The Situation

By Nancy Rommelmann

Nancy Rommelmann

My husband and I went on Friday to see a friend's band play at Slabtown. For those who do not know the bar, it's a box, with a floor-level stage and acoustics so loud the only way you know the singer is singing is because you see his mouth moving.

There wasn’t much of a crowd, and only one person dancing; a dude in his 40s who’d squeezed his snowman physique into jeans with acid-washed skulls on the back pockets. He shouted the band’s songs back at them. He spread his arms and soared like a plane. He did that guitar-god jump-kick, and I recognized in him the sort of lonely boy who thirty years ago found a place to alight in punk rock.

When the band took a break, we stepped outside. Twenty feet down the block there was a house party going on. The house was typical enough, an old Portland with a big porch. But who were the people on it, the twenty or thirty people clustered in the yard and on the sidewalk? It was hard to tell. From a distance, the girls looked like hookers, which didn’t make much sense for a house party in Northwest Portland.

“I’m going to take a closer look,” I told my husband.

“Careful,” he said.

I walked up to the party and stood with my back against a tree. The partiers, I could now see, were college-aged, and they partied like college kids, drinking beers and shouting at each other. But where one might have expected green sweatshirts with gold Os, or skinny jeans and 80s T-shirts, there were girls in diaper-shorts as tight as a layer of paint and six-inch stripper sandals. The boys wore ribbed white tops, gold chains, their hair shorn on the sides and spiked on top.

“Can I tawk to youse fa minute?” a girl said to a boy, who did not break from throwing signs and busting into the dance moves that he and his friends performed for what seemed to be an invisible camera.

Even from six feet away, I had no idea what was going on. It was theater of a kind I had not seen in Portland. Among the cugine I grew up around in Brooklyn, sure, but here? Never. The scene was evidently curious to a couple walking past, gals wearing sensible fleece at 1 a.m. on a rainy night. One smiled at the partiers, but I could see she had as little clue as what was going on as I did.

I wanted to stand there an hour and figure it out, and would have, except I sensed more than saw a ripple. Someone had broken character. One of the dudes I’d been drinking in was walking toward me, palms up. He was going to ask me to leave, I thought, or what the hell I was doing here.

"Yo,” he said, moving in so close I had to press my back against the tree. “You want some of The Sit-u-A-tion?"

I tried to think quickly: situation meaning… the party? Meaning: being told to mind my own business? Meaning…

"I said, you want some of The Sit-u-A-tion?" he asked again, which is when I saw he’d pulled up his shirt up and was gyrating his naked torso at me. I started to laugh.

"Yeah, you want some,” he said, and backed away so I might admire his tan and, maybe, that he’d had himself waxed from navel to neck. I introduced myself.

"I'm Will," he said, shaking my hand. So, Will, what was up with the party?

"You know Jersey Shore?" he asked. I haven’t seen the MTV show about rowdy kids from, well, the Jersey Shore, but yes, I told him; I knew it. Oh… this was a Jersey Shore dress-up party!

"No, we are Jersey Shore,” he said. “We are Portland Shore!”

Portland… what? What shore? The shore is ninety miles away, a comment Will apparently found irrelevant, as he moved in close again and said….

“You want some of The Situation?" Up again went the shirt, Will doing his man-hula as if to say, I was very welcome to touch him; that this, in a way I was just starting to figure out, was the answer to all my questions.

I thanked Will; I told him I was married, and could he tell me who these people were and where they came from?

Will lowered his shirt. "You know Beaverton?” he asked. “A lot of them go to school out there.” No, he wasn’t in school anymore; he had an MBA. The house was his.

I told Will I was sorry I’d crashed his party, but I just found it so fascinating. I could see it pleased him that someone thought so. That like The Situation, the character on Jersey Shore whose self-anointed screen name Will had appropriated -- a one-time exotic dancer who, I recall reading, had earned $5 million in the past year -- that Will, too, was a hot commodity. He could, I thought, as easily have affected Mad Men’s Don Draper, and perhaps next year, he would. I thought of my own trying on of identities, the year of wanting to be a tough Puerto Rican chick giving way to gypsy scarves and Gitanes. How one outgrows the costumes but not the emulating. How long ago was it that I wrote Didion in my notes, to remind myself how a chapter must be structured? Oh, that was today.

