A Forest Park hike

Yesterday I hiked through Forest Park from the West end of the Saint Johns Bridge to the Leif Erikson trailhead on NW Thurman Street.

The day was beautiful. Some lucky mix took place to give me cloud cover during the middle of the day (to avoid burning my Norwegian skin) followed by a clear, dry late afternoon and sunset. I found that trail users were relatively sparse due to the pandemic precautions and the workday.

When the clouds cleared I saw flat-topped Mount Saint Helens to the north and Mount Hood to the east. I saw the invasive ivy expertly poisoned by targeted pesticide applications. I thought about the many missed hours of volunteer invasive plant pulls and native plant plantings that will have to be made up for this summer.

I passed by a duo on one of the narrower trails and noted the way one yakked nonstop about her job while the other listened. I smiled at the quiet second one in understanding. She looked like she was fulfilling her role as a listener and friend, even as her eyes wandered.

I passed by a young couple where the man was a good deal shorter than the woman. She seemed awkward and nervously talkative. I passed an Indian mother telling her adolescent daughter, “All the other girls your age do such and such…” I saw many people on gravel bikes, which are pricey contraptions with a front suspension and drop handlebars that didn’t exist ten years ago.

I snaked along the Ridge Trail, the Leif Erikson Trail, the Wildwood Trail and the Alder Trail and I relished the feeling that in those moments, there was no place I would rather be. I was doing exactly what I intended with my day off.

I encountered large native snails and banana slugs. I saw the even larger invasive banana slugs. A couple of them were everted from their wet translucent casings and turned into a yellowish speckled paste from being run over by bikes.

At one point I halted in my tracks and watched a beautiful woodpecker that was new to me. I observed its plumage (it looked like a sapsucker). And then I was delighted when I noticed it had a flight, foraging and drumming pattern that was distinct from other woodpeckers such as a downy woodpecker or a northern flicker. I think the bird was a red-breasted sapsucker. They must be common because later on I came too close to a nest of theirs and was scolded aggressively by the parents. I heard their chicks peeping while their parents defended them from me, the intruder.

Observing the bird illustrated what I have come to think of as the fractal nature of knowledge: when you look closely at a feature of the natural world, you resolve a thousand further minute but equally significant distinctions. You uncover those ones and then uncover further ones. And at the end of all this you grasp a hint of the pattern repeating in the whole and uniting all those endless details. You start to see unity in the midst of endless diversification.

And isn’t this what Darwin hinted at 161 years ago in On the Origin of Species? He did so in expansive style while also addressing details such as debates over mollusc morphology hashed out in the correspondence of gentleman scientists.

And although I have not read this foundational work in its entirety, I did listen to the audiobook version while delivering pizzas.

Bad news: my grandma died of COVID-19. Good news: I have rats again

Grandma

My grandma Cordelia tested positive for infection with the virus earlier in the week. This morning, after two days of shallower and shallower breathing, she died peacefully with her hands clasped over her abdomen. We were able to say goodbye while she was alive via video chat.

My grandma was 100 years old and was very spry and talkative for that age. She only lost her memory and mental orientation within the past several years, never developing dementia except for the slow-progressing senile variety. She lived in an apartment complex that accommodated multiple levels of independence for several years. Then we as a family moved her into a connected facility that had a greater level of nursing care.

Within the past week the facility alerted family members to the rising number of deaths in the facility (several) and the increasing positive tests among staff and residents (dozens). My grandma was too frail to withstand this infection. Her last hours were peaceful, with no tubes down her throat and no needlesticks and transports and other procedures, in accordance with our plans.

I’ll remember her for the care she gave us and for her gentle nature. She would always visit on Wednesdays when my little sister and I came home from school. She grew up during the Great Depression and this instilled habits in her such as rinsing and reusing ziploc bags. She ate tiny amounts of food but would always have room for ice cream or cake. She loved family, drives through the city (which always astonished her with how much it had changed), and visits with friends.

She was a strong link to the Norwegian culture of rural Minnesota and North Dakota and even spoke some Norwegian. The staff always commented on how sweet she was. She worked briefly as a nurse and told me she loved the chemistry curriculum.

