this process & therefore are treated as if they were both real & unreal like words.  Imaginal Yoga.

--Hakim Bey

Runaway

Devin @ 4th & Burnside

Each year roughly two million teenagers run away from home.  Motives vary, but often times it's due to unhealthy family dynamics.  Devin told me that he left home because he was sick of dealing with his parents' drug addiction.  He is now living on the streets and struggling to find a job.  There's no upside here, but should anyone in a similar position come across this post, please know that there's help out there.       

Ground Kontrol vs. Avalon

Ann @ Ground Kontrol

T-Lo @ Avalon

2011 has been a firecracker of a year, folks.  To take upon the burden of explaining the travails of these times is a futile endeavor.  So many difficult questions:  What is the role of U.S Middle Eastern policy now that Bin Laden has been executed?  What is the true cost of the ongoing nuclear catastrophe of Fukushima?  Climate change:  Irreversible?  Politics: Irreconcilable?  Most importantly,  where can I go to avoid thinking about all these scary things?

Portland has two mind-numbing options to fulfill my craving for apathy.  The eclectic & future-chic Ground Kontrol and the seizure-inducing nickel arcade Avalon.  Both are nostalgic portals into the games of yesteryear; Ground Kontrol features just about any arcade game you've ever played EVER, whereas Avalon features games you may have once played at a deranged clown's estate sale or possibly a haunted carnival.  Hence, another impossible question emerges:  If Ground Kontrol and Avalon were to get into a fight, who would win?

Ground Kontrol  

Pros:  Classic selection, no cover, beer.

Cons:  They have shows, but they're either usually math rock, 8-bit disco, or nerdcore.  

Good place for a fellow to bring a date?  Sure, guy.  If she doesn't ditch you, you'll have found your nerd queen.    

Ground Kontrol is where hip nerds shove quarters into all their childhood faves while drinking beer and listening to DJs.  It is where Master Control Program parties.  In sheer variety and acclaim it decimates Avalon.  Although...

Avalon

Pros:  A dollars worth of nickels goes a long way, admission includes a movie, sky high WTF value.

Cons:  Brats, tweakers, seizures, and a terrifying animatronic lizard.   

Good place for a fellow to bring a date?  If by date, you mean ditch the baby mama and try to pick up high scool girls while the kids pump your hard earned nickels into some incomprehensible animatronic lizard.      

Avalon is a skeezy, yet loveable place, and it's cheap too; $2.50 gets you into a movie and a nickel gobbling bizarro world.  There is no better place to hide from the world.  Plus you can win giant inflatable hammers and those snap popper things!

And the winner is....

While Ground Kontrol is clearly the superior arcade, Avalon wins in a fight because it is blasted on 4Loco and has nothing to lose.  Plus it has that god damn lizard, which is totally unfuckable with.  

           

1.2.3 T.V's

Maxwell @ The Treehouse

Maxwell has a weird obsession with broken televisions because he was raised by television.  He even has an psychedelic/industrial (psychedustrial?) hip-hop band of the same name.  In his spare time, Max sniffs toxic sticker glue and watches static turn into language.  The voices tell him to throw far-out parties on the second Saturday of each month.  They're different shows, but the same story:  "The only limits we have are the ones we create for ourselves".  The TV said it so it must be true.         

Speakeasy

Dean Pottle @ Dean's Scene

At Dean's, beer takes on the grace of art.  The man is a connoisseur; a craft brewer par excellence and collector of beer glasses and brewing paraphernalia.  So dedicated is he to beer culture that he converted his basement into a speakeasy, a juice joint highlighted by Dean's personal recipes and rare crafts from around the world.  No password is needed to enter into Dean's abode, just a personable demeanor, friendly attitude, and perhaps a few bucks for a donation.  Warning!  Dean's Scene is not for the faint of heart nor is it a place for frat boy machismo.  Dean's microbrews are deceptively potent and will hit you like a freight train after one glass too many (Dean's Vaccine, I'm looking at you!).  Dean's Scene is a taster's venue; a place for appreciating the art of brewing and the art of banter.  The vibe is more Al Franken than Al Capone, but as the dark horse of Portland's bar scene, Dean's Scene puts them all to shame.   

Reality Check

Leticia & Maggie

"While photography can make contrived scenarios look convincingly real, it can also make real scenes or landscapes appear strangely artificial"

Mom

My Mom @ Cannon Beach

I don't get to see my mom that often:  She lives in England, I live in Portland; it's not the most  convenient day trip.  The distance, however, makes every visit from her extra special and I try to set aside as much time for her as I possibly can (especially since she usually pays for dinner).  When she visited in February, however, I was seriously ill; I had a really bad chest cold replete with splitting headaches and exhaustion.  "That's no excuse not to see your mother," she lectured when she arrived.  No way was my poor health going to ruin her vacation!   Hence, a weekend of forced marches commenced.  Day 1:  A barely coherent traipse to The Gorge; Day 2:   A hallucinatory excursion to the beach.  Both were fine adventures, save for the fact I could barely breathe, think, talk, much less walk however many miles my crazed parent demanded.  Despite the complete disregard mom has for my "walking pneumonia", I love her anyway.  Happy Mother's Day, mom. 

