March 9, 2008I have previously stated on several occasions that my favorite day of the year is the day in mid February when pitchers and catchers officially report to camp for Spring Training. Yes, I am a baseball nut, however this also signals the beginning of the end of my least favorite season – winter. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I dislike the cold, the rain, or the occasional snow. I actually quite enjoy all of the three, as well as the annual appearance of “Storm Team 12” or 6… or 4.

It doesn’t matter what channels in your local media market are occupied by local news teams – they’re the same everywhere – the only thing up for debate is exactly how much time will be spent on remote at a dry, albeit cold freeway overpass.

No, what I dislike is the unending darkness – the fact that one begins work under the slowly retracting cover of night, only to find that the covers have already been pulled back over the world by the end of the workday. It reminds me of the nights I spent working the graveyard shift while in college – not a very pleasant time. Additionally, with the winter comes my busiest time of the year at work. It seems that people have more house fires in the winter due to all the makeshift portable heaters, fireplaces and Christmas-related items, meaning more time on the road, and tighter timeframes under which to work – all in the dark.

So, two paragraphs in, and I can already hear you – “yeah Chris, so what’s the point?”

Well, the point is I also dislike daylight savings time. Or, more importantly, the fact that it’s 11:23 right now, I am not at all tired, but yet I have to get up in four hours in order to make the 8:30 appointment I have four hours away. You see, this combines some of my least favorite activities – beginning work while it’s still dark, followed by working (yes, working in general – while I do like my job, it is in fact still work), and finally, getting home from work after dark.

“Yes, Chris, but daylight savings time ensures that it will in fact be lighter later – its good for the economy – you want the US to prosper, right? You’re not un-American, are you?”

Shut up.

This is my time to complain, and I’m going to get my money’s worth. Normally I don’t care either way - I would prefer we do nothing but move the clocks back, but I realize that by year four of doing this my plan would have seriously backfired – and for what, an extra hour of sleep? No, that’s no good.

My major qualm is that the first work day into DST will be spent being unnecessarily tired inside a house that isn’t mine, working, and by the time I make it back to my place it will already be dark. It just seems like it got personal this year. While the winter is ending, and with it, hopefully my busiest season, one of the harbingers of that change is showing up just in time to twist the knife a little.

Father time, you are one hell of a bastard.

December 5, 2007As the seasons once again change, with (albeit mild) hurricane force winds blowing the Pacific Northwest headfirst into winter, I turn back to the pages of Saturatedpratt – the silent companion to literally tens of readers throughout the dark months. Its been a rather fast four months and change since my last update, so as always, a quick re-cap should brings us up to speed.

August and September were filled with, as has become the norm for summer, work and baseball. Unlike the first half of the year, the late summer and early fall found me working fairly close to home – the longest work trip being a brief two-day jaunt to Klamath Falls. This being the case, I had to augment my relatively light work travel with a baseball-centered road trip with Miller to Vancouver, B.C. and all stops in between.

On this trip, I completed my second complete tour of a professional baseball circuit, adding the last two Northwest League parks I had yet to visit (Vancouver’s Nat Bailey Field and Everett’s Memorial Stadium) to my collection. The Northwest League now joins the Cactus as the two I have completed with no realistic successor in sight, barring a move to another geographic region. I will likely focus my efforts next year on seeing the Dodgers’ last spring training in Vero Beach, followed by hopefully being able to get some tickets to the their two-game exhibition series against the Red Sox at the L.A. Coliseum, where they played their first two seasons on the west coast. The big trip for the year will probably be New York sometime in spring or early summer to see Yankee Stadium in its final season – I think it’s a must for any true baseball fan to see the house that Ruth built before Steinbrenner knocks it down.

But wait – this update isn’t about the future, it’s about the past four months. After the September trip, the next big event was a quick weekend trip in October to Seattle to see Karen & Emily’s wedding. I don’t get to see them very often (or anyone who doesn’t live in the Portland area, for that matter) so it was great to catch up them, as it was with Brunner and Megan, and Lauren and Garth, who once again volunteered their extra bedroom for the night. I always have a great time whenever I see my friends from my Carson days, and I hope to see them a lot more often than the once every two years at someone’s wedding plan I’ve been on of late, especially with all the sports-related travel… (well, except for the Yankee Stadium trip – that is a necessity.)

The rest of the time from October until the present has been spent dividing time between work, Ducks football, Blazers basketball, and going to the gym. As always, the colder months are bringing with them a lot more work for me, so I’ve been doing more traveling of late. Last week’s work-related adventuring took me to Aberdeen, Washington, one of the last places in the state of Washington I had not seen on the company dime.

Between making visits to agents, lining up contractors, and conducting interviews, I found a little time to poke around town. My findings are as follows: it is very gray and damp, the area is in serious need of an economic kick-start if the vacancy rate downtown is any indication, and I can totally see how the region would rear a kid like Kurt Cobain. I wandered the downtown and snapped a few pictures, including some of what I am sure was a spectacular electric company building in it’s time – a stocky two level structure speckled with hundreds of sockets that were once filled with lights lining the windows and nearly every other architectural line on the building’s façade.

After taking in civic utility buildings of a bygone era, I went to see the historic bridge crossing the Wishkah river, the same river by which Cobain myth dictates he slept while periodically homeless in Aberdeen. After being there at high tide, I agree with Krist Novoselic’s assertion that this myth was only that – a myth.

So, that basically catches us up to the present. Next week I will be taking a week off for a random “use it or lose it” vacation – I will probably spend most of the week wandering around town taking pictures, going to the gym, and just relaxing before what is shaping up to be a very busy next couple of months at work. If I find enough time, I just may throw a couple updates online, as well as a story or two. Stay tuned.

July 26, 2007Oh, the places I have been! Since I last graced this site with an update, I have experienced Spring Training, visited Denver twice, driven through Wyoming and into South Dakota, seen Albuquerque, flown into Las Vegas for the NBA Summer League and ventured into Montana, then Wyoming for a second time. (Technically, the Spring Training and Dakota trips occurred prior to the last post, but since I wrote the post before I took the trips, I’m counting it… sue me.)

In short, a lot has happened. So in lieu of making an in-depth post about each of the individual trips, I will burn through them at a rapid-fire pace so I can get on with making a real update… look at this as a sort of “here’s what happened last season on…” portion of a television show, except instead of some actor named Chris Pratt, you get me. Speaking of lawsuits, I’ve got to go after that guy.

Our journey begins on Wednesday, March 8, 2007 when I set off in my Honda Civic Hybrid for the sunny southwest and the six-week orgy of baseball that signals the actually new year – Spring Training. On the way I went through Idaho (Saw the Blue Turf), Utah (saw the Mormon Temple… impressive, and a little scary), Las Vegas (got frustrated by traffic, then gave up and went to Hoover Dam), and finally all nine Cactus League ballparks. Miller joined me on the 15th and stayed through the weekend. I caught a foul ball off the bat of Chicago Cub Ronnie Cedeno, while sitting in the first row of Tuscon Electric Park, and was horribly sun burnt. In addition, I saw the best scoreboard announcement ever – skeptics may say I only caught a small segment of scrolling text, but that’s why they are skeptics. Personally, I can’t agree more with the scoreboard operator.