I asked her once if she felt she was ready to die, and she said yes. This was six years ago. She had outlived most of her friends and her family cohort. She hated losing her memory. And her husband (who died when I was only 2) was long gone. She had a good life. She was the last of my grandparents. I will remember her with fondness.

Rats

I adopted 2 female rat sisters that a friend of a friend could no longer care for.

She provided a ton of supplies as well as a giant bird cage. This cage is a rat theme park and it’s so big they can escape through the bars so it needs additional chicken wire.

They are very different from the males I had in the past in that they are much smaller and more active, constantly darting about and squabbling and playing with each other. The males tend to just sit and chill but these ones are so fast and active I can hardly get a photo that’s not blurry.

I followed rat acclimatization videos to help them get comfy and feel safe. My favorite bit of advice was to wear a “rat shirt” that you seldom wash so that they know a familiar friend is approaching.

I’ll buy a clicker and train them to do some tricks. But I get the impression the previous two owners seldom had them out of their cage. Once they get used to the stimulating life I have in store for them, they will get more and more active and wily.

I enjoy sitting with them and sipping my coffee while they dart about investigating everything. Once they’ve sniffed out every possible corner and edge they curl up into a little rat ball and sleep in my shirt.

Rats are brave because two instincts are constantly competing in their little brains: curiosity and neophobia. Neophobia is the fear of new things and places. When a rat is afraid of something but haltingly checks it out until it has investigated every little corner of it, curiosity has proved stronger and it means they are brave.

Rats have short lives. You can expect them to be with you for only two or three years even with the best of care. The scope of their existence is a small fraction of yours.

They are small creatures that respond positively to care and tenderness. They also love mental and physical stimulation. While they are with me I am going to make sure their brief lives are filled with fun, security and love.

Good listeners are rare

It’s very rare to find a good listener among either sex.

I recently asked for relationship advice from a female friend and I found that she talked about her own issues for most of the time. When I finally got a chance to speak, we soon had to leave and I only partly received the help I had made myself vulnerable by asking for.

When I spent half the day with a male friend I found the guy was even more voluble. His speech was like a motor: once he got revved up his mouth would hardly close for long stretches at a time. Despite being someone who is genuinely interested in knowing what I had to say, he just could not come down from his excited, lengthy talk. Somehow each of my words was met with 20 of his. I do not sense a growing understanding of me on his part, despite the quality time we’ve spent together.

A female colleague harps on the same issue that’s bothering her day after day. It seems to help her to talk about it with me and she has told me I helped her with certain insights and discovery. But I can’t unlock those same benefits for myself because she is unresponsive to my own problems.

Another male friend cannot seem to connect outside of a narrow range of geeky interests. He is suited for “side-by-side” pursuits such as setting up a camera or a Star Wars figurine. But not a conversational give-and-take. It’s hard to imagine him identifying an assumption of mine or ever challenging me on something. Instead he would shrug. I suppose it’s an accepting attitude, which is good, but it’s not listening and seeing whatever substance I may have to offer.

I wonder if the problem is with me. Maybe I am too quiet, like a blank canvas on which another person can fling their emotional and intellectual paint and swirl it around and see how they like the look of it. Maybe I make people feel understood. Or perhaps I am not asking for help and reciprocation in a way others can recognize and respond to.

A walk to Lindbergh Beach

The world is a very interesting place when you are on foot.

I walked to Lindbergh Beach on the Willamette River. While examining mollusk shells and stones I came across a group of kayakers. It turned out they were searching for the body of another kayaker who had capsized several miles upriver the week before.

I refrained from asking about waterlogged corpse behavior. For instance, do they expect it to float? Does a week-old corpse sink? Is there a brief sinking (which drowns the victim), followed by flotation due to gases from bacteria (a bloater, if you will excuse the crass term), followed by another fully sunk and difficult-to-find state?

I had a hundred questions in mind, as well as tasteless jokes. But due to bitter experience I had internalized the lesson that one must know one’s audience before taking a jab at humor. And these were earnest middle-aged folk. I would have liked to say, “Sure, I’ll poke it a couple times and take a selfie or two, and then call 911!” but I restrained myself and told them I’d keep an eye out for dead bodies.