"Give me your hand,” said Will, and led me through a multi-part handshake that ended with our fingertips tapping. And then we broke, Will back to his party, me back to Slabtown, where the Snowman was still performing for an invisible camera of his own.


Nancy Rommelmann is the author, most recently, of the novel The Bad Mother. Her book of essays and journalism about Los Angeles, "Forty Bucks and a Dream," will be released in November (Dymaxicon). Rommelmann will be a featured author and read from her work at Wordstock 2011.
 
I met Nancy two years ago when a mutual acquaintance recommended her to me as a talented freelancer who might be interested in writing for the Sunday Opinion section I was then editing. We worked together on a handful of essays, including a superb piece on the city's  twentysomethings, "Is Portland the new Neverland?"


Tomorrow: Motherhood: the battle inside my brain | Heather Lalley 

Cultural milestones

Borders' Books flagship store in downtown Ann Arbor

In ways big and small, the odometer of life rolls along.

-- Seemingly half a lifetime ago, I arrived in Ann Arbor in the late summer of 1983 to begin a yearlong fellowship at the University of Michigan. In the days before the fall semester began, I had ample time to explore the city and made the most excellent discovery: Borders bookstore.

With its sidewalk tables of heavily discounted books and wealth of other merchandise inside, it became a place I visited regularly. From that flagship location, Borders expanded into a national behemoth, with nearly 400 stores, including 10 in Oregon. So I was saddened by this week's news that Borders Group is going out of business.

I'm not in a position to second-guess the company's business decisions about expansion and debt. But I can react viscerally to the loss of a chain of bookstores that, to me, signals another troubling step away from reading. Yes, consumer tastes are changing, helped along by the advent of e-readers, but my gut tells me that Borders' closing represents more than just a shift to Kindles and Nooks and iPads.

-- On Wednesday, I sent out my 200th tweet. It was an innocuous reply to a fellow staffer at The Oregonian, publicly thanking her for tweeting about me and two co-workers who manage the hyperlocal public blogs on OregonLive.com. If you don't understand that sentence, I'm not surprised. Twitter is a whole new world, where communication occurs in bursts of 140 characters or less, helped along by URL-shorteners like bitly.com and tinyurl.com.

In the transformation from print to online journalism, I've had to acquire a new vocabulary and new skills in order to navigate intelligently in cyberspace -- or in what my colleague, Cornelius Swart, calls the changing and ever-evolving "news ecosystem." Getting out there on Twitter is just one of the ways of engaging in new ways with readers, writers and friends. At this point, @georgerede has 287 followers. I'm following 214 people and organizations and I've sent 202 tweets.

Here's No. 201: Never too late to tweet this: Cornelia Welch persevered when facing words that stung, eyes that failed | OregonLive.com. http://bit.ly/nCrYVe

Photograph: wikipedia.org

Pedalpalooza and a new food court

Sisters Erin and Saylor operate Speedi Gourmet.

I guess you could call last night a quintessential experience here in River City. Went out to a casual dinner, as we do every Thursday, and headed for the new Green Castle food court in Northeast Portland, a few blocks south of Sandy Boulevard at 20th Avenue.

For a few minutes on a lovely spring evening Lori and I had the place nearly to ourselves. So many choices: Thai, Middle Eastern, Korean-inspired sandwiches, gourmet hot dogs and garlic fries, all-day breakfast, fried chicken. Even Viking Soul Food. Who knew?

By the time we made up our mind and approached one place to order, we'd been joined by about three dozen bike riders, people of both genders wearing tutus and garish accessories. Of course! It was the event billed as "Tutu Food Cart 2: Electric Boogaloo," part of the Pedalpalooza 2011 event taking place for two-plus weeks in June.

Starting from downtown Portland, riders were invited to set aside three hours for biking and eating, basically riding from one group of food carts to another until their bellies were full. For once, I left the house without my smartphone so, unfortunately, no pictures to share.**

The Speedi Gourmet food cart

As for our meal, we split a sandwich from Lunch Box Wizard -- pan-fried chicken with greens and a tonkatsu (brown) sauce served on a warm roll (wasabi optional). Also shared a bowl of Drunken Ladle Soup (made with beer, pork, sausage, potato, carrot, onion and kale) from Speedi Gourmet, whose cashier, Erin, drew us in with her welcoming personality and no-pressure attitude. Finally, tried a couple of small items from Lebaneser Scrooge, a roll-up with vegan hummus and a puff pastry filled with ground beef, onions and spices. Topped everything off with a strawberry lemonade.

