Open Mic Night at White Eagle Saloon

Violence is playing guitar and singing at open mic night at the White Eagle Saloon. In your mind it is supposed to be transcendent but in reality it is killing you. Every millisecond you loose a piece of yourself. One singer-songwriter after the other steps up to the light, like a kamikaze. Huzzah!


Step up! to the microphone and sing your diddy. It sounds so straightforward, so comprehensible. You created something and you want people to hear it so that your creation will live. You are committed to giving your song life. Until, you are standing in front of strangers and you realize how useless it is to care about this life as there will be others. The end is TRUTH. Right about now, you are do or DIE. Art kills. So, you want to die with dignity. 


You let your voice S-A-I-L out. You pluck and pull that beat. With each pulse your corporeal essence (your essere) gives way to the sea. Did you know that waves sound like one hand slapping the bar at the White Eagle Saloon?

Kansas Flats, Quiet Room, and Coffee Euphoria

Margaret had an incredible urge to scream at the Mountain View coffee company for giving her mild Breakfast Blend rather than the anticipated full-bodied French roast. Someone in Flats, California had filled thousands of shiny plastic bags decorated with a generic snow capped mountain logo with the wrong blend of beans. These erroneously labeled bags were then distributed across the country to unsuspecting wholesalers and grocery chain stores.  Finally, several boxes of the mislabeled ground coffee ended up tucked away in the cupboard above te kitchen sink  of Northwest Care where Margaret was a customer service representative. She spat out the mild brew, just missing Janice, the only Filipina in the office. "This isn't French roast!" she cried.


It offended Margaret that no one had opened a bag and sniffed it before accepting shipment - that would have been a ridiculous waste of time! Unfortunately for Margaret, who was in need of something stronger and not this useless mellow roast, someone else's lack of follow-through was now her reality.  Margaret swore loudly and stormed across the hall to the Quiet Room.  She needed ten seconds to pummel the idiot in Flats, Kanses who filled the wrong bags with the wrong coffee and ruined her morning; possibly her entire day.


Janice rolled her eyes and used a napkin to wipe up the coffee Margaret had spit all over the floor.  It was going to be an interesting day, she thought.


By 12:30 Margaret was stiff-necked and listless.  Her first caller was from Russia, was very old, and tool long pauses between every- single- word. Her second call was a serious complaint that made her despair.  The member called about his physician on the north side of town who made discriminatory remarks about his sexual orientation during a routine check-up, which took some time to type out, repeat, correct and then explain the complaint process to this tearful member. The call landed her in the Quiet Room for the second time.  The rest of her morning was comprised of internal emails, follow-up calls, and a few more member questions.  


Margaret kept her eye on the sky the whole morning. First, it was a blanket of grayish cotton.  By mid-morning, Margaret could see more blue sky. When a sun break seemed imminent, she logged off her computer, grabbed her parka, and threw her purse over her shoulder, and walked out without a word to her manager.


Walking through the front door of her office building, she realized that if she was going to have any satisfaction the entire day, she needed a great cup of coffee and she knew exactly where to get it - downtown. Margaret felt like an early settler in search of her place in the world as she sped to the MAX, jaywalking and then crossing the parking lot. The light rail cars arrived just as she set foot on the platform, the doors opened, and she glided on through.


A man in a puffy black jacket, dirtied from several nights sleep on the streets, was talking to his red-faced buddy abou this skill as a salesman.


"How many times you sat down on a toilet with your cell phone in your back pocket? I can't tell you how many times I done that. I got the solution and I'm going to sell 500 of 'em today. Right now, in fact, I'm going to St. Mark's and to the Department of Transportation. It's been approved by a scientist, a physical therapist and the Department of Health.  This is a genius idea right here! It'll take care of your problems. No more...[makes a sound like straining]. It'll pop the cover right up for ya!"


It tickled Margaret that so many people were obviously annoyed by this man's speech, but too polite to tell him to shut it.  This is Portland, not New York City.  Portland respects the rights of the other to say what they want, no matter how inconvenient, unnecessary, or inconsiderate the actions of the other are for the rest of us.  The people of Portland are tolerant. Margaret was just about ready to turn and tell the potty salesman to keep it down, she was caffeine deprived, when an announcement came over the loud-speaker.  The female conductor, in her most professional tone delivered a public service announcement to the riders of her Clackamas Town Center bound train, idling at stop 5416.