In addition to that, I noticed the first lizard I’d ever seen in Oregon. I think it was a western fence lizard. They darted about the stones and driftwood and sunned themselves on the asphalt path nearby.

On the way back I visited a Little Free Library and found the classic “Everyone Poops”. I read the first page and discovered it was originally published in Japan. I’m going to surprise a coworker with it. She’ll be puzzled and then thrilled. I think she will quickly and correctly blame me. People like it when you drop something unexpected into their day.

For all the death and disruption the novel coronavirus has wrought, there have been some positives, including the opportunity to check out one’s area with less vehicle traffic and air pollution. And some great memes have come out of it too.

I witnessed a violent assault and gave a statement to the police

The other day I was on one of my long walks when I saw an altercation and an assault at a homeless encampment near my apartment in North Portland.

Two figures in the distance were shouting and clumsily scuffling with each other. They looked like two drunks. One punched and knocked the other down onto the hard asphalt path.

I then saw two people jog from some distance away to the downed man. Instead of helping him, they punched and kicked him while he was on the ground. From the distance I was at, some of the blows appeared to land on his face and head.

This was over quickly. I saw the two assailants (a young man and a young woman) walk away smiling and laughing as they returned to their tents. They even gave each other a high five.

When I reached the downed man, he was struggling to get back up. He looked dazed and his lip was bloody. I asked him what his name was and if he knew where he was. I tried getting a basic grasp of whether his brain or spine were injured but this was complicated by his drunkenness, which he acknowledged.

Homeless people nearby shouted about how he “tried to pull a gun.” But I couldn’t tell whether the gun incident happened today or sometime in the past. Was he disarmed moments ago or was this assault punishment for a previous brandishing of a weapon? Did the guy have a gun on him now?

I pushed and dragged him to a safer area away from the shouting people and the three people who had punched and kicked him. I sat him down in the grass where he could avoid falling again and hitting his head on the asphalt.

A police officer arrived and I told him the story. Some decent person among the encampment had called 911 and mentioned a gun, which was why the response was full and immediate. A firetruck and an ambulance and more police arrived within a couple of minutes.

I told the officer everything I had seen and then I told him I was getting anxious with all the people converging on the area and I wanted to go because of virus precautions.

I left and I had a lot to think about.

Firstly, this place is more than an encampment nowadays. Because of its size and population, its constant campfires, its portable toilets, its loose dogs, and the other permanent-looking features, it’s more like a slum.

I only half-hesitate to use the word. “A squalid and overcrowded urban street or district inhabited by very poor people.” What other word is there? “Encampment” seems tame. But this is a place for fights, open drug use, and screaming and shouting. Every day something goes on that is disgusting, ridiculous or threatening to passersby.

Secondly, I looked into the victim’s eyes to check whether he had unequally dilated pupils. I looked at his bloody lip. I listened as he moaned semi-coherently about having just been “robbed of everything he owned.” I saw a hurt man who needed help.

But after all this I can’t say it awakened a deeper sensitivity in me to the plight of homeless people in my area. I felt a bit of contempt for those in their tents who just let him lie there on the asphalt after the assault. And I also want them to shut the fuck up and get along with each other. Fighting and shouting are not “survival activities” like sleeping or peeing behind a bush. And perhaps this guy was flashing a gun and making life harder for the others.

Lastly, there is a viral pandemic going on. If I contracted the coronavirus because of some dumb altercation, it would feel extra bitter about it.

I just wanted to walk. There is so little green space in my area and to see parts of it overtaken with tents, hand-dug trenches, and trash is sad. When I get some fresh air during this virus lockdown I don’t want to be shouted at and followed and asked whether I want to buy stolen razor blades and skateboards. I don’t want to smell burning trash and be lunged at by dirty off-leash dogs.

It’s rough all over. I don’t have solutions. But for now I think I will be biking more instead of walking. When you are on a bike, you can’t be entangled as easily. Instead you just glide by.

I saw a f*ckin sea lion in the Willamette River!

