From a Basement on the Hill...

One of my favorite singers is Elliot Smith. I first heard his CD, Figure 8, while working at Wherehouse Music back in 2000. It was a promotional CD that we had to play in the store and I loved it after the first listen. I immediately went out and purchased all of his CDs. And for the next several years hardly a day went by that one of Elliot’s Cds wasn’t in my player.

Then on October 22, 2003 Elliot Smith died in his apartment in Los Angeles. He was 34; the same age I am now. To this day, the authorities aren’t sure whether his death was homicide or suicide. He had two stab wounds to the chest—not typical of a suicide. And yet his girlfriend discovered a very brief suicide note left on a post-it.

The coroner’s report points out defensive wounds on his hands, but Elliot was known for burning himself from time to time with cigarettes and nicks and cuts on his hands were probably familiar sights.

His girlfriend’s statement to the police was basically as follows: They were having an argument, she locked herself in the bathroom, heard a scream, came out to see Elliot’s back to her. He turned around and there was a knife in his chest. She pulled it out and attempted CPR. Shortly after, he died.

Elliot died in Silver Lake—a small artsy, yet down-to-earth community in Los Angeles, where I used to live and Makoto and Sydney still live. But he grew up in Portland, Oregon where I now live. And it’s difficult not to pass a music store without seeing some sort of tribute to one of Portland’s very own musical geniuses.

I dare you to listen to Elliot Smith. And then tell me what you think.

Attack of the Killer Razor...

Well, since I don't start my new job for a few more days I've been very hygienically lazy. No, I still take showers and brush my teeth every day. But my facial scruff is another story. Hey, it's cold here! The budding beard is helping to keep my virgin face warm and protected from the harsh climate. But I can stand it for only so long. At about the 6th or 7th day of not shaving my beard starts to itch. Like having a swarm of caterpillars performing the tango on my chin.

Anyway, the itching was driving me mad so I decided to go ahead and shave it all off. No longer will I look like a stereotypical Oregon lumberjack. Fear me not little spotted owl! I'll be back to my smooth boyish look in a matter of minutes. Though when I'm smooth and wearing my beanie I have to fight off those flirty college freshman. Okay, I'm lying. More like the women in high heels slurping Big Gulps outside the 7/11. But I'm digressing...

For Christmas I got a nice new electric razor. So I thought, What the hell. I'll put my new Braun to the test. What I didn't realize--because I NEVER read the damn instructions, I mean, c'mon, it's a fricken electric razor, how difficult can it be!--well, I was supposed to charge the damn thing before I used it. I didn't. I simply removed it from the box and plugged it in...it buzzed like it was supposed to...and then it got weaker...and then it stopped. Completely. Only my chin hair was still attached to the razor.

I tried to pull the now dead razor off my chin but it was stuck like glue. My whiskers were trapped inside but they were still painfully attached to my face. Then it got awkward. I thought maybe the electrical outlet had failed and so I hunched down to plug it into a different socket. Not good. I was in total pain. I plugged it in--still nothing. I carefully toggled the on/off button. Nothing. I wanted to scream but there was no one around to help.

So there I was, gawking in the mirror at some pale, sweating idiot holding a razor to his face. I could see it already: Man Found Mauled In Apartment--Face Eaten By Killer Razor.

But I wasn't about to be the laughing stock of Portland. So I did the unthinkable. I slowly peeled the razor back from my chin. But each whisker that broke free was like a violent kick to the face. And it all happened in slow motion. I finally decided to just rip it off in one violent yank, like tying a loose tooth to a doorknob and then slamming the door. It was not cool. Needless to say I was relieved when it was over. And I spent the rest of the day looking like someone suffering from mange.

You're Goonie Be Real Surprised...

Every day is an exploration here in Portland. Every day I stumble across something new and totally far out. But I must say that one of the greatest surprises was discovering that the 80's cult classic The Goonies was filmed a mere 60 miles away in the quaint beach community of Astoria (also Kindergarden Cop was filmed there...but that movie doesn't even come close to the level of cool held by The Goonies.)

So, of course, I had to find the house--The Goonies House--that little Mikey and his friends ultimately saved from the wrecking ball. It was so cool walking on the very driveway where the Goonies road their bikes. And the view! It just doesn't get any better.

The Astoria Visitor's Center also directed me to the spot where Mikey first looked through the gold doubloon to view the famous Goonies rocks. What an awesome sight to see from the very windy forest road high above the crashing surf. I only wished that I was on my BMX bike and had my very own doubloon. Okay...they did sell them at the tourists traps--but TEN DOLLARS! Maybe I'll save up and buy one the next time I visit.