All in all, I'd say the food was three-star quality (on a scale of 1 to 5) and a good bargain for the price: $18 for everything, including tips. Best items? The sandwich and the soup.

Next time, I'll be more adventurous and try the Viking Soul Food cart, billed as Norse comfort food. By the time I decided to give it a try, there were too many men and women in tutus ahead of me and I was too hungry to wait.

                                             +++++

**  I returned to the scene Friday morning, camera in hand, to snap these photos and try Speedi Gourmet's  breakfast burrito. They make it two ways -- with kielbasa or black beans -- and it's become the most popular item on the menu. I can see why. It was a delicious way to start the day, with a warm tortilla wrapped around eggs, potatoes, kielbasa, cheese and onion.

The American Male at age 30

"At twenty-five, a person is trying to prove himself to the world. At thirty, he knows who he is to some extent, knows his strengths and limitations, has some kind of a game plan and gets it done."
-- Jo Jacob, artist, musician, Lexington, Kentucky


If there's one thing I admire as a journalist, it's a great idea that's well executed. So I tip my hat -- twice -- to Esquire for coming up with a cool original idea and then improving on it.

In 2006, the magazine introduced readers to a gallery of 51 young men, representing a cross-section of America, that it called "A Portrait of the American Man at 25." It made for fascinating reading, crawling inside the minds of these young adults and gleaning as much information from their photos as from their words.

Sure enough, the summer 2011 issue, touted as the "How To Be A Man" issue, arrived last week with an update: "A Portrait of the American Man at 30." The genius of this feature is that the magazine tracked down about 40 of the very same guys it interviewed earlier and, so, was able to offer an apples-to-apples comparison.
 "Some are now married with kids, living in the suburbs," the lead-in reads. "Others are divorced or in jail. Our boys are growing up."

What makes this group of guys so interesting? It's not that I think they are any more or less endowed with intelligence, looks or possibilities. It's that my oldest son is 31 and very much part of the Millennials cohort who were born from 1977 to 1998.

A 30-year-old guy born in 1981 (or 1980, in Nathan's case) has grown up in a world with Reagan and Obama as presidential bookmarks, where the career and financial aspirations enjoyed by their Boomer fathers has been dialed back in the face of a slumping world economy, where social dynamics have been shaped by the greatest diversity our country has ever seen, including growing acceptance of gays.

Their lives have been facilitated and complicated in every conceivable way by personal technology and the phenomenon of anywhere-anytime communication. Their female peers have been raised believing they are entitled to rights, privileges and opportunities that many of their mothers had to fight for -- and those attitudes have contributed to the Rubik's Cube of dating and commitment.

So what do these 30-year-old men have to say?

At the risk of gross generalization, it seems that five years has made all the difference in the maturation process. No, they all haven't settled down. But many of them, if not most, have left behind the party lifestyle and self-centered mindset and embraced new responsibilities -- marriage, parenthood, well-reasoned notions of work and career. It's good to see so many have a great sense of humor and speak with such candor.

I've rambled on far too much already, so let's cut to the chase. I hope the following sampling of quotes will encourage you to pick up the June/July issue (inexplicably, it's not online) and read the article in its entirety -- or just leave a comment. Do their words ring true? What do you (regardless of your gender) remember thinking, doing, aspiring to when you were 30? 25?

"Twenty five was a turning point in my life that put me in a situation that I was unsure of. At thirty, I have taken some chances that have proven to have lot of potential. It's amazing what a little kick in the ass can do to a person." 
-- Ricky Wayne Brule, entrepreneur, St. Francis, Minnesota

"I always thought I wanted kids. But now I'm really torn between what would make me happy -- being a really effective professor/writer or being a good parent. I don't see being both as a realistic option."
-- Kyle Dargan, Washington, D.C.
 
"Decisions have more consequences now than they did when I was twenty-five, so I find myself to be more calculated in my decision-making."
-- Evan deSieves, manager, wind energy company, Portland, Oregon

"Teens? You can have 'em. Early twenties? Couldn't pay me to take those back. Now? This is the time. This is my time. I've never felt more comfortable being a man."
-- Philip Dawkins, playwright, educator, Chicago, Illinois

The scandal of child marriage

Through the ages and across cultures, marriage endures as a bedrock institution. Yet there are profound variations in the practice; political movements seek to expand or limit who can marry; and several studies here in the United States confirm that people are waiting longer to wed, interracial marriages are becoming more common and divorce rates are rising.