The thing had surfaced in the middle of the river, a little southwest of the Saint John’s Bridge, to swallow a large fish it had caught. My new friend and I were in a grove of aspens by the shore looking at an osprey harassing a bald eagle. It turns out they were both trying to steal fish bits from the seal.

But the seal quickly ate its catch and went back under. Then a group of gulls moved in.

I was astonished: an osprey harassing an eagle that was trying to steal a fish from a sea lion that was in a river far from its native range.

It turns out California sea lions (subadult and adult males) have learned to go as far as Willamette Falls on the Willamette and the Bonneville Dam on the Columbia. They consume huge amounts of fish and cause problems for the sustainability of the native sturgeon and steelhead.

I shouldn’t be astonished that a sea lion was there. I have long borne witness to the endless resourcefulness of living things. We’re in the grip of a new virus that swept the globe thanks to its ability to jump species. My friend and I were in fact hiking through a Superfund site (not an official trail) where nature had bounced back on a former creosoting yard. At home I’m propagating a million little succulents that I used to always overwater to the point of rot.

Some recent hikes and bike rides

Saint Johns Bridge to Forest Park and then downtown

Woman approaches me

I started the day by walking from my house in North Portland to the Saint Johns Bridge. Along the way to the bridge, before exiting my neighborhood, I grabbed an espresso and read the newspaper. It was here that a very unusual thing happened: a woman approached me and complimented my appearance.

She put it in a female way that sounded like she hadn’t thought it through (acted with purpose). She said, “I like the way you did your hair today.” She seemed to have trouble making eye contact and was a bit nervous (or so I grasp in retrospect).

I almost didn’t know what was happening. I had buzzed my hair, down to the metal on the clippers. It was a home haircut like I do every week.

I responded with humor, saying I started during the Great Recession and never stopped (“Are haircuts still $14, cuz I’m not made of money!”). After an insubstantial exchange in this vein she walked away a bit awkwardly and said she hoped I had a nice day.

I realized later on that she was inviting me to take control, to ask her if she would sit down and enjoy this moment with me. I could have asked her for her name, number, etc. but it didn’t occur to me at all.

I didn’t understand or seize the opportunity because the event was so unusual. But next time I’ll be ready.

LSD and thick wet snowflakes

I finished reading the paper (this was a month ago when the novel coronavirus was an abstract issue affecting only distant cities in China). I crossed the Saint Johns Bridge and then entered Forest Park and the Ridge Trail.

I took one tab of LSD and started a many-layered psychedelic sojourn that was threaded upon the physical one.

One highlight was a rain shower that had thick, wet snowflakes. There is something special about what others call “foul weather” because it makes close-in urban places empty out of people and seem more vast. I was prepared for the weather with a jacket and boots and a plastic bag for my phone. I enjoyed the sounds of the raindrops on the muddy puddles in the trail. I checked out the moss and lichen and Doug firs. I hallucinated spider webs radiating from white stringy objects, which seems to be a theme for me.

I followed the Leif Erikson Trail and reached the Northwest neighborhoods and then continued across the Broadway Bridge and then north on Vancouver Avenue, west on Killingsworth, and then home via Willamette Boulevard.

I could have stopped for a sandwich or drink but I liked being self-sufficient. It turns out this would be good practice for the weeks ahead. During the subsequent weeks I would venture out and pass by innumerable closed shops and cafes and restaurants. They were all closed due to coronavirus precautions. This would soon become the new normal.

Biking to Waterfront Park

On another day, deeper into the global pandemic and the local precautions implemented in response to it, I biked down Vancouver Avenue and across the Steel Bridge to get to downtown.

The cherry blossoms (I think they are actually crabapples) were in full bloom and many people were there capturing photos despite the virus precautions.

I breezed through this sunny and beautiful stretch and crossed Tilikum Crossing for the first time. This is a Portland bridge that has no vehicle traffic, only cyclists, walkers, runners and a streetcar.

I took the East Bank Esplanade north and marvelled at the people trying to get exercise and sunshine in the shadow of a loud, polluted highway. Somehow the city and state are moving to widen this highway. We ought to be tearing it down.

