Literally made me laugh

This is a whole genre on YouTube. Search for "literal version" to turn up other song, uh, treatments.

Sweet

The Oregon Zoo is a sweet venue for a concert -- a gently sloping lawn bordered by high-quality food and beverage vendors, with excellent outdoor acoustics, a friendly crowd, and a mellow security staff that permits not only dancing in front of the stage but loitering up front long enough to take a photo or twelve. Just keep the fire lanes open, ma'am. They even have sprinklers set up at the back so you can cool off on hot summer afternoons.


Last night we went to an all-N'awlins show at the Zoo. Dr. John opened for the Neville Brothers, whom I adore. My dinner of gumbo and cornbread, which cost all of $7 and change, tasted wonderful as dusk fell and the evening turned chilly. The music, of course, was stellar. Aaron sang Amazing Grace, and life at that moment seemed just about perfect.

Spring Tease

I see signs of spring everywhere. Chalk art on the sidewalk. My colorful sock drawer. Even the compost bucket looked particularly beguiling this morning. It's supposed to start raining again tomorrow, but this weekend has been glorious.

Friday morning Jer and I went to the yard and garden show at the Convention Center. Our official mission was to scope out deck builders and get answers to a few existential questions, e.g., which comes first, the hot tub or the lumber. My own sekrit, stealth mission, though, was to score some plants. We were successful on both fronts, though I'll poke around some more in Angie's List for contractor recommendations.

I found primo specimens of all three of the plants that I wanted, including an aloe vera for kitchen emergencies (I brought several from California, where they thrived, but all of them mysteriously turned to slime in Portland); a tiny witch hazel with adorably weird winter-blooming whirly-birdy flowers (I'd noticed a couple around the 'hood in the past few weeks and was completely taken with them); and, eternal optimist that I am, a Meyer lemon. It has two ripe lemons on it already, so even if the tree-ette doesn't make it, we'll still have had a crop. At $22.50 per lemon.

Saturday I pruned the "big" rose bed, which I didn't get to last weekend, and yesterday I spent a couple of hours on the stepladder, loppers in hand, trying to tame the out-of-control climbing-rose arbor on the east side of the house. It's President's Day weekend and I got the roses pruned; I feel like part of some vast and ancient tradition.

Today I planted the little witch hazel (shown here on the kitchen table). I'll probably try the lemon in a container, at least for this season; I have a beautiful pot that's just the right size. The aloe is top-heavy; it desperately needs dividing and repotting -- I got my money's worth on that one -- but another day. I also cleaned the grill and the grill cover, which has been off most of the winter because, duh, the grill was too greasy to put it on. One small gesture in the face of entropy.

Another highlight of the weekend was hearing the great Michael Smith in a small venue up by Ladd's Addition. He's a low-key yet utterly compelling performer. If you like singer-songwriter-type stuff and don't know Michael's work, you're missing some wonderful music. (note: He's Michael Peter Smith, not to be confused with the "Christian music" Michael Smith.)

Unicordions, planetwalkers, wizards

We have absolutely no plans for this weekend, but I can use some down time. Here's what we did in one four-day period last week:

Went to a talk at Reed by John Francis, the planetwalker. I knew John, slightly, during my college days back in Philly. He was a lanky, charismatic black dude who was never at a loss for words. He's still all that, plus a few pounds and gray hairs. Our paths would cross occasionally in Rittenhouse Square and, now and then, at the apartment of one or another of Mitch and my bluegrass buddies. He might even have been at our place once or twice (it was the '60s; I can't quite recall). I remember hearing, several years later, that John was on some kind of enviro-spiritual trip and, as part of that, had stopped talking. As it turned out, he also gave up driving and riding in motorized vehicles, choosing to walk, often great distances, instead. The silence lasted for 17 years, the auto-ban for 22. He explained the other evening why he did both, and why he gave it up. No, I didn't go up to him afterwards and say "I knew you, kinda, when..." but it felt good, on some deep level, to reconnect.

Attended Pizzazz, a city-wide talent show sponsored by the Portland Mercury, the alternative weekly I'm (sorry) not in the habit of reading, and Pabst Blue Ribbon (barf) beer. Our friends Kristin and Eric were among the ten finalists and, as it happened, the opening act. They sang and played an accordion duet while a lithe male dancer in a skin-tight unicorn costume did an interpretive dance to their rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." At the climax, the dancer squeezed a heart-shaped sponge full of stage blood over his pristine white satiny self. The audience loved it, and applauded wildly. It was a raucous, fun evening, despite the fact that our pals did not win a prize. The crowd was friendly, the venue (Wonder Ballroom, with a surprisingly good cafe next door) very pleasant, and the pacing of the show so crisp that we were out the door in two hours flat. We geezers so appreciate efficiency in our wacky entertainment ventures.

