Bridge City Property Management Kudos

So after many years I retired from OHSU and now am a partner owning an apartment complex. Thankfully I have Bridge City Property Management to handle the many details of ownership. After two years struggling to do the right thing for the tenants and partners, Bridge City came to the rescue. I am so relived to have the property management company take over the responsibility. They do a great job of navigating the many rules and regulations implosed by the City of Portland on landlords. Not to mention doing repairs and capital improvements, bookkeeping, etc. Highly recommended.

So why post? Why put your private thoughts out there in the void for others to read? I’ve wondered about that and decided after about three years of silence, I post so I can point others to my notes. Some will not read NFA but that is OK. Others will read and scoff at my ramblings but that is OK too. However there may be someone out there who wonders what has become of me over the years. They may have lost touch and prefer to keep it that way. Perhaps they are too shy to take up with talking or writing to me? It doesn’t matter. If I have lost you over the years or decades it was never my intention to do so. I have always been a wanderer: rarely living in one place more than a few years, and yearning for new places and people; always looking for new jobs, homes, friends, coworkers, towns, cities, and states is in my blood. My parents were the same way. So if you wonder what has happened to me, blame it on my nomadic ways.

However, all that history of tramping across the country came to an end with a wonderful woman called Kristy. We have been married for twelve years and together for eighteen. We live in a bucolic paradise on a hill overlooking the Yamhill river valley. It’s a refuge from our hectic professional life in Portland, Oregon. Having a sanctuary is worth the drive. Not seeing and rarely hearing our neighbors is a pleasure we happily enjoy.

Now, to put a log on the fire and get comfortable with a one of my books.

On Bowkowski and Me

I seem to be having this fear of writing illness. You would think with all the thoughts rattling around my head there would be plenty to say. And I do have those moody, radical, even absurd thoughts to be sure. So, why this introspection? I watched Factotum tonight on Netflix. It is a film loosely based on Charles Bowkowski’s life. We are to believe he was a womanizing drunk who had little if any redeeming value to society. But, he was still a writer who achieved some fame and that may be the message in the film. No matter what the writer is in real life, his work is what matters to the rest of us. Of course if you do an autobiography and it sells and then is turned into an art film so much the better. The flick must make every struggling writer yearning for fame and fortune grind their teeth.

Got a few Motoblurs with the Android OS for me and Kristy. Cool. I set it up to sync with my Outlook calendar and contacts. If only it would do the same with my Notes and To Do list. Maybe that will be coming with an update? Hope so.

Sweet Land the Movie

A Micro Review Did I see it? Yes. Did I like it? Yes. Should you see it? Yes. A love story takes place in the post World War I, Mid-West farm-belt. Imagine a former member of Osama Bin Ladin’s tribe coming to live in your community after the towers have come crashing down. 

Thus the quandary for the provincial, bigoted, Americans meeting a bride direct from Germany. How can they possibly allow an enemy to live among them? This makes for a difficult situation for the poor bride Inge Altenberg played by Elizabeth Reaser. 

 Sweet Land and its portrayal of small town rural American values (good and bad), colliding with disparate, romantic love is timely. It is timely because we need to be reminded about our past bigotry and use it as a mirror to see ourselves in the present. 

Our current immigrants receive similar disdain, mistrust, and hatred as the German immigrants in the 1920s. Thus, I viewed the movie not as another well done romance, but a parable of the present and America ninety or so years ago. I recommend this film, its moving story, polished acting, and exquisite music to those who want to be mentally stimulated and emotionally moved.

2006 H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival in Portland, Oregon

And why do you care I have returned from the H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival in Portland? Hum, good question. How about a few pics from Sunday night? My bro Rolf called and alerted me to the HPL fest on Saturday. What fortune! I have missed the fandango for so many years and now I went to the party in the historic Hollywood Theater. Just look at it. This theater exudes history and the Gothic style. 

The organizers could not have found a better place. Although the sky looks blue in this pic I can assure you there was gray overcast in keeping with the event.