Man approaches me

I biked back to North Portland and sat down on a bench overlooking the Willamette River on the University of Portland campus to finally relax and read my book. I had not read The Magic Mountain in six years and I was revisiting it. I was a few chapters in, almost where Hans and Clavdia fucked at the end of Walpurgis Night. But I didn’t get a chance to open the book.

First, there was a mother nearby with two teenage boys. One of them called the other boy fat. And this provoked an angry and consequential response from the mom, who chastised the offending sibling and then took them all home, allowing no more play.

Second, before I could open my book, a friendly man in his mid 40s to mid 50s (I’ll ask him sometime) rolled up on his bike and joined me on the bench.

He chatted me up about who I was and what I was doing and where I was from. It led to what I have to admit was a good conversation, touching Mesopotamian myths, the solar eclipse of 2017, news obtained from social media, sex, forming friendships, and other topics. He had lost his job due to the halt in the economy from coronavirus precautions. He didn’t like that job anyway, he said.

Over the course of an hour and a half he made no effort to conceal his growing infatuation with me. He told me again and again how I made him feel relaxed and how he felt good around me. I had my binoculars and was pointing out bald eagles, crows, wrens, jays, and hawks. He told me I was perceptive and smart and good looking and that I “seemed to attract animals and nature.” He said he loved connecting with someone who shared so many interests and who made him feel good.

I felt friendly attraction to him also. This is partly because you tend to like a person who likes you. But he seemed like a genuine good guy. I will text him and we’ll connect over a hike, a bike ride or at the gym (he may join my gym once it reopens after this virus pandemic is over). He’s already texted and called and left voice mail in his eagerness to nurture our connection.

A bike to Smith & Bybee Lakes and Chimney Park

I spent one of my days off biking to this wetland that’s only a few miles from me.

I observed:

Spotted towhee
Great blue heron
Northern flicker
American coot
Song sparrow or fox sparrow
Swallows
Turtles (Painted?)
Bald eagle (eating a fish atop an electrical pole)
Mallard
Canada goose
Garter snake with red flanks
Hooded merganser
Dark eyed junco
Yellow rumped warbler
Raven

Coarse call

Group of a few

I saw them soaring, which crows do not do

Green winged teal
Downy woodpecker
Tiny little gray bird
Frogs calling

I think the ravens were flying around playing a game among the aspen trees. I wish I could follow them and understand how they spend their time.

I asked a couple of other people with binoculars and we agreed there was another species of turtle besides painted turtles sunning there. They were too huge to be painted turtles.

Hiking Dog Mountain with friends

Against our civic-minded judgement we ventured out to a busy weekend tourist destination and hiked.

I don’t regret it. This is the last time we could do such a thing for the foreseeable future.

It is a popular place but surprisingly challenging. We took the difficult trail up and the easier one down, but it was all strenuous. My companion was tired out and cranky in the beginning, perhaps from the constant coronavirus talk and the drinking she did the night before and the fact that she was hungry. She also fell down for no reason while just standing there and cut her hand.

I was fine with the frequent stops for her to catch her breath because it gave me a chance to check things out with my binoculars and rehydrate and snack. I gladdened my companions with the snacks I had brought (hard boiled eggs and a banana/peanut butter/honey tortilla) and they returned the favor with a LaCroix and mixed nuts.

The hike was very pretty. The temps were in the 60s and it was sunny. I was glad I brought warm clothes for the windy and fresh ridge we reached that had a pretty vista of the gorge. I watched two ravens eating food that a sloppy eastern European extended family of 20 people had left behind.

I was struck by how large the ravens were and by how they glided and soared in the strong wind. Their features are quite different from crows if you study them. Their brow and beaks are thicker and they behave like larger, more intelligent and more coordinated hawks.

My friend’s woman friend is a catch. She is attractive, almost has a master’s degree, is 28, and was picking up three pet rats from a seller (that night, in fact). She said she is not on online dating, which I like. I would like to see her more. But I will not start hitting on my friend’s friends.

Still, there was good humor and banter among us over sexual and relationship matters. I have no fresh stories to give them, but I got a lot of good info from them and joked along. Some of it was along evolutionary biology lines. One thing that struck me was when she said she “Should have fucked a guy visiting from Italy based on the hot women I saw he was dating later on.” This points to the female sexual strategy of “mate preselection,” where a woman prefers a man who already has many attractive female partners. An exactly opposite preference operates in most males.