Around the globe, some societies are more tolerant than others in permitting a man to take more than one wife. As well, the age at which people are legally able to marry seems somewhat elastic.

When the latest issue of National Geographic arrived in my mailbox, I flipped through it and was drawn to a jaw-dropping report called "Too Young to Wed -- The Secret World of Child Brides."

The author, Cynthia Gorney, is a veteran magazine writer and member of the faculty at UC Berkeley's highly regarded Graduate School of Journalism. She's also someone I've come to know as a friend. The photographer, Stephanie Sinclair, has been documenting the practice of child marriage for a decade.

Gorney weaves several contemporary cases together with historical context. She presents the proponents' case for child marriage but doesn't shy away from the dark side involving rape and childbirth before the girls are physically ready.

Sinclair's photos are riveting and revolting. Starting with an 11-year-old girl in Yemen made up to look twice her age and ending with a 5-year-old (yes, 5) in northern India, Sinclair presents a collection of portraits that make it oh-so-clear that this is oh-so-wrong.

One photo portrays a 14-year-old girl bathing her scrawny newborn while her 2-year-old daughter plays beside her. Another (above) shows two girls starting forlornly at the camera as they stand beside their husbands. One of them, now 8, was married at age 6 when the groom was 25. And the 5-year-old? She's roused from sleep and carried to her wedding on her uncle's shoulder. Half her face is covered by a yellow garment, so we see only one bleary, brown eye.

I like to think of myself as tolerant in most respects. But the practice of marrying off girls before they even hit double digits strikes me as obscene. I realize the practice goes back centuries and in some cases are seen as business transactions -- as a way to settle a debt or as a wise investment by parents seeking a stable future for their daughters. I realize, too, that the practice persists because girls in many societies have little or no access to education, and virtually no local prospects for employment. Those things would have to change for families to consider deviating from the practice.

Fortunately, there are "positive deviants" like Nujood Ali who give some hope. Nujood generated worldwide headlines in 2008 as "the 10-year-old Yemeni girl who found her way alone to an urban courthouse to request a divorce from the man in his 30s her father had forced her to marry." Her story has been made into a book, translated into 30 languages, "I am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced."

The National Geographic report is chilling. My hearts breaks at the sight of these too-young girls forced to assume roles long before they're ready and which they never asked for in the first place.


Photograph by Stephanie Sinclair

First World problems

A couple of weeks ago, I was part of a lunch group at a pho restaurant that included men from Malaysia, Iraq, Bhutan, Vietnam and Cambodia, and a young woman, part Native American, who was a law student from upstate New York.

Three of us were making small talk as we waited for the others to arrive when I mentioned that I was dealing with a new "challenge" -- of forcing myself to do a left-arm dominant stroke while doing laps during my morning swim. For too long, I said, I'd been doing the crawl exactly the same way, two strokes and then turning my head to the right for a quick breath.


The last time I went for a massage, sometime in January, the therapist suggested I mix it up. Turn your head to the left when you come up for air, she said, and it will ease the tension in your neck.

I knew she was right but I was frustrated trying to make the change. Instead of just getting in the water and going for it, now I was having to think about adapting to a new pattern of breathing and alternating arm and head movements, without crashing into an oncoming swimmer in the same lane.

"That sounds like something my mother would call a First World problem," the law student said with a smile.

I hadn't heard the term before but I readily agreed. Urban Dictionary, by the way, offers two definitions: 1) Problems from living in a wealthy, industrialized nation that third worlders would probably roll their eyes at. 2) A more politically correct term for a "White Whine."

I wasn't really complaining about the new routine in the lap pool; I was just saying how awkward it made me feel. The larger point, though, is that the student's remark has stuck with me as a good reminder that so many things that cause us to complain -- even good-naturedly -- are really trivial in the larger scheme of things. Such as...

-- The awful music that's pumped into the sound system at the gym.
-- Those dead-zone areas where you can't get cell phone service.
-- A city bus that comes earlier or later than scheduled. (There's always another one coming.)
-- When you've got a sauce-to-nugget imbalance. (See above.)
-- "Facebook depression" -- a condition that may affect troubled teens who may think they don't measure up to other people's friends' tallies, status updates and photos of happy-looking people having great times.*

* Seriously. Ripped from this morning's headlines.