Yes, I had missed the previous two nights and previous annual events but better slow then stupid. Is this not a gothic looking theater? Or is it baroque?

Where did that blue sky come from? My Kodak LS 420. It sees things different than I do. Perhaps it wears a rose colored monocle? Whatever its shortcomings it is nearly idiot proof. Nearly.

Newport High School Alumni Seeking Cthulhu

Here is a cross section of demented Newport High School Alumni from the mid-seventies to that guy in the middle who escaped the fog bound shores and wind twisted trees of Newport in 1968. 

Then he came back, then he left, then he came back, then he left, then he came back. Finally he left and stayed left. 

Somehow these desperate hombres showed up to worship at the altar of Cthulhu on Sunday evening. Don't worry, the guy on the far left was wearing black pants.

We all look old enough to know better, but looks can be deceiving?

Pre HPL Fest Noodling About

Peter, Ryan, and Rolf checking out the feature film before the doors opened.

And wear would we be without the man in the hat? Underneath it was a wear-wolf.

Horror Writer Rolf DeVries at HPL Film FEST

And here is Rolf in his element. HPL fest, black leather, like minded gothic sorts. He was a happy fellow.

My first and hopefully not may last HPL Film Festival was a spine prickling time. Next year I'll bring some books for the authors to sign!

Once I was home I took buckets of oats down to the horses. I had my phone camera to record this shot of the nearly full moon through the ancient oaks. I wish I had a time exposure camera but one takes a shot or not right?

Good night all. Sleep well.

ABOUT BIG BOX AND INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORES

Attribution: Mysterious artist's work purloined from an unknown website. I'll find it sooner or later. Looks like Lee Brown Coye.

Comparing Independent and Super Bookstores:

A Personal Adventure in Book Hunting

I frequent bookstores. It is a pleasure I have enjoyed as long as I can remember. I never analyzed why I like books, it simply natural to me. However, reading books, going to bookstores and libraries are not the whole hobby. Finding certain books became an adventure taking over hunting and fishing excursions. Book hunting is a challenging sport but I doubt if my former fishing and hunting partners would understand it. I consider it a sport, because like hunting and fishing there are quarry to be taken. Often the game eludes the hunter. Sometimes great distances are traveled, expenses mount up, and the desired game is not found. It escaped, grabbed by someone else, or never was there to begin with. Frustration is possible in book hunting but it usually is soothed by buying another book. Try doing that after a long day in the wilds in search of deer or trout.

Comparing book habitations may help a book hunter find his prey. Like fish and game, books come in all sizes, have diverse characteristics, and prefer different types of terrain. That certain kinds of books are found in different types of bookstores escaped my notice for more years than I like to admit. I made many trips to find a book by favorite authors without regard to the characteristics of bookstores. Seeking a book was based on whether a bookstore was near or far away. Was the store on the way to some place else, or open at the time I was near it.

A book hunting adventure last spring explains when, where, and how a particular book was brought to ground. I am a Neal Stephenson fan. Mr. Stephenson hammered out a historical fiction trilogy encompassing the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. I had the first and third books, but the second had eluded me. How The Confusion managed to avoid me, I don’t know. Perhaps its title caused a metaphorical cloaking influence on my mind as I tried to find it. Whatever the cause, one evening I stopped by the Tigard Borders bookstore on my way to Portland, hoping to catch it by surprise.

Borders in Tigard is a new and modern building enclosing a large number of always-new books. I had visited it several times over the years. It is next to a freeway off-ramp and allows easy access during an episode of book hunting. It also has many new books on sale. It is clean, I do not worry about someone breaking into my car, and they have great coffee and scones. One Borders characteristic is that it is never the same when I visit it. Although book categories tend to stay in the same area, the content of the bookshelves change all the time.

Neal Stephenson made his name writing science fiction and even though his trilogy was historical fiction, I suspected The Confusion would be in Sci-Fi. It wasn’t. I explored the popular fiction area and could not find The Confusion there. I did find some paperback Stephenson books in the science fiction area but not his trilogy. I didn’t want a paperback anyway. The quarry was a first edition hardcover.