Another interesting tidbit was when my friend (who has fucked a lot of guys) told us how she liked big loads of semen because it meant she had done a good job. I won’t speculate on the evolutionary aspects of this (that kind of thing is pure conjecture) but I will say that I appreciate her open take on things. She is someone who does not fear the collapse of pretense, because she does not tiptoe about in life fearing the collapse of pretense. I have a lot to learn from her about reducing fear and promoting self-acceptance. I want to be genuine and to project my genuine self and she can help me with this.

In the second half of the hike my friend was in a much better mood. I think it was because she was hungry and I fed her.

One thing I liked about today was how squared away I was. I had no problem getting up that mountain despite its difficulty. This speaks to the all-around fitness I have and my general physical preparedness. And with only an hour and a half notice, I can pack a daypack, hop in the car and have a great day trip. I even looked good as I did it, with light clothes transitioning to warmer layers as we got higher up. It’s great to be ready for anything and to have the time to do it now that i have no 2nd job.

Since I had driven, my friend bought me a quesadilla and lime Jarrito’s at a food truck in Stevenson, WA.

I checked out a Columbia Slough natural area near my workplace

Because of virus precautions, the city seems more clean and safe and interesting. There are fewer shitty diesel pickup trucks spewing pollution. There are fewer vacant, bovine stares from drivers when they look up from their fast food and smartphones as they rocket past you. There is less of an exhaust fume stink hanging in the air, everywhere, all the time.

As a result I checked out a natural area near my work. I knew that a section of the Columbia River Slough passed through the area near me. What I did not know was that there was a narrow passage (through private property) where I could slip through and sit and enjoy a small bit of nature during my break. It was extra quiet because of the economic halt.

During this small break I saw a great egret, a hooded merganser, a northern flicker, and a great blue heron. I also heard some frogs calling.

A coworker of mine was astonished when he learned about the hooded merganser sighting. He had seen the bird in my desktop daily calendar and thought it was an exotic species. When I told him I had seen one only a block away, half an hour previously, and showed him the photo on my phone, I could see the gears turning in his head. I hope I helped him to see nature and animal species in a new light.

I will return to this place for lunch breaks. I may even take a coworker along.

I biked to the Lower MacLeay trailhead of Forest Park

This was a rainy and gray excursion. I don’t mind because it meant I didn’t have to slather my pasty Norwegian skin with sunscreen. I was layered up for warmth and I was well-provisioned with water and mixed nuts.

I took Vancouver Avenue south and checked out the trailhead. It was uncrowded. I biked through downtown Portland and marveled at the clear streets. The city is a very pleasant place when there are fewer cars.

I brought my phone along and so I learned in the middle of my journey of the death of a friend of my father’s.

This friend of my dad’s was a vital man, full of energy and warmth. My dad said it was hard to imagine a man like that ever becoming weak and dying. Yet in the past ten or 15 years he did exactly that.

He was surrounded by friends and family and was comfortable in hospice.

My dad is a pastor and a bishop and has been present for many deaths. But this man (Jim) was the first close friend among his age group to die. It’s much closer to him now. My dad was friends with Jim for 47 years. I learned a bit more about their friendship via my dad’s texts. It’s time to again give my dad some support.

A visit to a Pacific coastal town

I visited Oceanside, OR and enjoyed this little town on the Pacific. It was a perfect day trip because we went prepared with firewood and other comforts to stay warm as we watched the sunset.

The skies were clear and as the tide went down a new beach seemed to open up to us. Gooey bits of jellyfish were strewn about. The caves and rock walls were thick with mussels and barnacles and other sea creatures. Some of them hung out on a stalk and slowly retracted when poked. Others were more like living blobs.

As I tested my new binoculars I was really surprised to see a colony of dozens of seals resting on one of the giant rocks a quarter of a mile out. I could see them moving about and jostling for space.

I met a deaf-since-birth dog named Beethoven. Some dog breeders pursue specific traits at the expense of the genetic health of the breed and of individual dogs. That happened to Beethoven, who is beautiful but deaf. To get him to drop his ball, you point down to the ground because shouting will get you nowhere.

