Hope For Humanity

I can’t write much today because I might have a book review due for a certain paper and I might have had to email the editor and blow the first deadline because the book is VERY VERY LONG. (Hi, Jeff! I’m totally working on it today and see how this is a really short blog post???? It’s because my deadline is my top priority and NOT blogging.)

I’ll bet you didn’t know this, but Kiala Krazybee and I are the same person. We both grew up in San Diego, only children, strong, working mommies, and we both live in the Pearl. Okay, I live in Upper Pearl (St. John’s) but whatever. We are the same. Except that karaoke scares the jeebers out of me. I’ve done two karaoke songs in my entire life — “Kiss” by Prince when I was like 19 and then “She Bop” at the lezzie bar where the lezzies could sense two very damning things about me 1) I like men 2) I wear lipstick. And they did not approve of “She Bop.” At. All. Thank god for the RSG, she was the only thing that stopped me from having my hair forcibly shaved into a mullet and the arms of my shirt cut off with a switchblade. I swear it.

So, anyway, I’m petrified of karaoke. It’s not to say, I wouldn’t do it, because I will again for sure. But only because of this video below.

I tell you, when Kiala said, “I’m going to do eminem,” I nearly crapped myself. It would be a little like me saying I was going to rewrite Ulysses. Except, Kiala is a karaoke pro. And, no kidding, two of Portland’s three black residents were there and they loved her. LOVED HER.

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And then Superfan Erica thought she’d get up there. And I already knew Erica would rock the house. If only because both Kiala and I were so impressed with her purse and her over-night preparations that I’m pretty sure Erica will be president some day. CELL PHONE CHARGER??? If I only had a bag like that when I was 25, okay I was married at 25, but 22, then goodbye walk of shame!

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Smooochy Wooochy

Sometimes I just want to squeeze Portland’s little cheeks and say “scoochy woochy you are sooooo cutie wootie.” It happened a lot when people would tell me St. John’s was a bad neighborhood. (I think it’s bad because there are *blacks* here and maybe a few *hispanics*.) Sure, we had a shooting at the bus stop six months ago (no one is dead or anything) and yes there are homeless guys who roll their carts through the middle of the streets on recycling day collecting cans, but you have to understand Portland, there are worse places. FAR. WORSE.

Let me tell you about far worse. Far worse is living in San Francisco in the Western Addition across the street from the projects, which is where I lived for a few years. In the afternoons, I’d walk out of my beautiful Victorian flat and find the homies all gathered around my car, their 40’s resting on my Volvo’s hood chatting about lord knows what and I would have to ask them to please go away and I had to go to class, and they’d all move because they were human beings and not fucking monsters. And my car was never broken into, our house was never looted. My roommate and I regularly walked home at night from the various bars in the Lower Haight and the Castro and we never, ever had a problem.

Oh, and also the cops would regularly swing by our place, warning us about the drug deals taking place in front of our house.

I also lived in Oakland for probably four years. By the end, every single person I knew who lived in Oakland had been held up, mugged, their car had been broken into or their house. Except me. No, my car got broken into once in San Francisco in the Richmond district (on a street filled with Russian grandmas) and once in Ocean Beach in San Diego (all white, all the time).

I also think it’s cute when Portlanders tell me about their air conditioning. When I ask why one would need air conditioning in Portland, every single person has said, “IT GETS REALLY HOT HERE.” I’m not saying it doesn’t. We’re facing a really hot weekend, for sure. All I’m saying is that for 99% of the year, it’s -22 degrees. With a wind chill of -11,000. So what? So you spend a hot day and you lie on your couch and complain about the heat and you sweat and everyone smells bad and looks oily and whatever. THAT’S HOW IT IS IN THE REST OF THE WORLD ALL THE TIME. Make some lemonade and sit out in the sun and get a burn. And then complain about how hot it is some more. It actually feels better to share with another person, “Holy fuck, it’s hot out.” And the person says, “yes.” And you talk about frying eggs on sidewalks or whatever. You turn on the sprinkler. You do not hide in your house with the air conditioning on. Get out and enjoy that heat. Plus air conditioning is REALLY, REALLY BAD FOR THE ENVIRONMENT.

My plan for the hot day is to do some wash because I hang my clothes on the line to dry and when it’s hot, it takes about as long to dry them on the line (free) as it does in the dryer (not free). Arch and I will go on a bike ride so I look extra skinny for my date with Kiala tonight. Ken, I’m thinking of wearing pale pink panties with white stockings, because Kiala seems more the black panties and garters type. You know, for our pillow fight. Does that work? The contrast? Is that what guys like? Also, we will wear our shoes through the whole thing.