In Gloom

Luna, Spooky, and Ghosty @ Rose Quarter Transit Center

And just like that it rains again!  I swear, Portland is so funky, yet so gloomy.  You gotta wonder what effect that has on "the kids today", what with their impressionable minds and all.  Take this gang for instance:  Spooky, Ghosty, and Luna (and they're ferret, Pip).  You can see the harsh toll this gloomy, yet funky, industrial wasteland has taken on them.  They're a bit dejected but of the chillest sort; they're holding down the jaded streets with a style that is part visual kei and part lurking goth.  If they were a band, they'd probably call themselves BauHausu.  They are Portland's rain personified.       

In Bloom

Ruth under a Japanese Snowbell @ SE 33rd & Stark

Portland is famous for two things:  Hipsters and rain.  Both can be a drag, but the latter at least serves a purpose.  When spring finally arrives, the city is overtaken with blooms nourished by the unceasing, soul-crushing rainy season.  Colors explode in eye-popping arrays, accented by the light of the evasive sun.  The flourishing plant life is our little reward for cruel winter, it is a truly spectacular display that also yields a wide variety of berries, fruits, and veggies in the later months.  So yeah, I'll wait out the rain, but up next comes allergy season... yuck, that hipster of seasons:  snotty, whiney, and totally in your face.  Damn, I better enjoy all these flowers before they pollinate.       

Holi!

 Prashant Kakad @ Hoyt Arboretum

 Ratnanjali Adhar @ Hoyt Arboretum

Gopis @ Hoyt Arboretum

There's no shame on Holi!  Revelers sing, dance, and smear colored powder all over each other.  Jubilant cries of "Mohalla!" fill the air and pranks are partaken in honor of Krishna, the lord of desires.  Social boundaries are dissolved, as are the segregations of caste, and replaced with festivity, flirtation, and fun.  Holi bids farewell to the rainy season and welcomes the Springtime vibe with an uproarious display of silliness.    

I had the good fortune of attending this small Holi celebration up at Hoyt Arboretum on an almost Springlike day.  While Portland's Holi by no means compares with the festivals of Jaisalmer or Vrindavan, it was a fine spectacle with it's own fair share of antics and conviviality.  DJ Prashant Kakad was on the scene bringing the Bollywood back-up, spinning some filmi classics and choreographing basic Bollywood dance routines on the spot.  Appreciations to him for the merriment and big thanks to Ratnanjali who helped plan it out and brought some delicious Holi snacks (but unfortunately no Bhang Thandai!).  Good riddance to the rain!  Happy Springtime everybody!    

Prashant teaches Bollywood-Bhangra dance classes

at The Crystal Ballroom every 2nd & 4th Saturday of the month.

Jai Ho!

Dirty Word

Ashley, Nica & Alex @ SE 42nd & Halsey

Somewhere in between the run-of-the-mill and the run-to-the-store sequence of our lives, there is poetry.  The poetry of this photo is a dirty word.  Do you see it?  

Playoffs

Charles & Carrie @ Rose Garden

The prediction I gave Carrie before Game 4:  "It'll be awhile, but if you're really patient, you might just see the Blazers win a championship".  

Better luck next year Rip City.  

Put a Fucking Bird on It

Josh Gates @ The Crap Factory

Apparently in Portland, you can't call it "Art" unless you "put a bird on it".  What started off as a lame hook from the show, Portlandia, has since become a tired in-joke for the region.  Seriously, it's almost as played out as "That's what she said" or "Don't have a cow, man" and typing it myself makes me very, very ashamed.  Yet, in order for my photo series to have any credibility in this ridiculous city, it is necessary for me to eschew good taste and (yawn) "put a bird on it".  So... 

You know what Josh says about birds?  Fuck 'em, that's what.  Back in the summer of 2009 when we were housemates, we threw an epic party; a party so wild and outrageous that Josh broke his foot partying so hard.  He spent the rest of the summer hobbling around on crutches and eating pints of Haggen Dazs ice cream.  One hot summer day, at the apex of his misery, Josh saw a crow sitting on a telephone wire.  The crow looked smarmily down on him, gloating as though it were the epitome of freedom.  "Fuck you bird," Josh blurted out, flipping it off.  The crow just sat on it's perch dumbly and poor Josh crutched back home to eat his ice cream and watch "Groundhog Day".    

So yeah:  Fuck you bird and Fuck you "put a bird on it" jokes.  This ends now, before Voodoo Donuts introduces a "put a bird it" maple-bacon bar.  This ends now, before Stumptown baristas introduce a "put a bird on it" foam art latte.  This ends now, before the (formerly) "Made in Oregon" sign on Burnside is revamped yet again to read  "put a bird on it".  You know how it ends?  As sexual innuendo, that's how.  From this point forward, "put a bird on it" refers to ejaculating on your partner.  "Me and Suzie had a great date; we had dinner, saw a movie, and then I put a bird on it".  There.  It is done.  Now stop repeating dumb catchphrases and go put a bird on someone.      