A long and fairly strenuous hike on a perfect fall morning with Mike Houck, one of the city's major environmental activists (I've blogged about him before). We started at the base of the aerial tram (I posted a set of flickr shots shortly after it opened earlier this year), trekked south along the Willamette (who knew there was a continuous bike and walking trail from South Waterfront to Willamette Park and possibly beyond?), then headed west and uphill through George Himes Park -- big trees, lush ferns, lots of switchbacks -- to Terwilliger Blvd. From there we ambled north to OHSU and the upside tram terminal. As the photo suggests, we still faced quite a hike from the entrance up to the tram itself. They only collect tickets on the upward leg; the ride down is free. By that point we figured we'd earned it.

Dinner at Portofino, a restaurant in Sellwood that we'd passed countless times thinking "Eh, generic old-style Italian restaurant. When we're in the mood for that, Gino's is right up the street." A couple of months ago, though, they put up a spiffy new sign, which put the place on my radar. So we went one evening with Libbi and David and our mutual friend Angie, who was visiting from the Bay Area. The friendly proprietor, who'd worked there as a kid, shared the history of the place, and the food and wine were delicious. Another good, unpretentious neighborhood restaurant to add to our list.

That's four days in a row of Portland synergies, delights and revelations, and it's just an arbitrary sampling. I haven't even mentioned breakfast at Toast with Angie and Libbi, or a delightful pre-Hallowe'en party with artsy and literate folks in the Hawthorne 'hood, or, for that matter, Hallowe'en itself. Jer and I channeled a wizard (his usual persona) and an autumn tree sprite, respectively. Trick-or-treaters on the block included a clever mom-made ram and his brother, an equally fine bat (bat-tering ram?), a piece of pie/pi (this was the same kid who went around last year as an e coli bacterium), two fairy princesses, a diminutive Boston Red Sock, a Boston (no relation) terrier in a skeleton outfit, and an electric plug. No unicorns, but that's okay; our earlier encounter will live in my memory for quite a while. Whether I want it to or not.

The List

I've been meaning to post yet another list of what's been going on for the last several days, and I'll get to that eventually. But tonight I saw Richard Thompson (a.k.a. The Face of God) at the Aladdin Theater -- third time in that venue; I don't think I've missed a Portland show of his since we moved here -- and a different list came to mind. I wonder how many married or otherwise committed couples have one of these; i.e., people you've put your partner on notice you would, um, go to bed with, no question. "He's on my list," I say, and Jer nods, understandingly. RT's on it, Kevin Spacey's on it, despite the fact that he apparently plays on the wrong, for moi, team, and... hmmm, RT seems to have completely blanked out the rest of the rest of my not-lengthy but rather eclectic list. I'm sure it's just temporary.

The road goes on forever, the party never ends

It's been a full and satisfying couple of days. Yesterday we had a visit from my ex-sister-in-law, Sheri, her husband Mark, and their almost-three-year-old, Josh's half-brother Matthew. Jer hadn't met Mark before, and neither of us had met Matthew, who's very blond, sweet and funny, and of course adorable. I served two salads for lunch -- smoked chicken with blue cheese, peaches, hazelnuts and greens; and broccoli with whole-wheat rotini, peanuts, scallions and a vaguely Asian dressing. The former in particular was a winner.

After we ate, I led Sheri and Matthew to Berkeley Park while Mark and Jer did guy-talk for a while. The park is just a couple of blocks away and we often stroll through it on our daily walks, but this was the first time in the two years we've lived in the neighborhood that I had an opportunity, or a reason, to focus on the playground aspect. While Sheri and I attempted to carry on a conversation, Matthew went happily from climbing structure to sliding board to bouncy chairs to swings to rings and back to climbing structure. Repeatedly.

