Adventure is My Middle Name

"The Adventure Family walked the earth a great many years ago. When and where the first representative of the name came into being, history sayeth not."- from 'The Adventure Family', by James H. Adventure, my great great grandfather

That 'a great many years ago' is strange, in that its author shares said last name, doncha think? I found this curious sheaf of bound papers in my late grandmother's library, as I was cleaning it out. It was written by her grandfather, and purports to tell the origin story of the race of gods that comprise my family.
Curiously, there's even a Moses figure: 'a benevolent and kindly disposed gentleman, a Mr. Post as it were' (?) 'espied a tiny babe, wrapped in fleecy robes, lying in a basket beside the road.' He took it home, and named it Moses. Thus was my family forged from the fires of misfortune. I am descended from a foundling.

The rest of the damn thing strongly resembles that chapter of the Bible that tells you about the genetic lineage of the entire human race; the begat chapter. It takes you up to the time of my great grandfather.
The library itself provided me with lots of things I wanted (including what looks to me like a first edition copy of Boswell's Life of Johnson, still titled "The Life of Samuel Johnson", by James Boswell), and has reminded me both of my early love for James Thurber, but also how much I like the historian Barbara Tuchman. The Mencken of the Northwest, Stewart Holbrook, is represented, and there is also a World War Two-era atlas of the world, belonging to my grandfather, then in the Merchant Marine. But back to James.

"At all events the family is known to have resided in Derbyshire at a very early period. It was also the proud possessor of a coat of arms, viz: a 'white bull upon a green field'. Now while I am too democratic to be a lover of heraldry or an admirer of titled nobility, yet if a coat of arms was strictly necessary, I am profoundly thankful that the symbol was that of a bull instead of an ass."
He takes his time building up the joke, then delivers the payload. A man after my own DNA.
Note too that while he does not capitalize 'democratic', he also provides some basis for my own family's long-standing dislike of those who would rule.

Curiously, this came up in a strange way at the memorial service for Miz Ellie. A strange woman with a grating voice who mastered the ceremony (who had worked originally at our paper in Pendleton, ultimately ending up at the Washington Post) described my grandmother as "if nothing else, a Democrat".
Shit. Ain't that the way you wish to be remembered? A virulent partisan? Or a keeper of lovely houses, a business manager of great thrift and austerity, a possessor of a 'faint smile' that charmed (I think) those who loved her? A devoted lover of chocolate?


Matter of fact, a worthy view of this whole thing is available here. The note remains the same: at your memorial, are you remembered by your family as a loving person, a font of wisdom (she was repeatedly referred to as being the smartest person each of the eulogizers knew, which is both nice and true), someone you genuinely couldn't wait to see?
In a word, no. In three words, aww hell no. I had the sick revelation, yet again, that we must not speak ill of the dead (as is the tradition), and so we follow suit. However, according to a much older tradition that I follow; Of the dead, only the truth.
The things so often alluded to by the eulogizers as being worthy traits of Miz Ellie were also things that made her awful to deal with as a person. She was mean, basically disapproving and well too sure of her inherent superiority to others. She had passed on that last (and most poisonous) trait to her spawn, which is a source of bitter laughter to all who know my family.
The same things that caused her friends to like and admire her are the things that made me wish to never enter into business, or any other, relations with my father's side of my family.

My uncle, though functionally insane since 1990 at least, by my reckoning, apparently has written a eulogy to her of his own, in our Astoria paper, titled 'Matriarch'. I've not yet read it, but I'm told that he makes the same point that I'm making here: as a mother, she was a great business manager.
Or, as he a-little-too-tellingly puts it here:
"Newspapers are a continuum, especially those that have served communities for more than a century. Mother saw herself, my brother and me as links in that long span. Nothing delighted my Mother more than good writing in our products. That will be our tribute to her.
"
Actually, the aforementioned editorial was titled "My Mother Never Forgot the Great Depression", which is yet again, a tribute to her thrift, above all else. It's interesting, since on one hand my family eschews ostentation, but also considers it a worthy thing to travel the world, and maybe try to learn something, having many cocktails and meeting boon companions along the way.
One of the boon companions was the great Tom Vaughan, who was old when I was a kid, but is still alive, and gave what was easily the greatest of the eulogies at that funeral. He is the former (and still the best) director of the Oregon Historical Society, and is possessed of one of those beautiful, stentorian voices that allows their possessors to recite the fucking phone book, and we'll still be throwing our panties up on stage for them.
Did he like her? Hell, to hear him tell it, I suspect he nurtured a secret lust for her. Funereal hyperbole? Perhaps.
But more importantly, he spoke of the ideal of Public Service, which you just don't hear enough about these days. The idea that journalism is the reportage of the Truth, in as much as it can ever be objectively observed by anyone, and that the People need it, lest they live in a society that can scarcely be described as Free. His was the only eulogy that nearly provoked tears from me, as journalism is dead.