Upon returning to Oregon, I was immediately sent off to South Dakota for work, after first flying into Denver and driving through Wyoming to reach my destination. While there, I visited Mount Rushmore, and the Crazy Horse Memorial, which has been under construction for a ridiculous 59 years I would have contributed to the construction effort with a donation had the– visitor’s center been open when I arrived… instead, I simply stole a look at the sculpture… I’m sure that’s a theme the Lakota are used to. On my way back to Denver, I found myself stuck in the heaviest snowstorm I have ever experienced, complete with freeway driving in complete whiteout conditions. I have a feeling Crazy Horse intended on getting his revenge.

April was relatively quiet, consisting mainly of attempting to recover from the month of constant travel that March brought.

With May came yet another trip to Denver, this time for a meeting after which I took a few personal days, saw the Denver Mint and the Rockies beat the Giants, and ventured into New Mexico to catch an Albuquerque Isotopes game. While I did not enjoy a hot dog brimming with southwestern flavors, I did enjoy the victory the Portland Beavers achieved over the ‘Topes. Oddly though, I ended up being seated next to a Portlander who is currently living in Albuquerque, which meant that the two people wearing Portland Beavers garb in a crowd of several thousand were sitting right next to each other, and had never before met. It was a little strange, but it seemed to make sense. Isotopes Stadium was by far the best minor league facility I have seen yet in my travels, easily eclipsing the next night’s stop, Colorado Springs’ Security Service Field. My takeaways from this trip: Jesus is HUGE in Colorado Springs, as are many of the women; and the omnipresent hold the military has on this region is simply unbearable. I could never live there.

Early July saw a quick three-day jaunt to Las Vegas to witness the beginning of Greg Oden’s career as a Portland Trailblazer, facing off against the once-great Boston Celtics. In fact, I sat courtside for Oden’s first game, which would have been nice on its own. However, my attempt to slum-up the normal haunts of the beautiful people brought with it the somewhat surreal experience of sitting right next to the Celtics’ brain trust of GM Danny Ainge and head coach Doc Rivers, who were joined by onetime wunderkind Sebastian Telfair. In all, it was a little awkward when Telfair sat down… I mean, aside from maybe Pacman Jones, there really isn’t anyone with whom I have less in common. On top of that, he was absolutely swimming in some sort of cologne.

When he arrived, I simply gave him a welcoming “hey”, to which he responded with a nod. It was a good enough response for me. The Celtics ended up blowing out Greg Oden and the Blazers, but not before I exchanged comments with Telfair over a few horrible calls, and had a conversation with Rivers about Portland and how great the fans are, and how Rivers would kill to have two bigs like those gracing the Blazers’ roster. The guy sitting next to me caught the scene on my camera, but I think he had a case of the shakes, judging by the blurriness of the photo. Giovanni came down that evening and we spent the rest of the weekend taking in games, people watching, and losing a small amount of money in penny slots while stocking up on complimentary drinks.

As was the case in March, immediately upon my return I was sent to the Mountain Time Zone on business, this time to Billings, Montana. While there, I took in my first Pioneer League games, first in Billings where the Mustangs beat the Orem Owlz (they should have had to spot the Stangs 10 runs for the Z in their name alone), then in Casper, Wyoming, where I saw the hometown Rockies get trounced by the Missoula Osprey. More importantly, I ended up with two Pioneer League baseballs as souvenirs that night – the first a homerun ball off the bat of Osprey second baseman Taylor Harbin that came sailing toward me while I was parking my trusty rental car beyond the left field fence prior to entering the ballpark, and the second a foul ball that apparently only I noticed land while standing in line for a bratwurst. While in Casper, I struck up a conversation with the guy who was sitting behind me after he had recognized the Isotopes hat I was wearing. It turns out he also went to Spring Training, and tries to see as many ballparks as he can while traveling, including the California League and the Pacific Coast League. It was a little comforting, and at the same time a little troubling, seeing as he was praising my dedication in driving from Billings to Casper, only to turn around an return to Billings after two and a half hours of Rookie League ball. Also, he was probably in his 60s, which made me feel a bit like an RV-ing snowbird, and less like a guy who just turned 27… failing that, I should at least bring a girl along next time, so long as I don’t find her in Colorado Springs.

April 9, 2007Please excuse me a moment for plunging headfirst into dork-dom. Now that I have your attention, let us examine the special time of the year that is once again upon us – spring. It has long been considered the season of love. It is the beginning of the end of darkness for sufferers of SAD, the beginning of mega-profit season for big oil, which awakens from its winter slumber of merely very large profits, and most importantly, it marks the beginning of the greatest game ever invented - baseball.

Before we get too far, let us not confuse this post with the one that will follow chronicling my March month of travels beginning with ten days spent seeing the Cactus League. No, this update centers on the event that serves as notice that the season is just around the corner – the release of Topps Baseball, series one.

Before you have to ask, yes, at twenty-six I still collect baseball cards, though not at the staggering pace I once did. So does Keith Olbermann, and he’s the most trusted man in cable news, so shut up.

As you may have seen, the release of this year’s edition of Topps baseball cards was met with some level of notoriety, even making the network news rounds. This was due to a few celebrity appearances on the front of Derek Jeter’s card. Joining the Yankees’ future Hall of Fame shortstop on the card’s front was the image of a current Hall of Famer, Mickey Mantle, who was beaming at New York’s favorite son from the home team’s dugout. Apparently, this was a very special day at the stadium, as future convicted felon George W. Bush joined number seven at the house Ruth built, waving at the camera from his box seats in a fashion not unlike those jackasses you see on television talking on their cell phones and waving behind the backstop in a desperate attempt for the attention of ESPN 2’s cameras.

Unlike those jackasses, the images of Mantle and Bush were not genuine – they were Photoshopped. I know this because Mantle died in 1995 and George W. Bush probably wouldn’t risk the treatment that comes with a 30% approval rating. Putting two and two together, someone at Topps was obviously playing a prank. What is surprising is that at first glance it’s hard to notice the insertions. In fact, I completely missed them while rifling through the first box of cards I purchased this year. While I may have overlooked what became a national oddball news story, I spotted several examples of a painful practice that I thought had disappeared several years ago.

This practice of which I speak is the magic airbrushing of photos of players involved in off-season transactions. You see, back in the 1970s and 1980s, and up until the early 90s, Topps released their sets in one series of 660, 726, and finally, 792 cards. This allowed for insertion of the vast majority of major leaguers and even some prospects. The release of only one series (at least until the late-season release of the small “traded” sets) meant that many of the players would be pictured in with last season’s team. The solution? The same as the solution to so many of life’s problems – call an artist!

