Priceless!!

I'm totally getting one of these. I think it's made out of platinum, bullion, titanium, gold, lutetium, pearls, palladium, zirconium, diamonds, mink, plutonium and emeralds.

I heart Trains

I occasionally wonder if some people would like to suburbanize the very things that make a city a city.

Take trains. I've read how pearl district people move into their "lofts" and soon begin whining about train noise. "Can you do something about those damn trains?" Oh brother. As if the train tracks are part of their HOA dues.

Long ago, I decided to embrace the rails and trains and engineers who lay on their horns. That's what happens when you live in Linnton. I'm all for improving your li'l piece of heaven, but I wouldn't move to the moon if I didn't like lunar supply-docking-station noises.

My personal enlightenment came after hearing how old-timey neighbors saw railroads as either a badge of honor -- what train? -- or something to be championed as an integral part of our history or heritage or "civilization" itself. Like the river and terrain, trains offer a powerful reminder that an authentic sense of place often occurs by accident, or when we stop worrying about making things easy, quiet and pleasant. Or strategizing about what's good for business.

Our Man takes it to The Man

This is Heinrich Kieber who is now officially in the witness protection program. I say he's kind of a hero no matter how hard the powers-that-be will try to make his sketchy past appear even more sketchy than it really is. When I first heard network anchorman Charlie Gibson say that a disgruntled bank employee was in trouble for handing over the names of international tax evaders, I was thinking along these lines:

“Hey, Kieber. I need to talk to you for a sec.”

“What?”

“I think I need you to work again this weekend.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Someone set a Speed Record!!

I don't get this quick of a reply even when I'm in trouble with the boss. To the Big City and back in six minutes. Hope it doesn't mean I picked a sucky agent.

From: Croissandra Strickenbacher
Sent: Thursday, July 17, 2008 12:16 PM
To: Ignatius
Re: query | mainstream: ALL IN A CUP

Dear Mr. Ignatius,
Thanks for thinking of me. I'd be happy to look at a sample, say 2 chapters, of your work via email.
Best,
Croissandra

----- Original Message ----
From: Ignatius
To: Croissandra@strickenbacher.com
Sent: Thursday, July 17, 2008 12:10:08 PM
Re: query | mainstream: ALL IN A CUP

Hi Croissandra,
I'm seeking an agent. My completed novel, ALL IN A CUP(77,000 words), is the story about two people on different life trajectories who end up needing each other. Set in Portland, Ore.: an afternoon fender-bender sets off a clash of lifestyles that leads ... and so forth for another bazillion words.

Indulging my Stimulus

People ask, "So, what did you do with your stimulus?" I say, "I got me a pair of ignition cassettes!!" That's what I say, because that's what I did. Pretty sweet. I couldn't think of anything better to do with my stimulus than to get me a pair of ignition cassettes. They're awesome if you ask me. Thank you stimulus!!! Thank you stimulus for my new ignition cassettes!!

Rejected!

Dear Mr. O'Brien,
I've read some of your book and although I like the idea, I don't think I can do anything with it. Thanks for thinking of me and I wish you luck in finding someone to represent your work.
Regards,
Bajooney Bullwhipple

Yeah, whatever. Meantime, because I hadn't heard from Agentress Extraordinairess from across The Pond since March, I uncharacteristically pestered her. She responded this way:

Thanks for checking in Dan and sorry I need more time!
Appreciate your patience.
Best
Lady Elizabeth

Phew. That's practically a love letter, don't you think? Unless I'm mistaken, I think she's into me.

Go for the Gold!!

I'm going to be straight up with you because I am a straight shooter who shoots from the hip: my heart is not into blogging this week. I know, you're shocked because it always looks like I'm giving 123% day in and day out, but believe me, this week, I've decided to coast. Why? Well, because The Heiress is away all week and I just had a three-day weekend, which included a road trip to Track Town USA where I pretended Kara Goucher and Lolo Jones were psyched I was there, cheering them on. Anyway. I'm exhausted. I sat in a swanky hoity-toity private elite corporate-sponsored "suite" where I tried to fit in but instead drank all the free pints of Drop Top Ale we could and ate all kinds of cookies and pie and chicken and steak.

I'm sure you understand. I understand. I haven't had a vacation in nearly three weeks. How messed up is that? Seems slightly unjust. Three weeks! These last few days -- Monday and then this morning -- have been especially grueling. Yes, I know last weekend was a long weekend, but part of that was in Eugene. And, sure, Jesse Helms died and that was an added bonus, but that's not enough. I need more of a break.

Blogging is very hard. Blogging is blogging and the job is a nightmare no matter how nice the weather is, or how burning my yearning is to Go for the Gold.

Sorrow and Gladness

I'm a big fan of Bike Portland. And I have a thing for fair and tenacious advocates. And pedaling to get around. Today Jonathan Maus commemorates Tracey Sparling (1988-2007) and the resulting bike box at the location where she died while waiting for a green light.

Suburbanites bad at math, awesome at garages

Nice headline from the New York Times: Fuel Prices Shift Math for Life in Suburbs. And this little nugget from a person trying to sell her McMansion so she can maybe extricate herself from oppressive mortgage payments and find more modest quarters in the city. The subtext in the article is along the lines of: "Living way the fuck out here with my central air and expansive carpeted floors and automatic garage-door system and new-smelling formaldehyde fragrances sounded pretty neat at the time." As if considering the hours she spends getting in her car, driving, parking, getting out of her car, waiting at the pump, pulling out her credit card, creeping along, waiting, emitting flourocarbons, talking on her cell-phone device, getting lost in the scorched-earth mirages of tailpipes . . . she had this to say: "Now, the suburbs seem mean. I wouldn't do this again." And then she probably walked inside to cool off, opened her pantry for a twelve-pack of waxy chocolate doughnuts, and wondered how long it would take her to drive to the neighborhood gate to get on the nearest arterial and park at the nearest Olive Garden before heading to Costco to get ready for the work week.