(Sorry. Was that a bit terse? I do mean it, though.)

You know? The ideal of the journalist as crusader for the common good has been thoroughly undermined by Republican partisans who would rather destroy everything about civilization for short-term political gain than devise their own decent alternative. The market, as always controlled by-let's face it-humans, has followed suit, and an ugly darkeness settles over the kingdom of letters.
I walked up to Tom afterward, and said, "You always could spin one hell of a yarn."
He blinked at me from under fuzzy, beetly brows and said, "But there is a great deal to be said for knowing when to sit down."
"An overrated trait, to be sure," I responded. He walked away with a smile, clearly having no idea who I was. Dude hadn't seen me since the '80's.

My skin was crawling, as I was surrounded by family and long-time friends of family that I did not like. Our long-time business manager, Pat Patterson, was there though, and he was always a favorite person of mine. He never bullshitted me, and that comforted me. His eulogy had been warm, but it wasn't florid. It also reminded me that she had been his greatest antagonist during the entire twenty-or-so years he worked for my family. Or, as he put it to me twelve years ago: "I serve at the pleasure of your grandmother."
So, if his words were carefully couched to conceal how he actually felt, what the hell were the rest of these people actually saying? He is glad to be retired, I think.

I mean, this was the purview of people like my genuinely awful aunt Brenda (current Head Pest In Charge), who had said to me at dinner the night before, upon hearing extensively what it is that I do for a living; "So you're gainfully employed?"
"Have been for years," I responded. Why do we coddle the worst among us? I at least should have said, 'Awww. I love you for things like that.', or 'Good God, you're awful', then walked away. But no. We forgive them, or at least put as much distance as we can between ourselves and them.
The thing is , there's a fair chance that the genuinely awful actually think they're delivering compliments when they say things like that, but I doubt it. My only problem is that she comes from a long line of Southern Belles who will always have the drop on me, as my insults tend to be of the so-honest-they-floor-you variety, and hers are, by definition, those incredibly well crafted miracles of malice that leave you unable to comment, lest you appear to be Losing Your Composure. The Smile of All Awful Women Everywhere inevitably follows.

From James again:
"Some verses have been handed down that are ascribed to Henry Adventure of that time, who seems to have been of rather a convivial nature, setting forth five reasons why we drink, beginning thus:
Good wine's a friend because I'm dry
Or but I should be bye and bye
Or any other reason why."

This is truly worthy of sots everywhere, and indeed of most poetry of the Elizabethan age. I'm imagining that if he feels the need to celebrate Booze, there's a sonnet to Pussy in there, as well.

I left that day without saying goodbye to anyone. There was a PowerPoint presentation put together by my stepbrother, that featured many shots of us, in earlier, brighter times when we all thought we'd be at the helm of a smarter, better informed electorate. She spent so much of her time smiling, did Miz Ellie, and it made me sad to reflect how little I saw that smile bestowed on me, for reasons of necessity to me, my sanity, and those who I love, who I always want to protect from the silly bullshit that is being a Bachelor.

I also came into possession of the entire archive of my grandmother's photos, including this one, described in the much earlier post titled "Destiny's Red Headed Stepchild":
"Nonetheless, the picture of myself at age seven speaks volumes. My grandfather has just explained to me where our family money comes from, and pointed out that the whole enterprise falls apart without people who are willing to sustain it. The picture, taken by my mother, has me pausing, tongue literally in cheek, before I say what I said.
With gravity far beyond my years, I explained to him that none of my family members seemed happy with their lives, and that I could say in particular that I knew that their family lives suffered due to the long hours, harsh deadlines and time spent travelling. That above all else, I considered it far more important to be happy than it ever was to fulfill the role that destiny had, for some reason, felt like throwing me."