"Please do not hold the doors open. The reason for this is that it will disrupt service. When you hold the doors open it delays the train and makes everyone unhappy.  So, please do not hold the doors open. Holding doors open can result in a fine and is dangerous as well.  Please just wait for the next train. You could delay the train unnecessarily and harm yourself.  It is best for everyone to leave the doors alone and let the train keep to its regular schedule. Thank you for your help to keep this train and others safe and on time."


A big smile crossed Margaret's face when a nasal tone rang out from the back, "Shut up!" right in the middle of the friendly conductor's announcement. People in Portland are just afraid to confront anyone to their face, she thought. Or was it that voices of authority were meant to be challenged as was the natural order of things in a democracy? She decided on her first instinct.


Margaret stepped onto the wide, sun-glittered sidewalk downtown. She removed her parka to let the sunlight warm her head and shoulders. A man wearing a shiny blue button-down shirt smiled at her as she walked by.  She did not return this smile. People in Portland always seemed to be goading her into a smile and it made her feel like a monkey in a hurdy gurdy costume. Smile at me fancy lady! the people seemed to be saying with their cheerful grins. 


Margaret felt a rumble in her stomach. So, she picked up the pace. Her body began to warm up and she welcomed the cool shaded doorway of her favorite coffee shop. Behind the wooden counter, a girl wearing large framed glasses, doning a pixie haircut took her order - a large Americano. Margaret took a seat at the espresso bar and watched the people walking by. 


Another customer, a large man, wearing a droopy, grey wool knit cap, suddenly laughed and cried out: "Look at that woman!" 


Across the street a woman wearing a tiered top, decorated with an eighties pallet of bright flowers was bent over, head first in the front seat of her car. She pulled out a mint green sweater and hastily covered her white arms. 


"Not quite!" the man said gleefully. He took his double shot latte and gave Margaret a wave and mouthed the greeting, "Hey!"


There is nothing more exhilarating than the moment a perfectly pulled hot Americano is delivered to a parched and tired mouth.  Margaret purred with satisfaction. She moaned a little. The girl behind the counter had seen it before - coffee euphoria is common in Portland. 


Margaret skipped out the door and swung her hips wantonly as she waltzed down the street that had already gone flat from an overcast sky.  Her sun break was over. 

Nothing I hate more than nothing

Thursday in working-bee parlance means, one more day to Friday and Shangri-La or, at least, margari-ta. Being back in an office for nine hours a day has made me face how much my perspective has changed toward work. I spend six hours a day writing in my kitchen without any human interaction and feel more alive than in these past ten days at my temp job. I am grateful for the money. Money buys me a large, airy, comfortable apartment.  Money buys me time to write. 


During my time at the office, I read at work, news sources mainly, but I have also been reading more about what's happening in the philanthropic world, artist retreats around Oregon and Washington, and Sen. Paul Ryan's "The Path to Prosperity: Restoring America's Promise." Which I bring up not to complain, but to comment that my presence is not exactly profitable for this managed health care company, which grates on me. The non-profit hired a temporary administrative assistant to answer the phone that hardly ever rings or ask a lot of questions that create a lot of circuitous emails, and take notes at meetings mainly focused on improving their productivity and effectiveness within this managed health care operation.  If I do next to nothing all day, they are to blame, not me. I am a worker-bee who shows up on time, is pleasant, capable, conscientious, and respectful. Yet, it drives me crazy that the department who hired me does not have the capacity to train me, nor the guts to go back to the temp agency and demand a temp with experience in health care, not some middle-manager who used to fundraise for the arts.  So, I go to work ready for nothing really to happen and nothing really does. I leave feeling as though I got next to nothing out of the actual work and neither did my department. Now, imagine if you worked for a major corporation and you felt this way? I know people who do. How utterly futile! 


Senator Ryan's aim at fiscal responsibility in Washington is to "restore America's promise." I say, budget cuts alone will not restore what worker-bees in this country need more than anything else - a sense of accomplishment.  What American workers need is a sense that what they are doing is SOMEthing. And, I believe, workers should not be punished for accepting less in an existential reward from their job in exchange for the safety and security of health benefits, cost of living increases, and a pension. There is an inherent assumption in Senator Ryan's premise of America's Promise, which is that all men are created equal, but not all men's choices are equal. 


I choose (I am fortunate. No sarcasm intended. At. All.) to go to my desk job today. I will probably read more about what is happening in Libya, Japan, and on Capitol HIll.  Maybe I'll do something really useful, something that will contribute to the increase productivity of my department today. So, here's to the promise of something!

alf mabrouk ya masr!

February 11, 2011 is now Independence Day from the rule of Hosni Mubarak, the United States supported President of Egypt for 30 years. The technologically savvy, educated young people of Egypt organized a relatively peaceful 18-day protest that has ousted Mubarak and inspired millions around the world to Dream to Live! 