Photos of the offending old unis were magically transformed into new uniforms, showing an ultra-mod use of watercolors, and sometimes taking extreme liberties with team color schemes.

Take for instance two of my favorite examples – the 1977 Topps Dave Pagan (#508) and the 1987 Topps Mike Laga (#321). Informed baseball fans will know that the Seattle Mariners did not exist in 1976 – they were an expansion team for the ’77 season along with the Toronto Blue Jays, so obviously, any new Mariner was a candidate for the artists at Topps. In fairness, a lot of attention was paid to shadowing on Pagan’s trident cap, making it ultra-real. A little too real, and while we’re at it, a little too blue. As for our friend Laga, he wasn’t so lucky. His 1986 Detroit Tigers duds were transformed into a great pink variant of a Cardinals uni, with oddly orange and blue Tigerish striping around the collar. Like the clubhouse manager “accidentally” left the really red cap in the laundry with his new jersey. No wonder the Twins were able to dispatch the Cards in the ’87 Series, and no wonder Laga only hit .138 with the Red Birds. And this treatment for a former first round pick.

Then, like a great shooting star, they were gone.

Years went by without so much as noticing a Mets “NY” fudged into a Yankees “NY.” Every now and then a prospect would have his college or minor league team’s logo wiped out for use on a major league card, but that just wasn’t the same. Hell, they’d even gone to the extent of breaking sets into multiple series and throwing most of the off-season transactions into the later series. Other times, prospects were shown in their (gasp) spring training garments. Hope appeared to be lost for yet another childhood tradition – gone the way of Indian red crayons and tan M & Ms.

Then, like a grand old friend, there he was, in glimmering Oakland green. Mike Piazza was wearing a jersey greener than any I had ever seen a player for my team wear. In an instant, I knew a seemingly dormant habit had returned, and more confident than ever. Bengie Molina (#4), Julio Lugo (#11), Miguel Batista (#13), Chris Britton (#21) and Gary Matthews, Jr. (#25) all received in the artists’ treatment (now done digitally, rather than with a brush). That is five out of the first twenty-five! That must be some kind of record, and those were just the no-doubters. Others looked kind of funny, but I’m willing to give them the benefit of doubt on Corey Patterson, if for no other reason than the others were just so brazen.

While some would view this as a step backwards, I can only see this as a clear sign of progress on the march. If Topps can bring the Mick back from the dead and put him back in the dugout, then putting Alfonso Soriano on the Cubs doesn’t look all that hard after all. Now if they could just cut and paste success over the Cubs franchise, we'd know they can truly design miracles.

September 30, 2006Hmm… where to start. Once again, I have taken an extended absence from updating this site… I seem to recognize a pattern forming. Yes, it is the same pattern that has been repeated consistently since the genesis of this website in the summer of 1997. Indeed, I am extremely reliable in the area of my unreliability. Sort of like a Yugo – a used one. I offer no apologies this time, nor any promises to do better in the future – I know better by now, and you should too. What I will offer, however, is a brief synopsis of the last several months, and a nice place to leave off, and hopefully continue in the not too distant future.

When we last left off, I had just been given a new position at work, and was in training – but a sort of on the job training. Nearly seven months later, I am still in that position, very much no longer training, and I am enjoying it. While not necessarily globetrotting in nature,

it has taken me to some locales I had not previously seen – such as Wenatchee, Washington and a rural area east of Olympia. Ok, so basically I’ve seen Washington. But the travel has allowed me to check out minor league ballparks in Wenatchee, Tacoma, Spokane, Yakima, Pasco, and Everett. Not bad for one summer… but nowhere near as good as this guy, whom I met at a Yakima Bears game. “Why so many minor league parks, Chris?” you may ask. Well, painfully, the answer is because I don’t have a girlfriend, and really, what else are you supposed to do when you’re stranded for a few days in eastern Washington?

Aside from tour the countryside, I sold the Mustang while I was away. This was actually a fairly recent development – I had decided that I did not have the time, space, or resources to keep working on or keep storing the car. At the same time, I came to the realization that I didn’t feel comfortable using it as a daily driver, while simultaneously coming the to the realization that I had some bills that I’d really like to eliminate. So, on craigslist she went, then off into the sunset she rode. Actually, it was around 6:00 pm, with the sun directly above, but you get the point. I took a picture of it as it was driving away, but it turned out blurry, so it’s kind of like a 1966 Mustang Zapruder film still… very creepy. Also, it wasn’t driving itself, despite how this may read. I did however have one last afternoon of extreme frustration spent with it, as I spent about six hours the day before it sold finally repairing the fender damage it received while driving north for the last time from Eugene. Personally, I think I did a bang-up job.

Finally, I used the early portion of September to once again move, seeing as I apparently have issues with getting comfortable somewhere. Oh yeah – I also have issues with paying $850 to live somewhere that’s far from anything I want to be doing outside of work hours. So, in the spirit of saving money, and being able to do stuff every now and then, I have moved to Northwest Portland, to mix among the hipsters. So far, I still stand out like a sore thumb… First, I need to drop about 80 pounds and get some really tight, skinny-guy pants. A lofty goal, but there’s always hope. Actually, the move is going to work out great, especially since I just found out I’ll be able to start working from home soon, so now I won’t even have to worry about a commute. Not to mention the fact that I am nearly done with the plan I laid out on this very site last November… looks like Mr. Pratt may have his shit together after all!

Well, that just about gets us caught up. If you peruse the rest of the site, you’ll find a few updates here and there, and more to come – but again, with no specific timetable. You’ll also find a commentary I wrote on the state of the American Manufacturing Worker, inspired by a barge launch I witnessed in Portland last week. It may or may not be worthwhile reading – that’s your call. I just put it up, and point you to it. See, I just did it again.

A quick trip to the bay area to see the Ducks play at Cal this Saturday is on the docket, so hopefully I'll have an adventure to detail, and pictures to show off upon my return. It'll be great - like an electronic vacation slide reel! 'Til then, thanks for sticking with me.

March 8, 2006Another month has gone, and a lot of changes have occurred in the life of Chris, most notably, the presence of a new job. I still work in insurance, and with the same company, but have moved from handling bodily injury claims to large property losses. It may be a small move in the grand scheme of things, but I feel better about the work that I do now, which goes a long way towards helping the psyche. Most importantly, I never again have to know the value of three chiropractic visits, four months after a minor auto accident.

(Unless of course I go to law school and become an ambulance chaser, but then of course I would have a personal stake in the matter, which could possibly wipe out my bad feelings of valuing injuries.) After all, I’d have to do something to earn my money and pay off student loans before doing pro-bono civil liberties cases and work on behalf of non-profits...