And with the further proviso that, again, I'd have to be a moron to wish to throw in my lot emotionally and in business with a bunch of people like my father's family (he himself takes a great deal of time to remind me, these days, that they just aren't worth it).

As my old joke goes, my middle name is adventure! Or is it Customer Service? It all becomes less clear beyond here, and sleep well, Miz Ellie, for all the damage you did.

And what have we been listening to, of late: The Legendary Journeys

On our turntable riiiight now in fact, it's Grizzly Bear's Yellow House. Amazing, amazing stuff. So many questions tantalizingly raised and not even sort of answered. Bee and I went n' saw 'em the other night, so suddenly in love with their asses were we, and spent a fair amount of time talking about how many bands all smooshed together this band reminded us of. For me: Luna, mixed with My Bloody Valentine, mixed with the eerier Sufjan Stevens stuff. In particular, the song "On A Neck, On A Spit", which is either the creepiest love song I've ever heard, or is something else altogether that I can't begin to fathom.

Trying to find out what the song is that they play constantly on Sirius sattelite radio that sounds like '60's soul, with a woman singing, and the refrain is just, "no...no...no..."

Next show to be seen, and amazing album still in serious rotation roundabouts here: TV On the Radio's Return To Cookie Mountain, which seems to be another one of those breakup albums I love so much. In particular the song "Province", which contains the amazing line; 'Love is the province of the brave.'

Album I am so glad to own, and am amazed more people haven't heard: The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. This album was originally given to me on a mix tape with the words 'Arthur Brown loses his shit', on it. Quite so. 1968 was a year to be ahead of one's time, especially in the 'I am a black man who has responded to the world be seeming crazy, so maybe you'll at least be amused by me, and later meditate on my lyrics'. No wonder he covers both Screamin' Jay Hawkins and James Brown ("I Got Money") here.

Still in heavy rotation: M. Ward's Post War; a beautiful, gentle meditation on...It All. "Lord it's good to be alive/takes the skin right off my hide/to think I might have to give it all up someday."
Dirty 3's Whatever You Love, You Are, especially the song, "I Really Should've Gone Out Last Night".
Low's The Great Destroyer, specially the song "When I Go Deaf".

Band that, it turns out, did most of those songs you loved, but never had any idea who did them: Three Dog Night!

Recently renewed appreciation for: Iron Maiden's The Number of the Beast, especially the I-don't-really-think-he's-talking-about-being-gay song "The Prisoner": 'Break the walls; I'M COMIN' OUUUUT!'

Album I didn't know existed, but is great: Coltrane, by John Coltrane.

Band I can't find any recordings of in my local recorde shoppe: Tilly and the Wall. (I love them so much.)

Curious about: Bonobo

"Listening to" (i.e. reading): Barbara Tuchman's "The Proud Tower"

Actual post about something actual: soon

Hard Away!

Hey:
check this out.
Its relevance speaks for itself, and interestingly enough, was considered fodder for the front page of the Oregonian, but got no play at all in The Dalles Sentinel, its home paper.

But of course, what really matters is Anna Nicole Smith. This has always been the case. In the middle of journalists actually apologizing to America for making them have to listen to this shit, there was also a heart-warming memorial/pop up ad from PETA, noting how much they'll miss her, as her dedication to Not Wearing Fur and Not Eating Meat was unquestionable.
Both strike me as trends among models at various points, so I don't get it, but whatever. The interest here for me is that she takes a place in the short list of people who died under suspicous circumstances (Marilyn Monroe, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin,Kurt Cobain, Elliot Smith-okay, I guess it's not a short list), but no one will investigate all that deeply, since no one expected them to live long and/or prosper. Done in by TrimSpa's squad of hit-models. What an indignity.