Kiala is bringing her Superfan Erica. I need a Superfan too. I mean, besides THE WORLD.

And, at some point, I’m being interviewed for the Mercury (because I am famous, thank you Nels) and I need to answer those questions. It’s about my sexxxy reading. THE THING I AM READING IS FICTIONAL, OKAY PEOPLE???

Okay, so Portland, try today without the air conditioning. Remember, dry your clothes on the line — the sun is the greatest source of energy so take advantage. And we will be at Chopsticks tonight for Karaoke if any of my Superfans want to show up.

Melissa Lion Asks Amy

You might remember last week when I fucking eviscerated analyzed in a scholarly manner the advice column of Amy Douhcebaginson Dickinson. This morning, Archie got up at 3:35 AM and told me to “do my work” so I promptly logged on to twitter and tweeted the fact that I was up (because the internet wants to know what I’m doing at every single second — follow me on twitter @melissalion and back fence pdx @backfencepdx) and then I hit Crissy’s blog and Chris’s blog because Crissy is the guest poster and didn’t I nail my parents loving my blond sister more than they love me comment? Right? How did I know??? I’d also like to say that I’m an only child and Crissy is the first blond friend I’ve ever had and now I have two. And I really do love her and hope she and Ken will come for a visit. And bring the small girl too, we can lock the kids in a room while we drink and watch porn have a playdate. And because I’m feeling a little East Coast/ West Coast rivalry, I want to say, KIALA AND I ARE GOING OUT TOMORROW NIGHT! And I think the theme of the evening will be “Vegans Gone Wild.”

(Don’t worry, everyone, I’m going to bring a wee bit of bacon fat to secretly mix with her vodka because I too am worried that her pretty hair will fall out if she doesn’t consume some animal fat soon. DON’T TELL HER.)

Back to my post.

So I headed over to Ask Amy this fine morning for a little advice. And, while I didn’t have the blind rage I felt last week at little Amy, I did feel a certain indignation at the STATE OF AMERICAN MANNERS.

The first question: My family is not sure what to say to people who routinely use the word “retard” or “retarded” to mean someone or something is stupid. The term is offensive and ignorant, especially to those who have family members, friends or other people they care about with Down syndrome.

My children frequently come across other children using this term and, worse, it’s often the parents who are teaching them this through their own misuse of the word. At times my children will tell their friends that we don’t say that in our home and that we prefer that they don’t either. But how do we handle it when we hear it come from the mouths of adults?

We have a family member with Down syndrome who happens to be the greatest blessing and is by no means “stupid.” If people think in terms of replacing “retarded” with any other term such as those based on ethnicity, sex, size, race, etc., they may view using the term differently. —Stumped for what to say in Illinois

As you all know, here at Chez Lion, we’re having a small problem with the nearly three year old boy repeating things he hears Mommy says. Particularly the things he hears when Mommy is behind the wheel. And while I laugh like a banshee scold him sternly when we’re at the play park and he’s at the helm of the pirate ship slamming his hand against the wheel and yelling “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Steve is less than pleased by this behavior. And when all three of us are in the car and Portland drivers insist on driving like 119 year old women safely, and I begin to explain to those in my car and those in the environs beyond that driving like your ass is superglued to the seat and your foot is magnetically repulsed by the gas pedal safely can be a bit challenging to those around you, Steve feels like I might need to dial back my language.

The word retarded might be part of my monologue. And, of course, in the sense of, “you know, I hope one day, Amy Dickinson will find it in her heart to devote a few column inches to an explanation of how to properly stop any fun in the room admonish other adults for their inappropriate and wholly disparaging language.”

And Steve says, “as do I.”

And Archer says, “I don’t know, I mean I’m sure Hannah Arendt and Heidegger had some great discussions, but breakfast at their place must have been a mind-numbing affair.”

(He’s gifted and irreverent, what can I say?)

Here’s my point. I looked up the word retarded on the internet and according to Myspace dictionary.com, retarded means:

v. tr.
To cause to move or proceed slowly; delay or impede.

v. intr.
To be delayed.

You know what? That means that when I describe Portland drivers in this manner, I am right. RIGHT. And teaching my son a valuable lesson about the English language, which might be something I know about.

Amy had a question about tickling and another about RSVP-ing for parties, and frankly I just don’t care because I hate being tickled and parties, so whatever.

It is now 5:40 AM and I’m hoping Steve will get up soon so I can go to bed for seven minutes until he goes to work and I have to face a ten hour day with a nearly three year old who has gotten up at 3:35 AM. Pray for me, Internets, and especially you Amy Dickinson because I suspect you have a direct line to GOD.