When the sun set we got a hot fire going and had hot dogs and s’mores. I saw the winter constellation of Orion and noticed it was lower and lower in the sky as spring finally arrives. Good riddance. We used a sky app to identify Venus and the phase of the moon and to trace the ecliptic. I felt connected to sky and sea and marine life.

Walking in North Portland sucks

[BEGIN RANT]

This city is choking on cars. Everywhere you go there is high-speed, high-volume vehicle traffic.

Walking and biking are dangerous, noisy and unpleasant because of the vehicles and the constant diesel exhaust fumes. There are also crappy older vehicles everywhere that spew half-combusted gasoline but just refuse to die.

Free, abundant, unlimited parking is everywhere. But drivers still find that the street is not enough for their oversize pickups and SUVs. So, they encroach on boulevards and sidewalks. They know they can do so with impunity. When parked they go right up to the intersection, creating a hazard for pretty much everyone. PBOT has acknowledged the problem and said they are not planning to do anything about it. (At least they are being honest.)

Some 50 mile-per-hour death roads such as Columbia Boulevard have puny bike lanes alongside them. To bike alongside a deadly highway strewn with metal shards and industrial junk is not what cyclists want. Rather people want complete streets for everyone.

The juxtaposition is really jarring. In fact “phony and failing” come to mind, as in this recent commentary that I thought was accurate.

I captured some of the ugliness over the past week. In one photo you have oppressive third-world country style mud where walkers seldom go, but giant SUVs have no problem getting through (deepening the ruts and potholes and spraying mud all over as they go). Other photos are of blocked sidewalks and of stored cars going up on boulevards and sidewalks. Another is a crappy diesel bus spewing exhaust on waiting transit riders (I had to step away, it was so bad.)

There is hope. There are signs of progress, including a recent bill that will prevent Oregon from getting diesel trucks “dumped” here from states with more stringent regulations. Senator Michael Dembrow deserves thanks and support for this.

But we have a long, long way to go.

[END RANT]

I saw Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker and I care less and less

I saw this movie, dubbed “the end of the Skywalker saga,” with a coworker who is a superfan. I went in with few expectations and with the closely guarded conviction, “I will always have the original trilogy. They can’t take that away.”

Thanks to this mindset I mostly protected myself from disappointment.

I enjoyed the visuals and the music, of course. I liked seeing some people finally die (although I kind of hoped everyone would perish, Hamlet-style). Another good thing was the attempted tying up of loose ends and the many unabashed references to the complete saga, making it all of a piece instead of disjointed.

But in the course of 2 hours and 40 minutes there was a lot to question. If I had stepped out to visit the snack counter a few times, I don’t think I would have missed anything.

To take just one example, there were four fake deaths. Chewbacca was blown up, only to come back because he was actually on another ship. Kylo Ren died and then got Force-healed by Rey and came back to life. Rey then died and got Force-healed back to life by Kylo Ren in the same manner. Finally, C-3PO got his memory wiped only to have it restored almost immediately.

My coworker is a guy who spends hundreds of dollars on Star Wars cosplay and figurines and he pointed out the strange rapid cuts. I felt I was watching a fast-paced commercial where I couldn’t even keep track of what planet the current scene was on, much less how the crew got there or what it meant for the plot. Contrast this with the worlds of Hoth or Bespin. They just don’t compare at all.

Then there were the space horses galloping on the outside hull of a star destroyer. Just, why?

I was relieved that there was no fourth Death Star. If they had created a fourth Death Star that got destroyed in the same manner as the first three, I would have been upset. Looking back, perhaps we didn’t need a second Empire and a second Emperor at all. All the same villains, with the same outfits even.

I am happy this saga is over. Star Wars will always be special to me, but I now view it as just one franchise to enjoy among many. There will be hits and misses and I will take them for what they are. But with all the other great stuff being created (including sagas), it will occupy a much smaller space in my imagination.

Below: a nice poem from a kid at polluted Poet’s Beach. I can’t imagine actually spending an afternoon here breathing exhaust fumes from I-5.