I am watching coverage of the celebration in Tahrir square - 18 million are chanting peace! life! democracy! - on MSNBC.  Even as I watch this incredibly moving demonstration of human rights and victory over oppression the nagging question for me is: what now?  Egyptians around the world have every reason to be ecstatic! This is a defining moment in modern world history on the side of democracy and liberty, like the destruction of the Berlin Wall. And what concerns millions about this huge turn of events is that no one really knows what might happen tomorrow. Will there be chaos? Will the military be able to create a stable environment so that political processes and rule of law can be reestablished under the new democracy.  And, what will the days ahead mean for Yemen, Iran, Syria and other countries watching, stirring, and preparing to follow Egypt. 


There are many others who are far more qualified than I am to make suggestions for the smooth transition from autocratic military rule to a functioning democracy in Egypt. However, I would like to suggest that the United States Congress consider increasing funds toward this burgeoning democratic state. I have to pay for state-building in Iraq and Afghanistan (such as it is), then why not ask my government to put resources toward a country with a real future? A country filled with people who have proven they are ready for democracy, capitalism, and a peaceful mideast region. Is it too much to ask for a bill to come to the floor like, Tax Payers Choice for Positive Statebuilding? 


It is not a time to step back from the table. Now, is a time to generously offer to support free elections, rule of law, democratic checks-and-balances in government in Egypt. We owe the Egyptians our aid, our resources, our praise and maybe even cold hard cash. What happens next is the Egyptian's destiny, but we cannot escape the United States responsibility in its heartbreaking past. 

Writing: An excuse to vent

In Sex and the City (SATC), Carrie Bradshaw narrates each episode with a question that often begins with "I have to wonder, if..." and after taboos have been exposed and hearts have been broken and mended by the bonds of friendship, she ends with "Or something". I still love watching Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte and Carrie navigate New York City's dating jungle with ferocity, skillful negotiation, a sense of propriety, and humor (usually in a mid-drift bearing top). I would not have known the first thing about treating marriage with sarcasm were it not for Sex and the City. 


Watching the episodes now, as a single, 37-year old woman living and dating in Portland, I get to thinking that I may be a product of the sister-doing-it-for-herself that was the Zeitgeist of the 90s. I chose to exercise my options in my 20s. I did not necessarily choose to stay unmarried until almost 40 years old. One thing is certain, my expectation that I will marry decreases, while my expectations for my future rise with each passing year. I suppose SATC taught me that you can have a great life as long as you live in a great city and have great friends. That's why I moved in with my one friend in Portland from New York City, where I am incredibly lucky to have four great girlfriends.


I have to marvel at what an incredible tool the HBO series was for the writers who got to vent about their own issues and frustrations with dating and the single life and in turn, were validated by ever-increasing numbers of viewers. The show has been internationally syndicated in countries such as Albania and South Korea. Single gals the world over have raised their cosmos, united under the banner, "All the good ones are gay!"  


Sex and the City was a kind of state of single women in modern society report with designer shoes, sexy men, and expensive cocktails. But, what did it really say about them? I wonder, besides being good entertainment, what could Sex and the City have accomplished if it had not been so focused on Vogue, Jimmy Cho, and Prada? Sure, it is great fun to get caught up in the big city fantasy that each of the four archetype characters' stories represented. But what about writing to make a statement and not just to vent? 


What about exposing the real issues women in the 1990s struggled with like the Glass Ceiling, increased divorce rates, sky rocketing expectations for academic achievement and economic attainment? What about how Glee has tackled the current issues of bullying, teen sexual identity, and homophobia while also winning awards and entertaining millions? 


Don't get me wrong. I benefit from this corner where I get to vent myself. Lately, I have been wondering about the usefulness of language and the potency of messages. In a world that is messaged to the max, is it incumbent upon all those in word craft to say something meaningful, to make a point and still have fun, to make their words count, rather than just spout, or something?

Language Please (A little rant, a little too late)

Today, Chris Smith (Rep, NJ) announced that the language of the "No Taxpayer Funding for Abortions Act" (HR3) will be changed to reflect the same language that is used in the Hyde Amendment, striking the qualifying word 'forcible' from rape. 

To the people who said that HR3 would not change the way rape is defined, but only addresses how federal monies are applied to insurance policies that cover abortions (not rape), I would like to express my problem with your political autism here.