Why didn't I ask someone for help when looking for The Confusion? I rarely ask for help in a bookstore. It would be like asking a hunting or fishing partner to do all the work. Kill the game, hook the fish, dress, or clean it too. So I always feel a little embarrassed when asking a bookseller for help, but I did. Borders has different books on the shelves each time I visit. In this adventure, there was no one at the Help Desk placed in the middle of the store. I felt lost, off in the woods without a landmark to speak of. A clerk who was on an errand, rushed by, and I could tell by the way she wouldn’t meet my eye as she scurried past, that what concerned her was more important then matching customer to book. I gave chase and after calling out to her twice she stopped but she did not recognize I was a potential buyer. I asked her if she knew where I could find The Confusion and she looked anxious. I asked her again but this time included the name of the author with the title. She sighed and pointed to what looked like an ATM.

“You can find everything in the store by looking it up in the directory. Just type it in.” And away she went. I found the directory to be easy enough, and after browsing through ads and a lot of stuff that didn’t have anything to do with what I was looking for, discovered they didn’t have The Confusion. Eventually, a bookseller came by after noticing my confusion. I asked for The Confusion and she said that they no longer carried that book. I consoled myself with a coffee and scone before leaving.

Stephenson’s trilogy had come and gone at Borders. The last two in his series were published a year before and now they were not on their shelves. I expect the books confused whoever stocked the bookshelves.

Neal Stephenson writes science fiction but he also wrote three well-researched, unique, and speculative historical novels. Instead of writing fiction of the future, he devised a blend of history and speculation and broke the bonds of genre. It is possible the stockers at Borders didn’t know what to do with his books. Where do you put speculative historical novels dealing with the underpinnings of economics, politics, and science? You can see where it could cause—confusion.

The Confusion had slipped past and avoided capture. It still had to be scented, tracked down, flushed from refuge, and bagged. My time was limited because my work hours were fast approaching. I had to think like the quarry if I was to net the book before I was chained to my workstation. Where would I hide if I were The Confusion? Where would I hide if I survived the first months in New Books? What bookshelf, what store would the wily tome use as its lair?

The overwhelming impression of Borders is one of an efficient vendor of merchandise using the latest technology to order, stock, and sell. The merchandise happens to be books but the store and the business practices could be applied to bagels, bandanas, or bongo drums. My experience in Borders left me without an emotional attachment to the bookstore or its people. Although I do appreciate its marked down products and its clean, spacious layout, it did not have a warm, personal feel. What do I mean by feel? How does one quantify a sensory impression? Is the way someone seeking books feels about a bookstore important? Yes. If a shopper enjoys the experience of finding what they want, he or she is apt to return for more shopping. But if buying becomes only a mechanical search for a product and the seller simply warehouses the items for the buyer to find and purchase, then the relationship and its rewards dwindle.

Rewards from a seller and buyer relationship are material and social. Materially, the seller benefits by creating a bookstore with staff making an effort to be helpful. Likewise, clerks with a little sales personality will go a long way to keeping a customer coming back even if a book is not there. Sometimes when tracking down a clever book, I have forgotten the hunt because I’d rather talk with the clerk or owner of the bookstore. However, the next time I look for a book it is in their store. This is where salesmanship comes into play. It is as simple as asking, “May I help you?”

Beyond the physical qualities of a bookstore, its architecture, the layout of its shelves, whether or not it has good coffee or scones, and its location, staff personalities influence the buyer. Sociability brings back book buyers. I think those stores that don't move thousands of books in a day nationwide focus more on the client than the book behemoths.

My most recent trip to Borders found not just the books exchanged, the entire store had moved to a grand location in a new shopping mall across the street. It is huge, imposing, and looks more like an upscale hotel than a bookstore. Parked in front of the main entrance is a brand new Lexus for some lucky winner. I am sure it has even more technology than the old Borders. None-the-less, I don’t shop there.

You notice my lack of objectivity. It is because I have experience and overwhelmingly find that independent bookstores are friendlier and more apt to go the extra mile to match book hunter with book.