Which leads us to point #2 – as part of a long-term effort in self-improvement, I have commenced finishing off my efforts to (eventually) get into grad school. I completed one test a few weeks ago, and still have one more to go before I’ll be done with the tests for colleges of education, and I’ve been reviewing my LSAT study book, as I think I probably will end up taking the LSAT this summer/fall. Depending on its outcome, I’ll decide which path I want to take, and will seriously start looking at grad schools towards the end of this year. When I will enroll, and whether or not I can get in are different subjects entirely, but at least school is on the list.

Another change is in where I am living – in late December I moved to Tigard, in a brand new (and considerably less sketchy) apartment, which is closer to work and farther away from the roving bands of near-feral children who patrolled the parking lots of my old complex. Pleasant as the new place may be, I have a feeling my stay will be a short one. I signed a 6-month lease, and seeing as there is absolutely nothing to do in Tigard, I will likely be moving again in June, hopefully to the city. You see, Giovanni recently acquired my dream apartment – a large one bedroom in a classic building, just two blocks from PGE Park – for about the same amount of rent I am currently paying. With baseball season starting up, I desperately wish I lived within walking distance to a ballpark… and pubs, and Powell’s… and by this summer, I aim to be.

This update does not contain a semi-humorous, self-absorbed story about a quasi-adventure I partook in – for this I apologize… that will be coming soon enough. Rather, this update is sort of a self-congratulatory note on what I’ve been able to do in the past two months. You see, in late November, it became fairly clear to me that my life was not headed in a direction where I wanted it to be – namely, 25+ years of corporate servitude to be eventually interrupted by either downsizing or some creative, public, and quite graphic form of suicide (or what I like to call, societal downsizing). I instituted a 4-part plan to put myself where I want to be, or at least in a position where I would be able to choose among several possibilities. I am happy to say that as of this Friday, half of this plan will have already neared completion, and the other half is dependant upon completing the grad school stuff I’ve already discussed. And it only took 25 years to do! Who knows – in another 25, I just might be married, or perhaps, I will be in grad school.

January 24, 2006Tonight, Saturatedpratt travels back in time, to mid-December 2005, where we unveil the long-awaited Saturatedpratt lost post - the completed entry that never was. The update of all updates, finished just before I moved, and thus, never uploaded. I do this not out of nostalgia, nor the greatness of the post itself, but rather to buy time to write an up-to-date entry. So really, I am updating my website with an old update... clearly, I am the best at procrastinating. Without further ado, allow us to be taken back to 2005.

December 9, 2005Sometimes, even the wrong train gets you to where you want to go. You see, while waiting for the doors of the MAX to open at the Millikan platform, one is faced with the quick task of decided which car to board. The population density of said cars, as well as the appearance of its clientele factor largely into the equation, and make for hasty decisions, especially when one considers the options- either get on the train, or stay behind at the deserted stop with the guy who for some reason, didn’t even look up when the train came.

This night, I chose the second to last car, as the last one looked similar to one I saw one in a popular Stephen Spielberg movie about a World War… the one not about Matt Damon. As I boarded, I made my way to an open place in the middle of the car, in the reticulated section that swivels slightly as the train ambles around turns. To my left were sitting three elderly cowboys, complete with hats and bolo ties. To my right, were 5 kids, likely around seven years old, with their parents sitting across from them. This night, most of the train was going Portland for either holiday celebrations, or the Blazers game against the Hornets. (or against the Charlotte Hornets, as the male parent-figure said… which technically was two cities and four years ago for the beleaguered franchise, currently temporarily housed in Oklahoma City, after fleeing Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. I’ll give him a pass on OKC since it supposedly a temp move, but still…).

Everything was normal, save for the cowboys, until about five minutes into the trip, when one of the kids started making a noise, then started a second… and the third. Before I could properly react, I was in the middle of a kid’s Christmas Carol singalong. For a moment, allow me to digress. I don’t hate Christmas. I just hate Christmas songs. Especially kids Christmas songs, which have nothing to do with Christmas… snowmen, reindeer, you name it. If there is anything five shrill, out of tune children’s voices can do, it ain’t sing. I at first stood politely, trying to read my copy of The Nation while quietly weathering the storm. By about the third refrain of the second verse of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I was still standing, though shooting obvious looks of utter contempt at the asinine, bouncing, high on estrogen super mom who was smiling like a fool at the whole horrific scene.

At first, I thought it was the coldness of my own black heart that was spoiling the situation. Clearly, I must be the only one enraged. This was comforting to some degree, as I am used in my mind to being the one on the verge of becoming some sort of problem, only to overcome my disgust and simply put up with all the annoyances that constantly prod at me in public. I was ready to just deal with it, when I remembered the cowboys. I glanced in their direction, and caught one glancing at me. For a moment, I could see that I was not the only one longing for a few hundred acres of open range, er, train, between me and the monsters a mere three feet away. Then I saw the newlywed couple standing diagonally across from my position, on the opposite side of the kids. The man was clearly “done” with the whole situation. The woman, at first amused, was quickly growing tired of the spectacle, and a few songs in, noticed my look. Slowly, we were gathering momentum as group, united against the damn kids. I’m sure if he had a chance, the lead cowboy would feel secure calling for a posse.

I looked at the mom, who in turn looked at the kids, who for a moment, were silent. I thought that perhaps the forces of good had in fact prevailed against the forces of evil, in an act of silent protest. “Do one the them Susan taught you.” Said the supermom. The ante had been upped.

The terrors began anew, and my subtle protest became a little less so. Glances became heavy sighs, which lead to putting down my magazine in disgust, which led to outright staring at the mom, who was now openly defiant. Luckily, I was joined in my protest by the newlyweds, several people who were new to the train of horrors, and in fact, the father-figure sitting across from the kids, to whom I was now becoming convinced he held only a tertiary relationship, perhaps an uncle, or a family friend. The cowboy, had gotten off unnoticed at some point, either that or he had disappeared back into the ether. The kids continued, the mother was indignant, and I simply prayed they would be getting off at each next stop, or perhaps the train would stop long enough to for me to exit, and enter into the last train.

Finally, as we approached Pioneer Courthouse Square, the man stepped in, and came to our rescue. He said something to the woman, to which she responded “what, we’ll never see them again” (actually, this was wrong, as we were all going to the game). I was at once both enlivened with rage and angered with the complete and utter passive-aggressiveness of our protest.

The kids started in again, at which time a homeless (or just really dirty) man who boarded at the downtown mall said two words – “Jesus Christ!” At once, the singing seemed to trail off. The mother sat silent, and I, and the newlyweds, shared a quick smile.

It seemed fitting that this holy terror of a holiday travesty would be put to death by the savior himself, or rather by his name uttered in vain. I was at peace, and finally, filled with the Christmas spirit. I felt as though the birthday boy was looking out for me, for the newlyweds, and for all the other poor souls trapped on the blue line that night. To my delight, I would lose track of them all shortly after the Rose Quarter stop, and would, like the mother said, never see them again. Later that night, surely a reward for calmly having withstood the barrage of children singing, the Blazers captured their sixth win of the season, a 98-95 overtime victory, sparked by the strong play of Juan Dixon and Joel Przybilla.