Arty Farty

Without a TV, I’m a little, okay a lot, behind the popular culture times. I haven’t had cable since I was nineteen and I’ve been without a TV for six years now, so you can see that whole trends pass me right by. And when I get really excited about something, chances are I’m like six months too late on the trend.

So, forgive me if this is OLD news. But, I’m going to tell you about it anyway. My most favoritist artist, Olafur Eliasson is doing an installation in New York. But before you start clicking things or rolling your eyes because who fucking cares about art, Eliasson ain’t no dude with a spray paint can and a bottle of Elmers crafting things from cow’s brains and swizzle sticks. Olafur Eliasson once changed the weather as an art installation. CHANGED THE WEATHER.

He also did a scent tunnel, where you walked through this tunnel and were overwhelmed by the scent from the plants growing around you. This one got its own art book complete with scratch and smell pages.

I’ve never actually seen Eliasson’s work in person, but it is a dream of mine to do so. One of the few regrets of my life was missing The Weather Project, but I had no idea it even existed. I went to the Turbine Room a few years later because I just had to see the space, and it is huge. Gigantic. A room that’s, in and of itself, a work of art. When Steve and I went there, the installation was something to do with sound and had nothing to do with Eliasson. And I was three weeks pregnant, which means I was dying. And I had to sit in that room and die and eat ginger nuts, which are British ginger cookies, as Steve walked through the various sound walls. And then I ate a scone with clotted cream and died a little less for about five minutes.

Here’s my point: if you’re in New York (Chris) check it out. And take some pictures and let me know what it’s like. Eliasson is one of my heroes and I really would love to meet him someday just to get a glimpse of someone who thinks on such a large scale. I mean, who goes into a room and thinks, “Oh, I’ll just change the weather in here. No prob.” Or, “I know, waterfalls. In New York!”

Back Fence PDX Day!

It’s Back Fence PDX Day, so click on over to check out this week’s story. The theme is True Colors and I can’t wait to see what people do with it. I was thinking about a story when I was in junior high and I went to a school whose colors were maroon and gold. And we had to wear tiny junior high gym shorts with our names written in marker on them. My last name was really long and I had to write really small on those horrible maroon shorts. And it was junior high, and I was a pale brunette in the land of tan blonds. Any brown-haired girl who has ever read a book will tell you, those gym shorts were the worst thing to happen to our self-esteem. If I could burn them, I would. And I would use the gym teacher’s hair to set them on fire. And yes, the hair would still be attached to her head.

For this week, The Underblawg writes the story of a family and that moment when you do want to be with Dad, and you don’t. If you don’t read The Underblawg, you really should. Talk about telling stories…

And, because I believe in too much good stuff, like I also believe you can never be too rich or too thin, and that a fancy car = a worthy human being, check below. The Melissa Lion Cooking Show: Episode 3 is up and running.

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California

Oh god, when I see this sort of thing, my heart aches for California. We lived on Point Dume in Malibu. Click here for a picture of where I used to walk. The beauty shocks me every single time.

A few things on my mind

1) I’m up in the Oregonian. I have no idea what happened to the first two paragraphs, but god are they awkward. I have no doubt that I wrote them that way, but sometimes I read things I’ve written and just think: gah.

2) We need stories for Back Fence PDX’s blog — True Colors is the theme. We’re opening it up to any blogger. The Underblawger is kicking us off this week. So, who wants to write something, and fast? Drop me an email: melissa [at] backfencepdx [dot] com.

3) Cody’s Bookstore closed. This means nothing to like 90% of you and there were moments when I was a bookseller that I would have danced a jig just thinking of that sentence. However, now that it’s happened, I’m upset. In the Bay Area, Cody’s is a lot like Powell’s in Portland. In its heyday, Cody’s just dominated the scene, and like Powell’s, had the same effect that a chain store would have on smaller independents. Cody’s, like Powell’s, paid their employees shit wages and discounted their books and booked all the good events, so they would just obliterate the small stores. I was very lucky and worked for the only bookstore around that paid well and gave us benefits and did nice things for the employees instead of treating them like slaves, but Cody’s sort of sucked in that regard. See, now I’m getting pissed because I don’t think bookstores should discount books and I think people should be paid a living wage. EVEN BOOKSELLERS.

I don’t think stores should discount books, because the price of the book is marked on the cover. THAT’S ITS PRICE. We really don’t need to devalue the written word already than we do. So why discount it? Why would stores discount the new Harry Potter? It makes no sense. People would buy it for full price if no one marked it down. And furthermore, discounting books only cuts into the store’s profit, not the book’s profit.

Enough about that. Just, please, support your local independent bookstore.