After my visit to Borders, I called Powell's City of Books with my cell phone while walking to my car and asked for The Confusion. After a moment of silence, I asked if they had Neal Stephenson's book, The Confusion. (I usually don't spoil looking for a book by asking for information, but with work fast approaching, I had to find it.) I heard a rattling keyboard over the hiss of my less than perfect connection and a moment later the clerk told me there was one copy left at Powell’s Technical Bookstore. I was on the chase again and ran to my car, leaving the parking lot without running over pets, people, or causing property damage. Thirty minutes later, I was through the front door and at the Information Desk in the Technical Bookstore on Portland’s North Park Blocks.

Did they have the book? The bookseller led me to the bookshelf, and then handed The Confusion to me right there. It was a signed, first edition hardcover in very fine condition. I paid the full price and felt lucky to have it in my bag. And so the hunt for The Confusion ended with a happy hunter and the quarry in hand.

Book hunting expeditions are not always successful, but bringing the game to ground does not involve bloodshed. Not yet anyway. There are times when transactions do not go well. Although bibliophilic people have a “gentle madness,” there are times when a book comes between buyer and seller. Miscommunications happen, the book is "lost" or misplaced during a renovation. Sometimes the book is there one minute and the next it mysteriously vanishes. This is a rare occurrence but it does happen. I could theorize about the wily characteristics of certain books but that is beyond the scope of this paper. It is possible some books are aided and abetted by booksellers. It is probable independent bookstores shelter quarry in odd places not realizing they are wanted. Booksellers are not without flaws. However, as you know by now, neither are book hunters.

Excerpt from Siren: A Rough Nightmare

Part of a story for your midnight pleasure >>>>>>>>>>>>>>


A Rough Nightmare

He found himself on a beach floating in a large tide pool. Surrounding him on all sides except a narrow passage toward the ocean, were sandstone surfaces, shaped by wind and sea into rippled contours of brown and red stone. He saw small waves breaking softly on the other side of sandstone rocks fifty feet beyond the natural
passageway. Above him were thousands of stars so bright and close, the light rivaled that of a full moon. David knew the tide pool was warm from an underground hot spring but he didn't know how he knew it.

On the other side of the basin, below a canopy of striated rock, was a woman. Her face was very pale, contrasting with long, dark hair. She did a slow breaststroke away from the shadow cast by the shelf into the starlight. He stared at her, amazed at her beauty. Dark eyebrows curved over large, almond-shaped eyes. She had high cheek bones, full lips and a generous mouth that smiled an invitation. Although alarmed and confused, he smiled back. They drifted toward each other.

"Ive been waiting for you."” she said, her voice smooth and soft. Black hair floating in the starlit water spread out from around her head like the arms of an ebony starfish. The sky-mirror of the tide pool shimmered as she swam. Reflected stars vibrated faster the closer they came to each other.
"You called me. It'’s been so long since someone has called me. You did call me, didn't you?"

He couldn'’t think of a reply, so he simply nodded.
"I'’m so glad. What'’s your name?"
"“David."”
"Thank you for telling me your name. Come here a little closer, so I can see you better." She smiled and laughed, and without knowing how he drifted toward her. As he neared, she floated on her back and spread her pale arms and legs. He could see her nipples rise above the water like twin islands and he sensed the dark of her loins waiting just below the pools surface. There was a magnetic pulling and he floated toward her. As he moved over her sex he responded and was ready as she drew him in. Embracing him, she held his arms to his body with a cold, fierce strength. Reflexively he tried to get away but she held him with crushing force. As he struggled, they were sinking to the bottom of the pool. He couldn't breathe. Pulling him closer as they sank, she wrapped her legs around him. As they sank deeper, he could see glee burning in her eyes. She smiled and he could see there were too many teeth in her mouth. She was about to kiss him, when his right arm felt like it was being burned. Everything dissolved and David found himself flopping on the living room floor gasping for air. He brushed a small ember off his forearm. It had popped out of the open door of the wood stove.