Somewhere, after the game, I am sure the mother thought of unleashing the kids on another unsuspecting train full of weary travelers. Possibly, she thought of our homeless friend, and I’m sure she was smote at once, if she instructed them to sing. At least one can hope.

October 20, 2005Fall is here, and in these pre-turn-back-the-clock weeks, daylight is quickly becoming but a fleeting acquaintance, or at least it seems that way from the daily confines of my cubicle. Perhaps it just feels a little more taxing seeing as I’ve recently been staying up far too late on school nights, and have been getting up earlier than normal in my attempts to actually standardize a morning routine for the first time since high school. Really, this was all done in an attempt to improve my bad attitude… at least my early morning bad attitude.

I apparently failed to realize that when one wakes up an hour earlier than normal, it is typically best to avoid going to sleep two hours later than normal... and even better to avoid doing so for a week solid. Needless to say, I’m having trouble focusing right now.

What? You were looking for an interesting update? I know… I know.

As evidenced in my previous post, the past few weeks have brought with them a little actual change, and a lot of ideas for change. Most evident of this is the fact that I am actually seriously considering giving up my cable TV. No, this isn’t a monetary thing (though donations are accepted) or a suicide thing (I’m not giving AWAY my TV), rather, I think I watch too much of it. The thought here is that if I had less History Channel, college football, and COPS to watch, I might read more about history, get in shape for my impending college football comeback (which begs the question- if I returned to school, would I have NCAA eligibility seeing as I have graduated, but never played a sport? I say yes…) or I could go out and break some laws, in turn completing some sort of divine circle and actually being on one of my favorite shows!

Actually, the reading part and the activity part are probably the greatest impetuses for this idea, though the Ronnie Dobbs-esque celebrity is also alluring. A secondary reason is the simple fact that I am not home very much anymore, and hopefully I will soon live somewhere where there are more entertainment options, allowing less time for simply laying around, and more for culture and personal growth.

Along those lines, last weekend I made a trek to the Portland Art Museum to check out the new Mark Building, view the architectural updates to the old Masonic Temple it is housed in, and of course, view some art. The only hitch was that I know very little about art… though I think I avoided saying things like, “wow, that’s pretty!” I did sense a few looks of utter contempt from hipster art snob wannabes though, (you know, the ultra-skinny, ultra pale guy with dyed, jet-back, ear-length hair, too-tight Interpol tee, black glasses and beret… I hate that guy...) so the trip was definitely worth it.

On the subject of entertainment, I received my half-season Blazer tickets in the mail last week, and went to the first two pre-season games against Seattle and the Clippers. From what I saw, this may be another very long season for the Blazers fan. How could I have been so wrong in my April 15, 2004 post? In that column, next year was the current last year, which was, as we all know, quite ugly. There were some bright spots – Martell Webster looks like he’s for real, and Sebastian Telfair, if he can ever develop a consistent mid-range jump shot, has a chance to be a monster. In the meantime though, I have a feeling I’ll be witnessing a good number of growing pains from my cozy seats in section 305.

Since I’m talking about sports now, I’ll go ahead and make another bold prediction – the Oregon Ducks are going to win out. After a tough loss to USC, they have rebounded, and have begun to show the promise that a roster full of big time recruit was supposed to bring two years ago. Unfortunately, I think they are peaking at precisely the wrong time, and could still conceivably wind up in the Sun Bowl with a record of 10-1. Here’s hoping UCLA loses a few down the stretch.

Really, that pretty much sums up the last few weeks – personal growth, culture, bad basketball, good football, and hopefully this weekend, some good basketball for a change (Blazers/Kings Saturday night) and some more good football (Linfield/Puget Sound Saturday). Look for the next post to be chock full of politics, as I unleash my theories of divine intervention on the GOP and try to find the greater meaning behind this unprecedented hurricane season. (Global warming, anyone? Not so fast…)

One last thing- I just checked my email and found a note from the US Navy Reserve saying they viewed, and liked, my resume. My only question is this: is it strange that when I first saw this notice in my inbox, the first thought in my mind was of the “Royal Nayvee” Monty Python sketch?

October 18, 2005I apologize for a very brief foray into my current rant on the state of Pratt… this column will return in its normal form in a day or so, with updates on my activities and other random observations… for the time being, I must first let a little bit out.

I feel a change coming on… perhaps it is the fact that I will be moving somewhere, for some period of time, sometime before the end of December. Or, perhaps it is the fact that the season has finally noticeably changed, or, on the other hand, maybe it is because I am finally beginning to seriously think about the future.

I am suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that things are going to get a little more interesting in the near future. Then again, this may simply be a strange coagulation of fatigue and boredom… either way, it at least seems new, so I’ll go with it.

So what is really fuelling this sudden resurgence in confidence and enthusiasm you ask? Well, I’m not really sure (I wasn’t lying… ok?) but I do think it has a lot to do with the living situation, and the work situation. First of all, I will be moving in December – this I know for sure. Where I will be moving to, however, is a very good question. As you may have read in the Oregonian (if you’re in the area, that is) housing prices in Portland have rocketed up more than 22% in the last year. My paycheck, however, has remained static. This is not a good equation, especially when trying to convince someone with lots of money to give someone like me enough to buy a house. In other words, House Hunt 2005 has likely reached an unceremonious end. Which, in the end is probably ok, considering point #2…

I have recently discovered I am going nowhere. No, I have not crossed into a new area of laziness where I have simply decided to no longer take part in ANY physical movement, rather, as far as work is concerned, I am going nowhere – and not for lack of trying. Now what does THAT mean? You may once again find yourself asking… I think it means all options are now open, which in a way, is very liberating. I am once again considering the possibility of going back to school, even if it just means looking into a program that would allow me to take night classes for the time being, in an attempt to kick start what may have been a bit of a false start into adulthood. Basically, I know that I can do more with my abilities than I am doing right now – hell, I already have in the past. It is just a matter of doing something about it, which I am now truly attempting.

I do not think that change comes easily, or quickly, but I do feel it is on the horizon. For now, I am resigned to begin looking for a new apartment (since I am tired of hearing both my neighbors’ domestic disputes, and the birds living in the attic above my bedroom), and have a desire to live a little closer to at least something of cultural significance (A&W and Walgreen’s do not count) and also explore options on the career and education front. I am looking into what is available as far as teaching programs are concerned, and while I’m at it, debating whether or not I feel I could make it in law school (assuming I could get in). In the meantime, I will continue writing my book, and wait for tonight’s Powerball jackpot to solve all my problems…

That’s it for today - look back here tomorrow for a more typical update, and hopefully (if I can figure out the technical aspects) a new feature.