Then I found the Old County Jail. It looked exactly the way it did in the movie when the Fratellis escaped with their lunatic mama. How cool is that! I can't wait to find out what other awesome treasures Oregon holds. Okay...there is that volcano...you know, Mt St. Helens or something. If you have Google Earth you should totally check it out. Check out Portland. I'm surrounded by volcanos. How cool is that!

Okay, I'll stop. I'm starting to annoy myself. Peace out.

Smooth Criminal...

I now know what it's like to feel like a criminal. You know, moving into a new place can be quite costly. Over the last few days I've purchased a futon, coffee table, CD racks, bookcase, TV stand, desk...oh, and a new laptop.

Suffice it to say, I spent a lot of money. And if you know me, then you know that I DO NOT spend money...I SAVE money. And my bank knows that. And that's why when I went on my spending spree a giant red flag showed up on my account.

So there I was--in Target--$350 worth of goods stuffed into Target bags in my shopping cart, when all of a sudden the clerk glanced at me suspiciously and said: "Sir, can I see your credit card? I need to call for approval."

I've never had that happen to me. So I stood there and fidgeted, taking note of the clerk's wary eyes as she was placed on hold with my bank. The manager came by and inquired as to what was causing the hold up. The customers behind me were asked to move to other stations. Box boys paused to take a gander at the flushed criminal who almost got away with charging up a stolen credit card.

"Sir, your card has been declined..."

"What?! Are you serious? Can I call my bank?"

She nodded, but her expression was a portrait of doubt as if to say: "You slimy dirtbag. Just move your thieving ass out of my checkout line and go make use of a fresh razor blade."

Ten minutes later I was back in her line. We rang the stuff through again, and I was thrilled to see the word: APPROVED appear on her screen. I tried to explain to her that my bank was just taking precautions. That they were afraid someone had stolen my card. That I was a law abiding citizen who was simply trying to furnish his apartment. But nothing I said could erase the suspicion from her face.

Oh, the horror. The good news is that there are about a dozen Targets in Portland, so I'll never go to that one again....

Ob La De, Ob La Da...

Wow. So much has happened in such a short period of time. But I should start at the beginning. The last few months I've been rethinking the whole teaching thing. There are so many positives and negatives that I've had to weigh out. But eventually I made the decision not to pursue teaching.

During that time, I had my résumé on Hotjobs and Monster and I periodically received little bites and nibbles from various employers. Well one of them bit down hard and I turned into a passive piece of bait and took the position of a store manager of a video store.

It turns out that the salary is a bit more than the starting salary for a high school history teacher. So, no complaints there. I will miss the kids...the good ones, that is. And I do miss the prospect of having my summers off. But I think this line of work is more up my alley. Or, to continue using my fishing analogy: It's a pond I feel comfortable swimming in. (geez that was lame...but I'm too tired to think of anything better.)

So, I start work on February 25th! Believe it or not, I'm looking forward to working again. No more school. Whew! And...oh yeah...the job is in Portland, Oregon! So, yours truly is now sitting in his new apartment just a twenty minute walk from the world's largest independent book store! Powell's Bookstore is AWESOME!

I will keep everyone posted (ha ha) on my new exciting life (yawn) in this new exciting city! I have so many stories to tell and I'll be pouring them out here as usual. And I invite anyone who reads and comments on my blog--the friends I know personally and those who I've come to know virtually--to come and visit me. You will always have a place to stay here in Portland.

A Photo Whore No More...

I hate taking pictures when on vacation. It's annoying to drag around a camera all day. So now I pretty much resort to relying on my (ahem) excellent memory. Whenever I want to muse over a past vacation I simply shuffle through the blurry images etched into my brain. Someday someone will figure out a way to hook our brains up to a scanner and then everyone can enjoy my colorful island retreats.

But I wasn't always that way. In fact, my first trip to Europe I spent twelve rolls of film. Uh-huh, that's right. TWELVE ROLLS. Because Parisian doorknobs were tr­és intéressant--toilets, bridges, traffic signs, fast-food placemats, cobblestone roads, automobiles, streetlights, policemen, poodles, etc., etc.--were all very interesting and deserving of a photo!

What a sad little tourist I was then, with my Oakland A's baseball cap and my five pound camera hanging from a leather strap around my sunburned neck. My cocky, I'm from America, we-can-kick-your-European-ass attitude. So sad was I....

More than ten years ago I meticulously taped these European pictures into a photo album, in order, sans captions, thank you very much! And today--a decade later--I spent hours removing those pictures from the now very tattered photo album. What a mess! Torn pictures, yellow frayed scotch tape, sticky fingers. I will never, NEVER tape another picture into a photo album.

Not only was it a miserable hassle that resulted in ruined pictures, but I also had to deal with the internal pain of looking at my younger self with all that bushy youthful hair and those stress-free eyes. Oh, what a cruel world!

Hard Rock Cafe Paris - Boris, Florian, Habib, Marc, et moi.