*Just for the record Josh is awesome and loves animals when he is fully mobile.  He is also really funny and writes comics, which you can check out at his site Class of '99.

Super Fan

 Carl @ SE 37th & Washington

You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who loves AC/DC as much as this man.  For years, his animated AC/DC window light has shook SE 37th Ave all night long.  He also occasionally hangs out on the corner dressed as a catholic schoolboy just like Angus Young.  When I first saw him burst out of his home in his Angus-duds,  I assumed he was a musician in a cover band or something, but no, he's just a simple man who loves loves loves AC/DC.  

One evening on my bike ride home from the dayshift, I overheard some killer guitar riffs squealing out of a red, AC/DC decal adorned pick-up truck parked on SE 37th and Washington.  As I cruised by, I glanced through the windshield and saw the super fan head-banging in the driver's seat, dressed to the nines in his schoolboy costume, belting out "Back in Black" at the top of his lungs.  Captivated by this full-on rockathon, I pedaled up to the driver-side window and interrupted his communion with the gods.  I asked him if he would pose for a photograph and he lit up and the AC/DC floodgates opened!

Carl turned down the tunes and regaled me with tales of seeing AC/DC live in concert eleven times!  He repeated the compliments he received on his schoolboy uniform.  He remembered a time some hapless bouncer almost let him backstage after a show one night.  He wistfully recalled all the hot chicks who took a picture with him because they thought he was actually the legendary guitarist in the flesh.  The man is a star by association.    

"But why AC/DC," I interrupted, "Why not Zeppelin or The Who"? 

"Because AC/DC is the only band from my youth that I can still stand," he replied, following up with rave reviews  of their latest albums.  "Did you see them last time they played the Tacoma Dome?  They still got it man, they still know how to put on a great show".  He recounted several more experiences that included topless girls, rocking out, and posing for pictures.  As he reminisced, a warm glow softened his eyes; to Carl, AC/DC are the end-all-be-all of music, in his mind the Hammer of Thor itself buckles to the beat of "Highway to Hell".  In some ways his obsession is laughable, but his commitment to them is forever and that's actually pretty admirable.  You wouldn't just be hard-pressed finding a bigger super fan, but you'd be hard-pressed finding a current band that elicits that kind of devotion.  In a world without rock stars, all power to the doppelgangers!  Long live the super fan!         

  

Gardens

Steffi @ Col. Summers Garden/SE Waterfront

Steffi believes that gardening can save the world.  By growing our own food we can reclaim our autonomy; we can make an immediate avowal of self reliance that fosters tenderness, attention, and sensitivity to the natural world.  Gardens engender localized economies that are in direct opposition to the paradigm of industrial agriculture that is currently degrading our planet.  Gardens are an alternative to genetically modified foods, epic deforestation, and corporate hegemony.  Gardens (and gardeners) are necessary to our community's long term interests:  Industrial agriculture currently accounts for 17% of the United States annual consumption of  fossil fuels, which begs the question:  What will we eat, when the oil runs out?  A culture of gardens NOW, will obsolesce the three days it would take for an industrialized nation to collapse from a fuel/food shortage.  

Starting a garden may be daunting at first, but resources such as Food Not Lawns and the American Community Gardening Association provide information and advice to aid your transition from servitude to sustainability.  Each garden is a seed planted against the scorched earth policies of industrial agriculture, a seed that will eventually yield lower food expenses, a healthier diet, exercise, relaxation, and pride in one's accomplishment.  Quality and longevity of life are a shovel away; it is time to bury the notion that we are well and truly fucked.  Factory farms are a short term investment; in the long run it may prove more fortuitous for us to get our hands dirty and rekindle our connection to the Earth, the seasons, and the interconnected natural cycles of which we are inextricably connected to, whether we acknowledge it or not.  The world is worth saving, plant the seed.     

       

Medicine Man

Medicine Man @ his Garden

As political unrest sweeps the Middle East, escalating tension between Shi'ites and Sunnis is threatening to engulf the entire region in turmoil.  Sectarian violence between these two branches stems...  What's that?  You don't care?  You're wondering what that leafy green vegetation blossoming behind the masked man is?  Some call it tampee, some call it the weed; by whatever name you call it, it's a spiritual branch with absolutely no sectarian divisions.  In this beautiful and aromatic indoor garden, Grape Kush, Pot of Gold, Chocolope, Willie Nelson, Big Buddha Cheese, Purple Diesel, and an impressive variety of other strains reach for the light together in peace.  In the Garden, the higher power does not differentiate between indicas and sativas; all leaves are loved equally by the light.  The masked man above is a devotee of the plant spirit, a medicine man utilizing his green thumbs to grow a sacrament for those in need.  "People in pain aren't criminals," he insists, "My grandmother's not a criminal...  It's a double standard:  Alcohol and tobacco are legal.
It should be legal to smoke, grow, and possess Marijuana".   

Point well taken, medicine man, one less war is one less war.  Legalize it.  Humanity can learn something from the plants.