September 18, 2005Fall is nearly here, and with it comes my yearly reflection on the summer months – the time when I invariably failed to regularly update this site. Which really commemorates the even more time-honored traits of procrastination and sloth, which have been part of the Pratt repertoire (or reprattoire, if you prefer) for a little over 25 years now (it’s our silver anniversary!).

This summer started with a sputter, finding me attending the occasional Portland Beavers game, renting movies here and there, and exploring Portland via Max. In all, it was relaxing, which was needed after what has been a year of essentially one family tragedy after another. Things sped up quick in July, with Wells’ bachelor party and subsequent wedding. The bachelor party was held at Safeco Field in Seattle, where about twenty of us pitched in to rent a luxury suite for a Saturday evening game against the Baltimore Orioles, narrowly missing Rafael Palmeiro’s 3000th career hit, which would have been great to witness, especially since that was in the days when we all simply thought he was on the juice. The evening was filled with memorable moments, from Miller’s antics to the appearance of the Moose, who subsequently mauled Wells, to a game winning RBI single by Mike Morse in the bottom of the ninth (himself a ‘roid casualty by early September). Most importantly, it was our formal send-off of Wells into the married world.

The actual send-off came July 23, 2005, when Wells married girlfriend Jessica on the grounds of her family’s ranch in central Oregon. I took a week off from work the week of the wedding, hanging out with Miller for the first few days before traveling with Wells and his cousin Jaeger to Redmond to help with setting up the wedding and reception site. It was a beautiful ceremony, with the backdrop of a canyon during the ceremony, and with the Three Sisters of the Cascade Range serving as background for the reception. As best man, it was my duty to eat my prime rib in the seat to Wells’ immediate left at the reception, as well as stumble through an ad-libbed toast to couple’s new life together, making delicate jabs at Wells’ many foibles over the years, while trying not to disparage him too much in front of the people who now found him to be a member of their family. I think I did ok, but I can really only remember bits and pieces of what I said. On the bright side, I didn’t freeze under the pressure, nor did I cry, so that’s always a plus.

A vacuum of sorts appeared in the wake of the wedding, and August was dedicated mostly to relaxation when not at work. I was able to get in some much-delayed reading, as well as a little writing – the fruits of this work will likely appear here in the next month or so, after some fine-tuning.

So after a brief August slumber, September is here, and with it comes one of the most eagerly anticipated happenings of the year – Oregon Ducks football. I once again have my season tickets (courtesy of my mom… I imagine I will someday have to actually spend money on tickets…). Through three games, all is seemingly good, with the Ducks undefeated, but staring tenuously at the upcoming home contest against USC, which has evolved into what is simply the most dominant college football program in decades. I will be in attendance this Saturday, expecting the outcome that most level-minded analysts are predicting, but hoping for another Michigan-like miracle, that is as long as Sports Illustrated promises not to put Oregon on its cover if the unthinkable happens.

In other news, after a false start last year, I am actually serious now about trying to buy a home. I am having a lender look into what I can be approved for, and hopefully, if all goes well, I will have a home of my own by December, when my current lease will expire. Hopefully, I will know what I can realistically spend within the next week or so – from there, the search should come to life. Currently, I’m looking as far west as Newberg, south to Woodburn, and north and east to their prospective sections of Portland. I guess we’ll see if anything turns up.

That’s it for now. As always, I’ll work on updating more regularly, but again, I probably won’t…

June 8, 2005As far as adventures go, the last few weeks have been pretty uneventful as far as real, substantive adventures go anyway. Upon returning from Canada in April, I quickly found myself back in the routines of work. Waking up, going in, coming home, and sleeping – you get the point. Monotonous, yes – though also a little comfortable.

May’s biggest adventure came early, and quite unexpectedly. I received a phone call on a Friday from my dad while I was at work, notifying me that my grandpa had died. This came as a bit of a shock, not because it was really that unpredictable, after all, the last time I saw him (probably close to five years ago) he didn’t appear to be in that great of shape. Nonetheless, it is a little jolting when you get a call like that out of the blue. My grandpa lived in Prairie City, Oregon, and the funeral was to be in Haines, Oregon, roughly ten miles north of Baker City and the area from which most of my family springs. Thus, a new road trip was born for the month of May.

My dad and I, with my uncle Scott, packed my dad’s Dodge Ram full of bags and a variety of clothes and set out for Eastern Oregon the following Wednesday morning. Along the way we stopped at Multnomah Falls, ate lunch in The Dalles, and stepped in to a truck stop or two, but mostly we just drove and conversed. We arrived in Baker City around 4:30 in the afternoon, and quickly began the search or a hotel room. We quickly passed up the luxurious one-room, three bed suite with a sagging ceiling, peculiar odor, wood panel walls and random roll-away bed, which we were told was kept in there for the last guest, who said they’d be back soon, (my guess is they had more meth to cook up) in favor of the much nicer, much cleaner Super 8 next to Interstate 84.

Soon after checking in, we received word that my grandma was in the hospital (you know, when it rains…) so the evening’s activities were a bit tempered – basically, no drinking, in case we had to make an unscheduled trip back to the Willamette Valley. We did get to explore the Chinese Cemetery, which was strange, seeing as there was only one actual grave. For a while, I figured he must have been one important guy, having his own cemetery and all… then I figured, “wow, they REALLY hated the Chinese.” In the end, it turns out that everyone else in the cemetery had been exhumed and shipped back to China. The information sign said this was done out of tradition, but I’m not so sure – after all, this was Bush country.

For dinner we hit up the In & Out Drive In on 10th street, not In-N-Out burger, mind you – though I think their sign may be teetering on trademark infringement. It was kind of nice – it’s good to go into a classic burger joint every now and then, the type that makes you remember the meal, as you smell it until you change your shirt. It reminded me of going to The Pirate’s Den with my aunt Dawn and Alf’s with my mom and dad when I was a kid. You know a burger’s going to be good when it comes out of a place where you can hear the fryers boiling and see a blue haze floating in the air.

The funeral was the next day, and was a graveside service – the first such service I had ever been to. It was also my first funeral with full military honors, right down to a 21-gun salute. This was a little surprising – I never really knew my grandpa much, but I didn’t expect to see about a dozen National Guardsmen in full dress uniform, or a flag-draped coffin for that matter. Really, I didn’t know much about my grandpa. I learned a lot in the two days that were spent traveling around the area where my immediate family originates, but there’s still a lot of blank spots. I guess that’s ok – what is there is a mish-mash of small memories, and a lot of lessons of how I should live my life.

After the funeral, there was a reception at the Baptist church in Haines. It was mainly a chance for family to meet, eat some food, and reminisce. The reception was held in the cafeteria, which by the looks of it, was normally used by the Sunday school kids. On whole everything looked fairly normal, save for three words on the white board at the western end of the room. It looked like they were the remnants of a lesson, but they read like a list, from top to bottom: Heathen, Moralist, Jew. I don’t know what that was all about, but it kind of creeped me out, and made me want to get the hell out of there.