Outside, he heard the susurration of the sea. The flashback with its hallucinations was gone. No green and blue tinged patterns. No weird woman on an outlandish beach. It must have been a dream mixed with a flashback? What else could she be, he reasoned, while rubbing his burnt forearm. He listened to the surf for a moment and shivered. Getting up off the floor, he winced. Why the pain in his ribs and upper arms? And that wasn'’t all---his groin ached like he'’d been screwing all night. This called for another drink. He made another trip to his half empty bottle of whiskey.

Pouring more than his typical portion was the only thing he could do.
What doctor would believe him if he called and said, "My flashback fucked me until I was blue, crushed the hell out of my ribs and then tried to drown me?"

If this continued for very long he was destined for the nut farm. The idea of treating his neighbors to a 911 response complete with sheriff, ambulance and fire department rescue didnÂ’t appeal to him at all. No, he would have to get through this by himself. A little self-medication with spirits, some time for the damned drug to wear off, and heÂ’d be just fine. With one hand he rubbed his bruised ribs. The other held whiskey in black coffee.

He spent the night pacing around the house, sitting by the fire or trying to watch TV. When he mustered the courage to lie down and close his eyes he was greeted with more irritating colors. The hours crept by until he could see the beginning of dawn. The daylight helped a little and the colors retreated enough for him to sleep.
After a restless morning on the couch David showered, shaved, put on a clean sweat shirt and jeans then walked down to the beach. He needed to get out of the house. It was a sunny, uncommonly warm September day. Even though the bright sunlight irritated his dilated, bloodshot eyes, he felt reassured. His headache and sour stomach were real. There was no doubt the Pacific Ocean was real. The bright sun and cool wind felt like psychic cleansers washing away dark nightmares.

Walking past cars parked at the turnaround, David put his left hand above his eyes and looked out to see long aquamarine walls of surf, arch and rush forward. The breakers looked like moving snow-capped mountain ranges. When the summits fell forward, a thunderous roar reverberated in the clear morning air. Gulls skimmed along the crests of the rolling surf, riding the offshore updraft, their high keening cries a contrast to the rumble of the Pacific.

In the ocean swells, beyond the curling combers, he could see three surfers and beyond them, near the old quarry, he thought he saw a seal. Looking closer, he could see the seal was really a body surfer. She skillfully caught a wave and rode it to the shallows. Turning around she swam through advancing breakers on her way back for another try, her long hair streaming behind her. He watched her catch another wave. Without fail, she found the perfect moment to get in the curl for a good ride.
About fifty yards away from the body-surfer he recognized Matt Holly. When he saw Matt wading back to shore, David walked down the narrow winding path to the beach. At a fire built in a circle of rocks, on the lee side of a driftwood windbreak, Matt stood close to the blaze. He was vigorously toweling his curly, sun-bleached hair as David approached.

"David! Come on over here. I haven't seen you in months!"” Matt grabbed DavidÂ’s hand and pumped it up and down, laughing, his white teeth contrasting with his sun tanned face. He said, "“Hey, some of our people are getting together at the Bay Zoo tonight. It'’s Sarah's birthday." Looking at David, he raised his eye brows a little. David noticed but didn'’t say anything, he just nodded.

"“We all know about you and Debbie breaking up,"Matt said. "Are you dealing with it ok?" David shrugged, kicked a rock down the beach and said, "“Yeah, I'’ve been packing up her things."

"I knew this would happen. I couldn't tell you though. Even my brothers were surprised Debbie moved in with you." Matt looked sheepish, not sure he had said the right thing.

"You're probably going to tell me I ignored everyone since I started seeing her."

"No, I'’m just glad you'’re in one piece---but you don'’t look too good. If I were honest I'’d say you look like shit. Why don'’t you show up at the Bay Zoo and say hi to Sarah, if you know what I mean?"

"“I guess I can work that into my schedule."

"“Look out girls! The old man of the sea is coming into town!" He laughed and slapped his thigh.

David sighed and said, "Speaking of women, who'’s that body surfer out there?"”

"There aren't any surfing girls out today."

