The ‘Dredge Report

Being a blogger means never having to say you’re sorry for going MIA. But I really am sorry! I’ve had all these things I’ve wanted to blog about, and just never got around to it. What I’ve been up to:

• Music? Horse Feathers. Not for everyone, I’ll grant, but if you’re into orchestral indie folk revival that sounds like it was recorded in a haunted rural church, HEY where are you going? No really, good stuff. Even better live, because for once everyone at the Fir shut up during the performance.
• Movies? Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist was better than it had the right to be. From Here to Eternity was a total snoozefest, with the exception of Frank Sinatra’s drunken Gilligan-esque character. This classic movie thing of mine has got to stop soon, my attention span can’t take it anymore. Gus van Sant’s early movies (My Own Private Idaho and Drugstore Cowboy) are so bad that they’re almost good. Almost. And now I’m halfway through Jules et Jim, my first Truffaut film, and it is a-may-zing.
• Travel? Wine tasting complete with double-rainbows, check. Impromptu drive to the Gorge simply to watch the sunset? Check. Another trip to the coast is on tap for next weekend — Astoria, you’ve been put on notice.
• Books? A Cook’s Tour is Bourdain’s best by far. Cult of the Presidency is actually way more readable than I thought it would be (thanks, Gene!) especially with the none-too-subtle contempt that Healy weaves throughout much of it. Radley’s new piece is obviously a must-read, no surprise there.
• Cooking? Pork and tomatillo stew. Highly recommended. Serve with Syrah and relish the waning days of winter.
• Around town? The new location of Noble Rot is open as of Friday night, and a motley crew of us closed it out. Two thumbs up, if for nothing else than the view. Voodoo Donuts is within stumbling distance, for afterwards. Navarre is still supreme, and fyi if you visit, you’ll be going there. Ned Ludd and Belly are the early adopters in the MLK Ave. gentrification wave, and damn they’re good. Screen Door and Simpatica are the best brunches in town, respectively, despite it being virtually impossible to get into either. And a guy set up a typewriter in front of the co-op on Friday, trading poetry for tips. When he asked me to give him a theme, I said “Joy in a joyless world” and he said: “Whoa…you are so right on it’s not even funny.” I still have the poem.
• Yoga? Still following around my favorite teacher wherever she teaches, like the Beatles and Ravi Shankar except without the exploitation. BTW, you know that’s what the song “Sexy Sadie” is about, right? Right.  Slowly getting more and more proficient, except I’m still a total chicken at the scarier inversions.  Am dipping my toe into the Yin pool, and am considering Ashtanga, but it’s often associated with gurus, so I’m cautious.

And here’s me with a python. I’m off to try acupuncture. More later.

Test.

See? I’m not dead. Just otherwise occupied for a bit. God knows I don’t have the patience for a coherent post right now, but I need to touch on a few things:

1. Top Secret Recipes. Maybe everybody knew about this but me, but here is a site that tells you how to make all of the disgustingly awful foods and drinks featured at your favorite slop houses. Now, some of it is premium content, meaning you’ll find out how to make Cherry Slurpees gratis, but you’ll have to pony up some $ to unlock the secrets of Chili’s Chicken Crispers. I would like to try making Twinkies, though, just to see if it’s possible to do so authentically without the help of truckloads of chemicals and preservatives. We’re in a crap economy, and I’m just trying to help you avoid having to pay $7.95 for some Applebee’s Chicken-Dipped Fried Apple Extreme Tart or whatever it is they’re serving there these days.

2. Roller derby. I finally got to witness the greatest thing to happen to spectator sports in decades, the derby. The Times article is notable for the brief bit of history about how roller derby was revived in Austin awhile back by a crazy drifter who had visions of creating a kind of psychotic circus. That lunacy aside, it really is a quality way to spend an evening at your local expo center drinking an overpriced beer or three. Portland has 4 main teams, and they vied for pecking order a few weeks ago, so naturally RV and I checked it out. The Guns N Rollers were the most impressive, in no small part because of their fierce lead, November Pain, who could have crushed anyone, it seemed. The players’ names are the best. See here for a complete listing. I don’t have the moxie to participate, but wouldn’t it be neat if I could put those months and months of ice-skating lessons and roller skating birthday parties of my youth to good use?

3. Bob. Our old roommate moved out and a nice new one moved in at the turn of the new year. Before the old one left, her dad was staying at our place on and off for several weeks, for days at a stretch. He was fixing her car and sweeping our front porch and puttering around the house and watching football on our couch. He was kind of old and cranky, but with a huge heart—just a sweet guy. Last weekend he went into the hospital for routine surgery (at age 79), had a bad reaction to the blood thinners they administered him, and died. We went to his “wake”, which consisted of his eight (8!) children and scads of grandchildren laughing and crying and arm-wrestling and doing shots of ouzo and remembering and telling and re-telling all of the stories from his life. (This family is Greek, naturally). You never know, for example, that the guy who just three weeks ago sat on your couch drinking a beer once spent 10 years in San Quentin for writing a bad check. You also never knew that once he got out, he kept his stated promise to piss on the sentencing judge’s grave. So it was a weird scene for me, who’s been blessed/cursed with a slightly more staid family, to watch a man’s 8 adoring children be utterly swept up in joy and love at a life well and fully lived. I don’t know, though. If we have to die, that’s roughly what I’d want at my wake.