After the reception, we drove with several members of my family to the granite quarry that my great-great grandpa (I think) owned and operated on the outskirts of Haines. He apparently made most of the headstones at the old cemetery, as well as a great deal of granite fence posts, and even quarried the granite for the Haines general store and a home in Baker City.

The quarry is now broken down and rusted, the pit flooded, and the whole thing is located on private land, owned by the guy who lives across the gravel road. We were about five minutes behind the rest of the group, and as my dad’s truck made its way up the road, I could see my family crossing the barbed wire fence into the old quarry. I also saw the land owner across the street, backed up against a tree in his front lawn, a shotgun in his hands, and a dog at his side. At once, I began to wonder if in fact my uncle had asked permission to cross the fence.

It turned out that he had asked permission, and it was granted – the landowner was just standing outside hunting squirrels. After wandering around, taking a few pictures, finding a snake, and coming across a pile of old temporary grave markers, it was time to go home. Looking around, it was kind of sad to see that my entire family was back where they all started, and really, who knows how many times we will all be back there again – if ever. After all, there is really only one link left to the family’s history in Haines, my great grandmother.

The trip home was quick, and a lot quieter than the trip there, I guess as can be expected. We dug up the requisite two or three sage brush bushes to see if we could get them to live in the cooler, wetter climate (the answer is no), and we pretty much drove straight home – no stop for dinner, only one stop for gas.

Soon, everything returned to normal, the work routine began again, and in a week or so, I stopped being all introspective about my family and death. There were other adventures in May, and I’ll get to them in the next few days… I just had to get the somewhat depressing one taken care of, so I can move on to finally achieving my life’s goal: getting a homerun ball at a big league ballpark. More to come later.

April 12-14, 2005Spring is here again, and with it comes another road trip, with another sorted cast of characters and tall tales. A few weeks ago, Wells and I embarked on a tour of the Great White North. Two ferries, two states, one island, and one province later, I can honestly tell you I like Ketchup potato chips. Oh, and one shouldn’t try to bribe border guards… we’ll come back to that one.

The trip came about in a rather haphazard way – Wells still has a Spring Break, so he had a week to play with. I fell into having a few days off (persistent checking of the vacation schedule pays off).

Together, we searched for the perfect place to escape with a few friends for a weekend, maybe more. Then the friends idea fell through – apparently they’re not up for planning a vacation three days before taking it… the nerve! After a lengthy whittling down period of about 30 hours, we chose British Columbia from a list of suitors that included Las Vegas and New York, and briefly discussed an itinerary. It consisted of: 1.) Drive to Port Angeles, WA. 2.) Get on a ferry to Victoria, BC. 3.) See Canada. 4.) Come home a few days later.

We left Woodburn (I had to pick Wells up) at around 6:30am on Sunday and headed north on I-5, arriving obscenely early in Port Angeles. We proceeded to eat at a restaurant next to the ferry, then got our place in line for the next boat off the mainland. In other words, we sat in my car for an hour and a half playing Oregon Trail on my laptop (for example “The wagon tipped over while floating. You lose 449 pounds of food, YOUR MOM (drowned).” Thankfully, I managed to avoid cholera and made it to the fertile Willamette Valley.

Eventually the ferry came, we boarded, and began our adventure out of the US. This is where the first misadventure officially took off. You see, I am a magnet for really outgoing, really odd people. Wherever I go, I always end up having someone who’s not exactly “all there” befriend me. Examples include Bruce Miller and the crazy woman outside Safeco Field the last time I went to a game with Lauren. This time was no different. I was standing at the bow of the ferry with Wells, minding my own business, watching the slowly approaching island grow in size, when I overheard a woman talking WAY too loud on her cell phone. Of course, I turned to Wells and mimicked her in my best woman voice, which in turn drew the same reaction from Wells. Here’s where the story is supposed to end.

In this case, the girl eventually sidled up next to me, and began to talk. I wasn’t really sure at first if she was talking to me, or just talking, so I did what anyone would do – I ignored her. Eventually, it became clear she was indeed talking to me. I responded the requisite series of “oh yeahs” and “reallys” and “uh-huhs” – the types of comments that clearly have no other outcome than to provoke further conversation. “Where are you from?” she asked. “Portland,” I responded.

In the next half hour I learned the following things:

1. She is originally from Port Angeles, but is going to a college in Victoria, where she has no friends because the girls are really snotty.
2. She is meeting a friend in Victoria, where her friend happens to be vacationing.
3. The friend is with a fiancé, which this girl feels is insane because the friend is entirely too young to be getting married.
4. The Port Angeles native misses her boyfriend, who lives in Utah.
5. A boy on the ferry looks like her boyfriend – this depresses her.
6. She will be turning 20 in five days.
7. She really has no plans tonight, aside from seeing her friend and the fiancé.

In this half hour, I really didn’t say much… Wells can attest to this. She mentioned how much she liked Portland, and all its lighthouses (?), and how her friend was going to the University of Oregon – the one in Corvallis – the Ducks.

I really didn’t know what to make of her. She looked rather Eskimo-ish in nature, with her giant parka ensconcing any hint of a figure, or face that she may have had, and her ramblings made me think either she was crazy, or lonely, or friendly, or desperate. After a while, it began to seem as though she just wanted to drink with someone, and I was the lucky guy.

About the time this realization came to mind, Wells had overheard that people with cars could go to the lower deck to prepare for landfall. We made our escape, and proceeded to reminisce about what had just taken place. Essentially, I learned everything about this girl, save for her name. Wells was fairly certain she was crazy, or in love. I wasn’t sure on either, but I did think she wanted to get together to drink. Regardless, we were on the lower deck, in my car, and she was somewhere up above. Soon we were on Canadian land, and the girl was in my past.

Wells and I had talked about how every trip ends up having a story – I suggested that possibly my would-be suitor had the makings of a story. He scoffed, and hoped out loud that this was not the most interesting thing to happen on this journey.

We made it though the Canadian border checkpoint with nary a word from the nice Canadian guard, and began to search first for gas, then for a room to sleep in. After getting both (though I still have absolutely no clue how much gas I got, or what it cost, for that matter) we decided it was time to explore.

Downtown Victoria was very different – it was sort of the way I imagine some parts of Great Britain would be like, the downtown parts, I guess… There were pubs, and tobacconists, and more pubs. There was the parliament building with its copper-topped dome and the Empress Hotel with its copper roof accents, and the charming street people begging for pieces of – you guessed it, nickel-plated steel, which Canada has used for most of their coins since 2000.

After about an hour or so of wandering, and accidentally stumbling upon, of all things, John Lennon’s Rolls-Royce, we decided it was time to find food. After debating the merits of various menus, we settled on Elephant and Castle, an establishment at which Wells had previously dined. The evening was off the a good start – I was cruising through my Barbeque chicken, garlic potatoes and green beans, when I suddenly had my breath taken out of me.