As I see it, the problem that I and many other people had was with the exemption in HR3 that would allow federal funding for an abortion prompted by a 'forcible rape'. Assuming that a percentage of women on Medicaid will want an abortion because they have been raped, how then is qualifying eligibility for an abortion by the term 'forcible rape' not a redefinition of rape?  If you cannot receive an abortion subsidized by Medicaid because your rape was not the right kind, then doesn't that beg the question: what is rape?

To the people who say HR3 will help to distinguish between the 'fake' rapes and the 'real' rapes by clearly explaining that the government means 'forcible' rape... I defer to Jon Stewart's writers.  I just hope those people who seek to root out the fakers never have to prove that they have been raped, or their identity was stolen, or they were jipped by the soda machine. I understand that to some of these people the real and plaguing problem is over how we spend our country's diminishing tax dollars. Guns or Butter? Forcible Rape or Margarine Rape? 

I get it. Separation of church and state is a cornerstone American value, which means that you cannot ask the government for money to make fliers advertising a prayer circle in the school gymnasium at lunchtime.  So, there are two governing bodies in the United States of America - church and state - that cannot be joined together to create a state funded pogrom against atheists, secular humanists and libertarians in this fair land. My point is this, HR3 is about de-funding abortion because it's a sin. And, the last time I checked, sin was a religious concept. But we all know that certain members of society are more righteous and better at defining things, like acts of violence such as rape. These lucky people understand the definition of forcible better than say the over 3 million women of reproductive age living below the poverty line that rely on Medicaid, some of which may want an abortion in the future because they have been raped.

Okay. Enough of me. 

Shall we skin the Hyde Amendment? Shall the women of the United States rise up and take to the streets like our Egyptian sisters demanding, with clear and bold language, our reproductive rights? 

A Raft on Lake Ripley

I remember Beverly as someone who you didn't mess with or challenge or tickle, lest you be foiled by her indomitable will or reflexively smacked in the face because you tried foolishly to sneak up on her. 

Beverly was the director of my first sleep-away Awana Camp in the summer of 1983.  It was  a perfect job for her. With her no nonsense haircut and the energy of a natural athlete, she could handle 15 acres crawling with children ages nine to sixteen. We Campers were expected to rise with the sun by trumpet salute, line up to pledge allegiance to the Flag, then give thanks to God, then perform thirty minutes of calisthenics, and return to tidy our rooms before breakfast. God's love, discipline, and Christian camaraderie were the order of the day at Lake Ripley.  Each camper had Bible verses to memorize, skills to obtain, and physical feats to conquer before returning to civilian life after our two weeks.  One of those conditions was to swim out to a raft 100 yards from the beach and back without water wings. At nine years old, I should have been able to swim this distance unaided, but I was haunted by a picture of me clawing at the water as I sank and disappeared into black muck at the bottom of Lake Ripley. My counselor knew that Bev was a family friend and asked her to speak to me about swimming out to the raft. 

Bev joined me on a log where I was contemplating the possibility that I might not sink to the bottom, as evidenced by all the other kids now diving off the raft and having  a great time.  She tried the 'wouldn't you like to join your friends?' approach. I did want to join them but was not entirely sure I would make it. So, better to wait for them to come back to shore, I thought. Bev tried again by throwing me a bone, I'll swim out alongside you, if you start to get scared, I'll be right there. That was comforting, I thought, except for the fact that I might sink faster than she could swim! I gave her a maybe. Bev's final words were something like, You don't want to be afraid to swim, do you? You just have to give it a try and prove to yourself that you can do it! You can sit here and watch all you want, or you can get in the water to make it to the raft. Waddaya say? I looked at her and smiled sheepishly as I shook my head. I was perfectly comfortable with being afraiddy cat, at least I was breathing.

Eventually, I became very confident in my ability to float. As I floated unfettered for a whole ten minutes  for the first time in a pool in St. Louis, Missouri, I remembered and gave thanks for Bev's words about proving to myself that I could overcome my deepest, most irrational fears.  

As I remember, Bev was all straight talk, hard work and grit, that is, until someone would lose their job, be betrayed by a loved one, or have a seriously ill child. In the face of hard times that called for Bev's strength and her fortitude, people would cry and vent to her. Bev's eyes would fill with tears and her normally placid face would be traced with every fear, strain, and bruise right alongside her neighbor, her friend, her employee, and sometimes a stranger.

Though I am not a Bible reader anymore, I found this verse on the internet that I think fits the Beverly that I remember. And, I am thankful for Beverly's love for my family, her fairness as my first real boss, and her profound words on that log at Lake Ripley back in 1983. 

Luke 10:27 -- 27 He answering, said: You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart and with your whole soul and with all your strength and with all your mind: and your neighbour as yourself.