Images from www.uberhumor.com, www.stickycomics.com

Brides of March

I'd just finished my Saturday shift at work and was walking toward my bus stop downtown when I spotted them: About 40 to 50 women and men, all wearing thrift store bridal dresses, white gloves, purses and jewelry, and several carrying musical instruments and flasks. And all having a great time.

Curious, I looked down into a brick courtyard where they'd assembled, thinking I was about to witness an outdoor wedding ceremony. Wrong! It wasn't quite a flash mob -- this wasn't nearly as spontaneous -- but the group didn't stay long in one place either. I managed to take just a couple of photographs and would have interviewed a couple of folks if my bus hadn't arrived at that minute.

As they passed by me, though, I asked one of the stockier, full-bearded brides what was up.

"It's the Brides of March, brother." 

Ah, of course!  A pun on the term Ides of March, which refers to the 15th day of the Roman calendar

San Francisco brides

Turns out I was looking at Portland's version of the annual event, coordinated by The Cacophony Society, which also stages bridal walks in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Seattle and Austin. It's part shopping spree, part pub crawl and all about silliness.

Watch a YouTube video here.

Photograph by Felipe Buitrago

Talkin' about trolls

Skipped bowling last night to talk shop. Turned out to be a nice change from the routine (especially after hearing our team went down in flames -- again)

I was one of about 15 journalists who met at a Northwest Portland tavern for an informal discussion that centered around our interactions with online audiences. How and why do we do it, knowing how distasteful it can be, given the trolls who cause trouble for everyone?

Sponsored by a handful of journalists under the name Digital Journalism Portland, it was a good way to spend 90 minutes sharing information about our news organizations' practices and trading ideas about the overarching reasons for engaging with the largely anonymous readers who leave comments on news stories and opinion pieces.

I won't describe those differences in practices here, as it was an off-the-record conversation, but I can share a couple of thoughts concerning my own experiences at The Big O.

-- Anonymity on internet forums isn't going away. It's a different medium and it's part of the culture. While we can all wring our hands at how nasty some commenters can be, I understand the rationale for not requiring that people identify themselves. There are times when someone offers factual information in confidence because they fear repercussions in the workplace. That's legitimate.

-- Involving yourself in the discussion beats ignoring it. Asking for comments and then failing to participate in the conversation only reinforces the notion of an institution that doesn't care. The internet gives everyone a voice and I think a lot of commenters simply want to be heard. We can praise good comments, we can call out mean-spirited ones. But, mostly, we need to show that we are listening.

--Thoughtful, attentive moderating of the comments can yield some nice benefits. When someone's confidential information leads to a news story, that's a win-win. When you notice an interesting or different perspective -- say, from a minority group member -- it's worth reaching out to the commenter and asking if he/she would be interested in submitting an op-ed. (I've done that a few times and wound up with something we could publish.) When you add to the conversation, you help make the subtle point that journalists are people too. I think it's important that the public see that we in the media are not part of some monolithic institution and that there are huge differences among news organizations and the people who for work them. Same goes for independent bloggers, obviously. .

Already looking forward to next month's discussion, which will feature my newest Oregonian colleague,Cornelius Swart, on the topic of building a new model of cooperation between mainstream and independent news media.


Photograph: www.huntsmanlodge.com

"Awesome"

Yesterday morning I got off the bus downtown, across from City Hall, and walked into Seattle's Best for my usual no-frills drink. The following conversation ensued:

Cashier, sporting wire-rimmed glasses and waist-length Rasta braids: Good morning. Can I help you?
Me: Yes. A small cup of coffee, please.
Cashier: Awesome. Room for cream?
Me: Yes, please.
Cashier: Awesome.

[Cashier fills the cup, brings it back to the counter.]
Cashier: That enough? Want more coffee in it?
Me: That's fine, thanks.
Cashier: Awesome. Great. Want your receipt for a refill?
Me: No, thanks.
Cashier: Awesome. Have a great day.

OK, I can appreciate courtesy and enthusiasm but when did the ordering of a cup of coffee come along with a serving of mindless superlatives?