In sports news, there's the whole Tim Hardaway thing (I really should call it the Hardaway/Whatever the Gay Dude's Name Is thing, but as you can see, I can't remember the other guy's name. I believe it's 'Aeschylus'). One would think, after the unending coverage of this tempest in the stupid-est of teapots, that nothing else in the world of sport was worth discussing...And by that I mean...Well, never mind.
But what strikes me here is the language used. Concerned Women of America are here with me on this one:
"Concerned Women for America (CWA) is disappointed that a man who is respected by many sports fans would make such inflammatory remarks. “Hardaway’s comments are both unfortunate and inappropriate,” said Matt Barber, CWA’s Policy Director for Cultural Issues. “They provide political fodder for those who wish to paint all opposition to the homosexual lifestyle as being rooted in ‘hate’ … His words do not represent the feelings of the vast majority of people opposed to the homosexual agenda. It’s perfectly natural for people to be repelled by disordered sexual behaviors that are both unnatural, and immoral … However, the appropriate reaction is to respond with words and acts of love, not words of hate. Jesus Christ offers forgiveness and freedom for all sinners, and that is the heart of the Gospel message. Thousands of former homosexuals have been freed from the homosexual lifestyle through acts of love. Hardaway’s comments only serve to foment misperceptions of widespread homosexual ‘victimhood’ which the homosexual lobby has craftily manufactured.”

Uh, okay, well that wasn't exactly my point...At all, but let's talk about the language Mr. Hardaway employed. Always check the language.
Remember when Tiger Woods finally got his green blazer, symbolizing his entry into The Masters, or some shit, and who comes stumbling drunk outta the woodwork but Fuzzy Zoeller (the name of a Cuddly Nazi if I ever heard one). He says some rather unfunny shit about how "they're gonna have to serve fried chicken in the clubhouse now," or words to that effect.
It was utterly without class, and worthy of a washed up has-been...Like Fuzzy Zoeller. But what he didn't say was: "I don't like the blacks. I think they should be deported."

So over here we have Tim Hardaway, saying that he basically feels that da queers should be eliminated, basically. He has a lot of America on his side for this one. The religious climate of our nation definitely makes it basically just fine for him to have this sort of hate going on, and most of the debate has centered on whether or not he has the right to express his heart-felt, well thought out opinions.
Sure he does I mean heck, jus' callin' it like I see it, right? But where he fucks up is not stopping at I don't like them. Those who say that he shouldn't say that sort of thing don't really understand free speech, and are basically just muddying the water. No; that is just his opinion, worthy of a washed up has-been.
However, "You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don’t like gay people and I don’t like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don’t like it. It shouldn’t be in the world or in the United States." is probably legally actionable. He's fomenting violence, potentially, and there's already case law that supports my opinion on this.

Folks always hate it when one compares sexual orientation to race, so let's do it: If I said, I hates me some niggers who usedta git paid too much to bounce a damn ball, and don't care what they think about nothin', I would only have the tacit, quiet support of some Americans, and I would be roundly (and rightly) denounced by Black America in general. But at that point, I've only made myself look like an ass; marginalized those who share that opinion.
Now, were I to go forward and say, And I think we oughta kill 'em, that's where the death threats arriving in my mailbox would be in the right place.

And for the inevitable folks who will be stepping up at this point to say that Hardaway is a crusader for free speech, and standin' up for what's right, against the doublespeak of Political Correctness, I gotta say it again: at what point did you ever try? I recognize that the attempt to eliminate all hurtful language from public discourse largely speaking looked ridiculous, didn't work and mostly complicated modern sentence structure, but the attempt itself was well-meaning, and again-did it really hurt your feelings so much to not be able to call people names?
I would even accept it, up to a certain point, if he had gone the way a lot of bigots do: gay men, in a group, can be some of the most annoying people on earth. Living over the coffee shop that I do, I'd be forced to agree, but again, we're still talking about individuals here, and pretty much any group of people is going to suck. Again though, I've had to deal with these individuals and groups as people, and I don't think Tim Hardaway has. It's just a little too easy for him to talk out his ass on this one.

So again, 'he shouldn't have said that', isn't the proper response to this. That's just the usual official line, and satisfies no one. Hell, he does us all a favor by showing the idiocy of, say, Concerned Women for America for what it really is. The response, I think, would be to make Tim Hardaway have to listen to a bunch of hate speech directed at Tim Hardaway, and then see how quick he'd be to purge a group of people from society.

