1,000 words or less

As you can see I have stopped posting pictures. That's because criminals made off with my camera and a number of other things I use to get through this world after they broke into my car. I won't go into detail since my identity may still be out there.

Still time marches. Wow. There's so much I can't say on the 'blog' since the info could easily get into the wrong heads. It's like pitching stories to editors, I want to write about the cool stuff I know, yet refuse to give away my secret hideouts, favorite things, etc. in fear of coopting them. Like Yogi says, 'No one goes there anymore, it's too crowded.'
Scored last minute tickets to the Irish band-who-owns-the-world last night. Paid face value. The sound was so-so, when you're back to the wall, 3rd level, behind the stage, but we were in anyhow. Twenty years since we saw them at our first concert in Minneapolis for the Unforgettable Fire tour.
Good times, old songs. It's fun to see music where you can appreciate the songs one minute, then find yourself lost in catharsis rocking out, suspended in time the next.

Back - or a-head?

So, ah ... then, I'm walking the pooch once around the block last week when I run into a fellow media cohort. We start shooting the breeze, and it turns out she's in the middle of doing an interview about my neighborhood. So I 'rap' with the developer who's planning on building this warehouse space up and beyond, into some condo/new produce market thing. Which is GREAT from my perspective. I told him all we need is a rock club and I have no reason to leave the hood. Yeah, I've seen the up-and-coming-ness of the ol' Mississippi. But as we spoke I noticed the photog started snapping ME. Didn't know the story actually ran until the hounds at the station started calling me out, saying they recognized the back of my neck.
Who knew.
Here's a link to Anna's article:

TribTown: Mixed-use moves in on Mississippi

Twilight

It's that time of the day where it's the transition between dark and light. The inbetween time.
Experts from unheard of places say it's the most dangerous time to drive a car. The sun is setting and darkness is coming. Many times one can't tell where the horizon ends and the road in front begins. There's a shadow over everything.
Drivers don't know if they should turn on the headlights, staring into the setting sun, or brave the dying glow from a rearview mirror.
The fading light will blind and the night vision hasn't had time to adjust. Because one way or another, we need the light. Whether it's natural or artificial. That's what makes twilight so hard.
The inbetween makes the pain.
Always darkest before the dawn, I suppose. When we can either turn on the lights or don the shades.

S#!tpurse Mondays

Back in the days of the famed Jockey Club we had a tradition called S#!tpurse Mondays.
The Jockey was our home away from home, a crusty shrine to all things Wrong about punk rock. A brick bunker with faded trophies, peeling bordello wallpaper, bathrooms that required a HAZMAT suit, pool tables used for much more than shooting billiards and the greatest jukebox Portland has ever seen.
A haven for misfits, criminals on the run and the terminally unemployed.
Darren was a 45-year-old mohawked adolescent who ran the place during the day. Every Monday, at least during the summer, he would produce an empty purse, usually one left behind by some video-crack hooker, or picked up off the street.
Said purse was then filled with dog excrement, and strategically placed at the bus stop on the corner, which could be seen from the front door.
Without failure, a dope fiend or street wretch would usually look around, snatch the purse and take off with their 'prize.'
The best one ever was when some thug, thinking he was getting away with his crime, took a look around, snuck the purse under his shirt just as the bus was pulling up.
He got on and everyone went out to see. Within a block we could hear the screaming and cursing as that purse flew out the window over I-5 at 30 miles an hour.