"“Sure there is. I just saw her out by the break near the quarry. Right out there."” David turned around and pointed to the jumble of black rocks far to the right of the remaining surfers and saw nothing except sea gulls and cormorants bobbing in the swells. "That's strange, I saw her just fifteen minutes ago and she was good. You really didn't see her?"

"Nobody i’s out there but Felix and Turtle, and they'’re coming in."
When the salt air hit his face, the memory of the body surfer he saw earlier came back to him. He had never seen anyone move like that in the water. Why didn't Matt see her out there? She was in plain view, but no one saw her except him.

Amelia Band, Fallen Angels Rockin in the Old Oregon Hotel

A few weeks ago (April 15th) my wife Kristy and I went to see Amelia at The Old Oregon Hotel in McMinnville. Fantastic music!

Teisha Helgerson has the voice of a fallen angel guaranteed to enchant man or woman. She knows how to tappy-tap those drums too.

Scott Weddle is a guitarist you have to see (hear) to believe. How does he get those fingers to do all that at the same time? He mixes his notes smoothly with Teisha and it is just sublime. Then he does this happy feet thing that makes you want to play guitar like he does.

Where would they be without the foundation of Jesse Emerson’s bass work? You can feel more than hear his grounding thrum through each artful piece. The trio should not be missed.

Accompanying the three mentioned above are Megan Sorenson on violin and Mark Orton on keyboard. The duo are known in local music circles as the Hitchhikers, Megan and Mark add an orchestral component to Amelia’s otherworldly creations and down-to-earth rock. Mark does this part calliope, church organ, and piano keyboard magic. Megan’s violin strings say everything that a human voice cannot.

The Old Oregon Hotel had a full house when the group did its three sets. I am looking forward to hearing them again. Oh, yeah, checkout www.ameliaband.com.

Back From the Void

OK, so it’s been awhile and I am sorry. It’s my life you know? Up to my ears in alligators; working fulltime, school, home life, it takes its toll on one’s creativity. Really, school is over. I'm done. So done.

All right, so what do I have that will not waste your time? Another nighttime bed story? You want to turn your machine of and climb in to bed don't you. Can't blame you but here is something to tuck you in:

Noise is a big problem for us night people. I have spent years working either swing or graveyard shifts and one of my biggest gripes was the racket from roommates, neighbors, traffic, aircraft, girlfriends, wives, children and pets. What do you do about it?

• Very carefully, communicate to those who may listen, your odd sleep patterns. Start by mentioning in casual conversation to your roomie that loud music (even U2) is annoying when you have only had three hours of snooze time. Get creative and tell a story about fictional relationship that went bad due to insensitive mates. Be nice and offer something in exchange like promising to wear earphones during a showdown in a FPS game after midnight. Trading good behavior is an all round good idea anyway.


• Live with those who will put up with your nocturnal eccentricity.

• Move away from the noise. Yes, I know it’s a hassle, but relocating to the country is a sure way to reduce urban phonic pollution. Granted, this will add commuting issues to your laundry list of life’s struggles. However, getting seven to eight hours of sleep is worth it. All of life is better when you have some quality zzzs behind you. And then there is better air quality, aesthetics, and the list will be revisited at a later date OK? Yes, it is not possible right now, but just tuck it in the back of your mind for a possible emerging reality.

• For those background noise irritations when sleeping, a good, cheap solution is to have a fan, air cleaner, or some other device that makes white noise. White noise is a regular sound that masks irregular and annoying thuds, crashes and other impositions assaulting your precious slumber. I’m cheap, I don’t have a nifty sleep machine so I just turn on the fan, throw a dark t-shirt over my eyes and go to where ever we go when consciousness gives up and calls it a night. I guess even radio static could be used, but I get enough static already so I haven’t tried it.

• Earplugs? I have tried them and they do help. Find the big cylindrical ones you squish and roll around in your fingers before jamming and screwing them as far as you can into your head. Maybe the rubber ones with the cool baffles on them work, but they keep falling out of my ears.

So what next you ask? Well, I plan on finishing a story I’m working on and then coming up with something worthy.