The Gentleman Author Disappears Up His Own Ass

Bloggin' about bloggin'. I told you never again. But you just kept staring at me in that little way of yours, and I got up, crossed the room to your table and offered you a Pimm's Cup, or perhaps a Pisco Sour. You smiled and brushed your hair behind your ear.
What? Oh. There's this stupid story in the paper today. It's about how to blog, basically, for those who either haven't heard about it, or can't...Use a computer? I dunno; even for filler this one's lame. Its title, by the way, is "Blah Blah Blog". HAW HAW!
(Compare to Scott Baio's character on "Arrested Development", a lawyer by the name of Bob Loblaw, who has a blog concerning law, called 'Bob Loblaw's Law Blog'.)

In and of itself, the article is nothing special. It's from the 'Living' section, which is that unique corner of hell where articles about meaningless shit share space a multitude of ads hawking cures for your crippling depression and hair loss. Imagine being the cub reporter at the big daily, wishing to cover actual stories, only to have endless repetitions of the following conversation with you editor:
"I liked your feature last week; 'Coffee Tables are Able Tables', but where's the article you promised me about laughter being the best medicine?"
Like I say, hell. But the article becomes interesting (?) when it throws a few examples of locals who blog at you. I'm not in there, praise Yog The Almighty.

Well, first it tells you about where one might find this 'bloghosting' service. Helpful, yes, and then the litany:

Miss Kris is in here, and she shares not a little with that Onion feature called "A Room of Jean's Own", in which a boring and annoying person gets to share what she hopes are interesting anecdotes about her fascinating life. This particular person has subtitled her blog, "My quiet little sanctuary in the city of Portland, Oregon, where I kick off my shoes, sit back, and relax."
Kinda rolls off the tongue gracefully and not at all in a painfully awkward way, doesn't it? I read a little way into it, and discovered that this middle aged person is unfamiliar with the concept of working for (and being paid by) a Non Profit Organization. She's fascinated by the paradox. She thinks it means 'working for free'. Also, the paper quotes one of her more searching passages:
"I distinctly remember how I felt as I sat there in the same chair I'm sitting in now, at the same desk in front of the same windows, staring at the same monitor I'm staring at this very moment. Scared to death!"
(Of what, Kris? 'The call came from inside the house'?)
"But as I sat down and paused over my keyboard, I wondered if anyone 'out there' would ever be interested in what I had to share. What did I have to share?! I didn't have a clue. All I knew is, whether anyone cared to read or not, I needed to write. And so I began."
Bravo! Way to take power back from those meanies who might find you boring, and join the thousands of people sharing their little thoughts with the ether each n' every day. There is also a lengthy, fatuous quote from Maya Angelou at the top of her page.

There's a blog listed here that's all about rutabagas that should be a hell of a lot funnier than it is. There's one all about the Portland Trailblazers, which is pretty much the most boring sports blog I've seen in my life, about a lackluster, perennial-disappointment basketball team we have around here.
But hey; since I don't want to just sit here and make fun of stupid shit on the internet, let's do the other thing I do, and talk about what I do for a living.

Tonight in Portland: Monday Night Raw! World Wrestling Entertainment (tm) had their thing at the Rose Garden tonight, and that required me to be there at Seven in the blessed A.M. Their stage set is elaborate as hell, as those of you watch pro wrestling know, and was attended by a road crew of men with Short Ass Redneck Male Disease (shouting all the time; not communicating shit).
I had lunch in the Media Room, which is a sorry excuse for a breakroom, and must please the ink-stained wretches to no end. No one had mentioned to me, though, that I'd be eating with actual wrestlers.
Or The Talent, in any case. Huge men. I've never felt so damn small, though I've never worked at a basketball game in this venue. It was a room full of actors who could kill you. Going on about who was going to kick whose ass, but in that jokey, mock-heroic way that actors do.
A fair amount of them were definitely suffering from Marfan's Syndrome: they were true giants, that is, and will no doubt keep growing until they die, and have certain aspects of their persons that are noticeably larger than they should be. The chin, for example, or one really big ear.

I dunno. The time has come for me to write about something real. I'll get right on that, next post. Really.