I was working on a mouth full of green beans and was mid-chew, when I looked up from my plate to see a familiar face – the woman from the ferry.

She had been escorted by our waiter to the table beside ours, and soon took up residence with her friend and the ill-advised fiancé. It was like seeing old friends, only we really knew nothing about each other, and had only one memory upon which we could reminisce.

“How weird!” she exclaimed. “Sure is,” I mumbled, still chewing.

The waiter asked if we knew each other, and she replied that yes, we did. We rode the ferry in together this afternoon. How strange it would be that we would eat at the same restaurant, in the same section, seated by the same waiter, sitting right next to each other.

I smiled, and asked for another gin and tonic, and began to reminisce with my old acquaintance about that sea voyage we had shared way back in ought three o’clock pm. The friend thought this was the strangest occurrence as well, though funny-strange, as opposed to the creepy-strange I was feeling. The fiancé looked ambivalent to the whole situation, and Wells, he looked rather amused.

Dinner progressed, as did the conversation. She learned my name while introducing Wells and I to the friend and fiancé, and I learned hers while listening in on a phone call the friend was having with her mom. Her name was Carly, and she looked significantly thinner, fit, and more feminine without 40-some odd pounds of parka and a fur-covered face. Still, the situation was simply too strange for me to get over. I had another drink – a rum and coke, and Wells continued to get a sick pleasure out of the non-sequitors being thrown my direction by Carly, who a that time was frustrated by the fact that she someday wanted children, but hated babies – a feeling being stoked by the crying infant near the entrance to the restaurant. From the tone of the conversation, she really hated babies.

Wells began to play with his cell phone – odd, I thought, until I caught on to what he was doing.

Carly continued to talk, about something, I imagine… I was drinking, you see. Wells proceeded to put away the cell phone, eventually drawing out his digital camera.

“Oh, you have a camera?” Carly asked, somewhat excitedly. “Yeah, want me to take your picture?” asked Wells, while pointing it at her. She struck her best “I’m sitting at a table” pose, and in an instant, Wells had documented the surreal moment.

Another half hour or so went by, filled with musings on how much schoolwork sucks, and how much Carly wanted to drink when she got back to her place, which was not far away. Oh- and how she was going to be twenty in five days. Wells and I were videotaped by the fiancé, I imagine for the same reason Wells took Carly’s picture – to document an odd encounter with a stranger, who for some reason, was not a stranger, despite being more than strange.

After a few more drinks, and within about twenty minutes of the restaurant’s closing time, I decided it was time to move on. Carly was not yet done eating, so our paths would soon be diverging, however, I felt if it was meant to be, they would meet again, as they had already once before. Wells and I left, walked around the corner, and quickly burst into laughter. Somewhere between the fit of laughter and the hotel room, I vowed that if I were to bump into Carly again, in a town of roughly 75,000 on an island upon which I had never stepped before, I would at once propose marriage, because while I was not terribly attracted to her or enthralled by her conversation, it would undoubtedly be destiny.

Alas, that third meeting never came. Wells and I left Vancouver Island the next day, bound for mainland British Columbia. With the mainland came the realization that my search for divinely placed love would have to continue – perhaps a blessing in disguise, as I would have a hard time explaining to the United States government which portion of my $800 customs exception the bride was occupying.

Speaking of customs – one should not try bribing US border guards.

One final misadventure came via Chris Wells, who, upon re-entry to the US, produced his passport and handed it, via my window, to the waiting customs agent. The agent, upon opening the front cover of the small booklet, shot me a look of utter contempt.

“Is this yours?” the agent asked. I looked at Wells, then back at the agent, in time to see him slowly tilt the passport in my direction, exposing a neatly folded one dollar bill tucked inside the front cover of Wells’ identification.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Wells replied, reaching for the bill. After a careful once-over, and a question of if we had anything to declare, (“some chips, a bottle of Jägermeister, and this hat” was my reply. “A bottle of whiskey… and a teddy bear” was Wells’… yeesh…) he waved us through the border, and back onto familiar ground. Looking back, I think Wells’ goal was to have the car searched. If at first the dollar bribe (unintentional, he insists) didn’t work, the teddy bear comment would surely do the trick.

Ultimately, we made it home safely, without any body parts being violated by the US government, and with only one of us engaged. I’m just glad Wells hadn’t pulled that crap with a Looney.

March 4, 2005The break was long, but at least it was eventful. I finally made good on my threats over the past year or so and moved out. I got my own apartment in Beaverton, and am beginning to realize once again what it is to be an independent person. Basically, it sucks. Yesterday I got to clean the bathroom and kitchen, after first cooking myself dinner (chicken and rice) and subsequently doing the dishes.

Today I had to go out for lunch (chicken and rice) because I forgot to buy lunch meat at the store, and tomorrow I’ll have to have either chicken and rice or pancakes for breakfast, as I broke my toaster for the third time since moving. I’m beginning to see why some people stay at home as long as they possibly can, and why when they move out, they spend more than $8.00 on a toaster.

Really, my place is pretty nice. It’s about 900 square feet, two bedrooms, one bath, with a fireplace, a balcony, and a nice view of Mt. Hood on a clear day. I have vaulted ceilings in the living room and a place to settle into my comfy leather chair and watch the history channel, all with a presto log burning in the fireplace. Oh yes, all the comforts one can get for roughly $600 a month. While I like it, I still hope to be able to afford to buy a place within the next year or so.

In other news… well, there really isn’t a whole lot going on. I’ve been spending time acclimating myself to the Portland area, going to Blazers games, and of course, working. Work is going well- I must be doing something right as I recently got a raise and a nice bonus, which will hopefully go a long ways towards finally getting the Mustang painted, which is tentatively on the docket for late spring-early summer ’05.

No update this week would be complete without mentioning the passing of a legend. The University of Oregon community was rocked on Tuesday by the sudden death of a fixture of the University neighborhood – Hatoon. I, like many UO alum, first knew Hatoon as the woman who lived under a blue tarp in front of the library. Over the past few years, she migrated south on Kincaid to a spot under an oak next the university bookstore, where she slept every night under the familiar blue tarp.

I never really spoke with her, only heard passing comments and a few times simply said hello, but in my time working on campus, I came to know her well – if from a bit of a distance. I knew that she would not speak with me, because I was normally dressed as a cop. I knew that she would always be wearing lipstick, and usually some fashion of bandana or hat. What stood out though were the things that made her different – how she would walk around picking up litter late at night after the local bars had closed, how I never once saw her ask anyone for anything, and how she nearly always had a bouquet of flowers waiting for her on her bench. She will be remembered long after the last people to walk past her have left the University, and there is something about that that is very comforting.

To read more about Hatoon's life, and death, click on any of the following links:

Campus icon dead after automobile accident - Oregon Daily Emerald
Losing Hatoon - Oregon Daily Emerald