Making sense of immigration and identity

With all the national furor over Arizona's state law designed to identify, prosecute and deport illegal immigrants, it was a welcome respite to lose myself recently in a thoughtful, meticulously reported book called "Just Like Us."

Somehow I missed it last year when it won praise from The Washington Post as one of best books of 2009. I'm glad I picked it up this spring at a used bookstore in Anacortes.

"Just Like Us" is the true story of four high school girls in Denver whose families have emigrated from Mexico and the complications that ensue because of their differing legal status. Best friends since middle school, each has at least one parent who crossed into the U.S. without a legal visa.

Marisela, the leader of the group and the one most tied to the Mexican culture, was smuggled into the United States at age 7 in the back of a pickup truck. Her best friend, Yadira, also crossed the border illegally. Neither girl has a green card or Social Security number. Elissa was born in the U.S. and Clara is a naturalized citizen so both, unlike their friends, are able to get a driver's license, travel on a plane and, most important, apply for college scholarships without reservation. Illegal immigrants in Colorado, like most states, must pay non-resident tuition and are ineligible for state or federal financial aid of any kind.

As the girls pursue their education, they confront multiple challenges involving their family's finances, the tug-of-war between American and Mexican cultures, and the fraying of their own friendships, tattered by the difference in their legal status. If this weren't enough, two subplots complicate things further: 1) Congressman Tom Tancredo, who represents a suburban Denver district, becomes a leader in the national movement to crack down on illegal immigration, drawing the girls into political activism on campus and in the community. 2) An illegal immigrant fatally shoots a Denver cop at a Latino night club and flees the state, triggering a scary backlash and putting the city's mayor on the hot seat.

The book, at 382 pages, falls into the genre of narrative non-fiction journalism and recalls similar books, like Adrian LeBlanc's "Random Family" (about multigenerational welfare) and Alex Kotlowitz's "There Are No Children Here" (about life in the Chicago projects).

The narrative follows the girls from high school to college with author Helen Thorpe tagging along to family gatherings, Denver nightclubs, their classes and dorm rooms -- and even to Mexico to visit the mother of one of the girls. Thorpe uses pseudonyms to protect the girls' identities and brings two unusual perspectives to the book: She was born in London, the daughter of Irish parents, but grew up in the U.S. carrying a green card and became a naturalized citizen at 21. And, though she's an established journalist, writing for The New Yorker and other magazines, she's also the wife of John Hickenlooper, the mayor of Denver.

Thorpe acknowledges the conflict of interest wherever it pops up and is admirably transparent in sharing the evolution of her thinking as she considers all sides of the immigration debate, with obvious empathy for the girls and their parents but also with respect for Tancredo's views and the thorny questions raised by one's status. With considerable skill, but sometimes a sense of too much information, she makes this a coming-of-age story as well as a powerful account of contemporary politics over a complicated social issue. The first-person narrative is a bit awkward, but unavoidable, because she's the mayor's wife.

Most of all, it's a gripping story about identity. As the book liner says:

"The girls, their families, those who welcome them, and those who object to their presence all must grapple with the same deep dilemma: Who is an American? Who gets to live in America? And what happens when we don't agree?"

I'd like to think this is the kind of book that might, just might, cause those who demonize illegal immigrants to pause and consider the complications and the consequences that result from blended families like these -- blended in the sense of having differing citizenships and limited/unlimited opportunities to live freely in America.

I think I'd be dreaming, though.

For an excellent review of the book, read Jenny Shank's take for New West.net.

For more on Helen Thorpe, read Natasha Gardner's profile in 5280 Magazine.

Quick (and very random) Takes

Only a few hours left in this month of September, so it's time to wrap up this month with a few utterly disconnected thoughts and observations:

1. Pop quiz. What's the official Oregon state bird?
a. Great blue heron; b. Western meadowlark; c. Stellar's jay.

Correct answer: b.

So how odd was it that I saw my very first Western meadowlark, with its distinctive V-like marking on its yellow breast,* perched on a wire fence in a meadow in Klickitat County in Washington state?

*Copyright photo: Kendall W. Brown
http://www.utahbirds.org/birdsofutah/BirdsS-Z/WesternMeadowlark.htm


2. Have a nice day! Not...

Around Portland, I'm used to seeing the bumper sticker "Coexist." I didn't think twice when I spotted it on a nondescript compact car (I think it was a Toyota) bearing New Mexico license plates. What did set me back was the other bumper sticker: "How about a nice cup of shut the f*** up?"