4) Sunday Parkways was great! Matt in Overlook saw me. Hey, say hi next time! And I saw Jess Under Construction. And I saw Lelo in the distance and I tried to wave and get her attention, but she was off to the next park.

This, however, was the highlight of the day. This is the Sprockettes. They are an all-female dance troupe. And they dance with bikes. So awesome. I hope to one day get them to do Back Fence PDX. Awesome.

A few more are up on my flickr page.

Sunday Parkways

Archie and I are doing Sunday Parkways today. If you don’t follow the link, six miles of streets in N Portland are closed to cars for the day and the streets are filled with bicyclists. It’s part of a convention in town to discuss carfree cities.

If I can bike someplace within an hour, I do it instead of using my car. Portland is perfect for this sort of thing because there are so many cyclists in the city and most streets have bike lanes. I used to ride my bike as my main transportation in San Francisco, and I can tell you Portland drivers are actually wonderful when it comes to bicyclists. It’s not to say I haven’t had a few close calls, especially scary because I have a bike trailer for Arch, but nothing like San Francisco. Every morning, Steve and I would ride from the beach to downtown and the Art Institute’s bus would try and run us off the roads. Make an honest attempt at killing us. It was really horrible. And FUCK THE ART INSTITUTE. Poseurs.

Anyway, I hope that if enough people support this thing, Portland will take steps to close off some streets to cars permanently. Maybe a route around the city that’s just for bikes and pedestrians. That would be very cool.

I bought my bike five years ago. It was really, really expensive for me at the time — $350. But, also at that time, gas was really expensive (probably around $2.) And the bike is Italian, which means the cost was rising and rising as the dollar was sinking and sinking. But I bought it and told the guy, “I just don’t want to buy gas anymore.” Same thing I say now.

It’s a perfect city bike. 8-speed with shimano parts and an internal derailleur, which, according to the bike guy at Mississippi Bikes, is not an internal derailleur but something else not French and cute sounding. Whatever.

How cute is it??? So cute. And yes, I used it for my author photo for Upstream, because I love my bike.

And it has this other cool thing happening with it. It’s a cafe racer. From when I bought it, ’til yesterday, I just thought that was a cute name Bianchi gave my bike. Because how cute? I race from cafe to cafe being French and cute. And then I was reading shoes on powerlines, and he’s got a whole post about converting a bike into a cafe racer. Well, the post is not about that. It’s about his roommate getting into an accident, which is just harrowing to read. And it’s been keeping me up at night because I was in a motorcycle accident (well, it was a Lambretta suped up to be freeway legal) when I was 23. I broke my femur (that’s a thigh bone) and my hip. It was horrible. I was in the hospital for a week and in traction and now I have a titanium rod in my leg and scars on my knee and my butt cheek where they cut me open to put the rod in. To read about someone else’s accident takes me right back to that moment and makes me want to scream STOP RIDING THOSE FUCKING ORGAN DONOR MACHINES. But you cannot say that to boys who ride motorcycles because they do not hear this. At all. So you say things like, oh, hmmm, and that must be scary. And you just scream inside.

Back to cafe racer. Apparently a cafe racer is the design of the bike. Maybe with a shorter body? Or a wheel tucked under the seat. Or I don’t quite know because that would involve knowing about gears and parts and things and I’m just a girl with a tiny girl brain. And a very cute bike.

So if you’re at Sunday Parkways on this rainy Portland day, ring your bell when you see me racing from cafe to cafe.

Match Made in Heaven

Awww…look at these two cute girls. This is me and Miss Frayn on the day of Back Fence PDX. We’d handled all the stage set up from the lighting to actually drilling the legs into the stage. I used my Dewalt. I love that thing.

Not much of a post today. So warm and sunny out. Rode my bike eight miles. Need water and food and rest. But I feel great! Hearing and seeing all of the great responses to Back Fence PDX has been astonishing and wonderful. Thank you all.

You Know You Want It

UPDATE: Check out Back Fence PDX for three of last night’s stories. GO! Click HERE.

So here it is. Before it’s even up on the Back Fence page. It’s here.

All I can say is the evening was amazing. AMAZING. After every story I just sat in my chair, my cheeks hurting from smiling and my eyes filled with tears and then I’d think, OH! I have to get up there and say something. And all I wanted to say, “Wasn’t that GREAT?!? And WOW! And GEEZ!” I’m still stunned at how amazing it was.

I flipcameraed three stories because that’s all the camera had memory for, but we have the whole damn thing recorded on a fancy camera and that will be available to me at some other point in the future. I also have the audio recording, but you can’t see swimsuits on that. SWIMSUITS!

Okay, you’re done reading about me. Here’s Miss Kiala Krazybee.

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