America's Funniest Ongoing Criminal Investigations, or, I Can't Believe It's Not Journalism

Some recent faves of mine include the story about a lawyer that represents a fictional business owned by a fictional local man, who somehow manages to own a jet that the CIA may or may not have used for "extraordinary renditions" (of popular torch songs?). The Oregonian's website is so damn stupid (just like its owner!) that I can't find any sort of archive search. The story updated yesterday, and dammit, I'm curious.
Ye Gods. Can't even get the picture of the two entwined skeletons they unearthed in Mantua. The AP wants money for it, and The SnOregonian has it in Adobe, so your cursor becomes that little hand thing that makes all things sad and awful. Striking out, here.

The Astronaut Love Triangle thing is fun, since it involves the phrase "Astronaut Love Triangle". I try to limit my schadenfreude to a healthy serving, but that damn mugshot was too damn funny. Better still, Experts have been trotted out to explain that astronauts, despite all our best previous information, are People, and not some sort of space-going God-things.
That, and our diaper-wearing heroine explained helpfully, to investigating officers, that she brought along the BB pistol to 'entice' her rival into 'conversation' about the issue (still unclear) that caused this little business junket.
Perhaps envisioning this: "I'll give you this pistol if you taaalk to me..."

Sadder still, the Portland Police Department continues its quest to rid the city of The Blacks, one at a time. A fifteen-year-old kid got beaten and tasered by the cops for...Well, it doesn't say here in The St. John's Sentinel. It has a lengthy commentary about police brutality and proposed changes in policy, but absolutely nothing in the way of particulars regarding the event.
You do get the kid's name, though: Sir Millage. Matter of fact, to quote The Reverend Doctor LeRoy Haynes Junior (Boulevard), vice president of the Albina Ministerial Alliance,
"An autistic man like Sir has a right...Not to be beaten down like a hog on the streets of Portland."
Word. But can we talk a little bit about naming your kid 'Sir' for a minute? I understand the need on the part of Descendants of Slaves to claim some dignity in this world, and if not by naming yourself something African, then maybe Mister Respectworthy or something.
Wait, but no: that makes you sound even more uneducated than you are. I had a co-worker once who observed to me, "I comm-unicate wif mah boy-frien' on tha tele-phone..."
Causing me, ever the total bastard, to say, "So you talk to your boyfriend on the phone?" I mean, defensiveness makes everybody look like shit, especially the intellectual variety. So: stop trying to prove how smart and inherently worthy of respect you are; just be those things.
And 'Sir Millage' needs to be an abusive, drunk, elderly English gentleman who has recently soiled his trousers while burbling, "Quite so! Quite so!" at the corner table in the Old Pederast's Club.

What else? Um, it becomes more and more clear to me that no laws were broken in the Scooter Libby case, though all involved are bastards of the worst sort. So yeah: shitty deeds done, as always, but probably nothing legally actionable, at least partially due to the degradation of Law Itself in the time since I've been alive. I may be wrong, though...
But the whole thing still stinks, because it looks like another place where the spooks surrounding this president placed a piece they knew to be flawed with a journo (like the Dan Rather thing, actually), then sat back and watched people destroy themselves. Then they can go, "See? I told you the media's evil!"

The BBC's website is wonderful, if only for their online forum, "WORLD, HAVE YOUR SAY!" (compare to English songwriter Julian Cope's "World, Shut Your Mouth"), and studies of how the"beer goggle effect" actually happens in one's drunk brain.
But they also follow funny, if not especially relevant stories like the hot race for prime minister of France. There's a woman running whose last name is 'Royal' (and the piece makes lengthy fun of American media figures pathetic attempts at correctly pronouncing it), who recently suggested that Quebec secede from Canada. The Canadian prime minister shot back angrily that that would be tantamount to him suggesting that Corsica secede from France.
So Mme. Royal joked to a journalist (and you must never do that, by the way) that maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal if Corsica did secede, and then said whatever the French for "Don't print that, okay?" is.
Well, they printed it of course, and the Corsicans are all pissed at her. Her opponent did exactly what any politician would, and said "Corsica is not a joke. Corsica is a republic." Which it isn't, I believe, though again I might be wrong.
If elected, she'd be the first woman to run France. She won't be elected, though. You can only shit on the Corsicans for so long.

And The Mercury printed their Valentines sent by readers:
O My Honeybee I think I prevented you from plunging off a cliff the other day. I will continue to do so as long as it's in my power. I love you. You make me happy.

(Long story.)