Whoa. Made me wonder what would prompt a person to essentially raise a middle finger to the world in that way. Was he trying to be funny? Is he really that crass? Just another sign of the eroding civility in this country. Made me think back to the guy in front of me in line at the grocery store. When he bent over to pick up something he'd dropped, his T-shirt rode up and there, on his lower back, in elegant script were these words: "F*** the world." Yeah, you too, buddy.

3. I've got the TV tuned to ESPN and I'm watching with glee as the Detroit Tigers are pounding the Minnesota Twins -- 7-2 in the seventh inning -- and taking another step closer to the American League's Central Division title. Given all that Michigan's largest city has been through in recent decades -- race riots, crime, illiteracy, civic corruption, horrible schools and, now, collapse of the auto industry -- it would be nice if the Tigers could bring a ray of sunshine to their beleaguered fans. Of course, even if they make the playoffs, they'll need to get past the dreaded and colossally overpaid Yankees.

I saw the Tigers in '84, the year they won their last World Series title, and have been a fan ever since. Go, Detroit!

Woodstock reconsidered

This past weekend signified the 40th anniversary of the Woodstock festival, a defining event for baby boomers that either makes us smile with nostalgia for times marked by peace, love, mud and music -- or causes us to look back with embarrassment at an era where drug-addled self-indulgence obscured a raging conflict in Southeast Asia and a growing cultural schism at home.

The nostalgic view, I suppose, is the one you get through rose-colored glasses. The latter, on the other hand, strikes me as probably a little too harsh. Two articles I've read in recent days offer some valuable perspective.

I was 16 when the festival played out over three or four days (depending on who's counting) in August 1969. It wasn't until I saw the excellent 1970 documentary, "Woodstock," that the magnitude of the event sank in. (For the record, let me say that Santana's "Soul Sacrifice" and Ten Years After's "Going Home" remain my favorite, most electrifying performances.)

"As the decades roll by, the festival seems more than ever like a fluke: a moment of muddy, disheveled, incredulous grace," Jon Pareles wrote in The New York Times ("Woodstock: A Moment of Muddy Grace.") "It was as much an endpoint as a beginning, a holiday of naïveté and dumb luck before the realities of capitalism resumed. Woodstock’s young, left-of-center crowd — nice kids, including students, artists, workers and politicos, as well as full-fledged L.S.D.-popping hippies — was quickly recognized as a potential army of consumers that mainstream merchants would not underestimate again. There was more to sell them than rolling papers and LPs."

Pareles also writes:

A cynic might see the festival as a prime example of how coddled the baby boomers were in an economy of abundance. The Woodstock crowd, which arrived with more drugs than camping supplies, got itself a free concert, and when the people responsible could no longer handle the logistics, the government bailed them out. Some people took it upon themselves to help others; many just freeloaded.

Still, Woodstock gave virtually everyone involved — ticketholders, gate crashers, musicians, doctors, the police — a sense of shared humanity and cooperation. Trying to get through the weekend, people played nice with one another, which was only sensible. Musicians performed for the biggest audience of their lives. Townspeople and the National Guard pitched in to keep people fed and healthy. No one, The New York Times reported, called the cops “pigs.”

True, true...but for another perspective on those times, consider Richard K. Kolb 's piece in the September issue of VFW magazine. We reprinted it in The Oregonian under the headline "The chasm between Woodstock and the war."

While 400,000 mostly white, affluent young people were partying at Woodstock, Kolb writes, "8,429 miles around the other side of the world, 514,000 mostly young Americans were authentically serving the country that had raised them to place society over self. The casualties they sustained over those four days [Aug. 15-19] were genuine, yet none of the elite media outlets were praising their selflessness."

While three persons died at Woodstock, 109 Americans died in 'Nam over the same period, including 35 in a single day's fighting, Kolb notes.

"So," he concludes, "when you hear talk of the glories of Woodstock -- the so-called "defining event of a generation" -- keep in mind those 109 GIs who served nobly yet are never lauded by the illustrious spokesmen for the 'Sixties Generation.' "

I don't know that the comparison is a fair one -- why not compare combat deaths with homicides or highway deaths over the same four days? But I will concede his point. Back in the day, it was hippies, not soldiers, who captured our attention.

Photo: Larry C. Morris/The New York Times