After they got back on the road and we (by which I include the cats) had recovered from all that toddler energy, Jer and I went to dinner at Nostrana. I've been wanting to check that place out for ages, and we finally got there. It did not disappoint. We shared an heirloom tomato/mozzarella/basil salad, one of my favorite combinations. I ordered an eggplant, chickpea and farro soup, which was quite tasty, and Jerry had a fish dish the details of which escape me, but it involved a great deal of butter and was exquisitely delicious. My entree was pizza with caramelized onions; I took almost half of it home and am looking forward to having it for dinner tomorrow. For dessert we'd preordered the berry-nectarine crisp, which took 20 minutes to prepare and was served hot, with almond cream poured over it at the table. Oh my. It sounds like a lot of food, and I suppose it was, but we didn't feel stuffed; it was Just Right. I look forward to going back.

Jer was off to Denver for a conference at dark o'clock this morning. Ironically, his takeoff was delayed almost three hours; had we known, he could have gotten a normal night's sleep. My day was incredibly productive in a boring, low-key, checkbook-balancing kind of way. I made a run over to Jeannette's to pick up some crocosmia and "Autumn gold" sedum that she'd culled from her garden. Now I must ponder where to stick 'em in ours. Then I sat in the back yard for a while and finished Bee Season, a remarkable book. I'd enjoyed the movie and wondered how much more there was to the story; now I know.

Around 6:30, I headed toward the Bite of Oregon festival at Waterfront Park. Last year we attended this event thinking it would be all about Portland's top restaurants offering savory snacks; nope, that's Taste of the Nation, which is about 10 times more expensive to attend, but worth it. Bite is much more corporate/mass market, but the entertainment this year is top-notch. The draw for me was Robert Earl Keen, but I got there in time for Todd Snider's set, and he was a revelation. A home-town boy (well, Beaverton), based in Nashville now, with a funny (though, I suspect, scripted) rap and some great original songs.

Keen rocked; I titled this post after the song he did for his encore. The audience let him go after just one because it simply couldn't be topped -- except, perhaps, by a full-out fireworks display, which began on the final downbeat. Perfect timing! I watched most of it from the walkway on the west side of the river, directly opposite the barge, took a dozen or so photos (I like the shakey one; it's, uh, dynamic), then walked back across the Hawthorne Bridge to where I'd parked the del Sol. She and I were home in less than 15 minutes. Lordy, I love this town.

Full-Immersion Bluegrass

I spent most of the weekend at the River City Bluegrass Festival, at the Convention Center about 10 minutes from our house. Friday night featured David Grisman, followed by Beausoleil, with a surprise stand-in (the first of several during the course of the festival) from Darol Anger. I last saw Grisman and Beausoleil on a triple bill with Richard Thompson, 10 or 12 years ago. What a show that was!

Saturday began for us with Laurie Lewis and ended with Asleep at the Wheel. Actually, we got there an hour or so before Laurie's set, in time to catch the Godz (aka the Kings) of Mongrel Folk. They did a couple of novelty numbers I loved -- The Neighbor of the Beast (as in the guy who lives next door, at 667), and Moby Dick, which they introduced by saying that bluegrass doesn't have too many whaling songs, so they decided to write one. Okay, I admit I've been a sucker for novelty songs since The Purple People Eater.

Jer took a break after Laurie and company, going home to nap, watch the news and corral the cats for the night. But I stayed for a solid 12 hours, holding down our seats and enjoying sets by Larry Sparks, Rhonda Vincent and the Rage, and Longview, featuring JD Crowe. The room gradually filled in anticipation of Emmylou Harris' 9 PM appearance. She and Carolina Star did a fine set packed with singthing favorites.

At the beginning of Emmylou's set, Ted Kulongoski the recently re-elected governor of Oregon, popped in -- his inaugural ball was going on elsewhere in the building -- to say "I love bluegrass! I love Emmylou Harris!" Emmylou and I both turn 60 this year. Please tell me she's had some work done; she looks incredible.

Last night, the festival wrapped up with the Nashville Bluegrass Band, followed by a high-energy and hugely entertaining set featuring Peter Rowan and Tony Rice, and finally the incredible David Bromberg and his Angel Band. I first saw Bromberg, if I'm not mistaken, at the Philly Folk Festival in 1960-something. Their set was more blues than bluegrass at first (and down-and-dirty blues at that), but then Laurie and Darol came onstage and added some phenomenal fiddle energy, and it built up to the traditional "let's get everyone up here for a rousing finale."

Except in my deepest fantasies, I'm neither a singer nor a player; I have no musical background other than that of an appreciative listener, and once I get beyond "God, that was good!" I basically don't know what I'm talking about. Hence, no detailed reviews. But it sure did my soul good to soak up all that music.

The crowd was a real mix -- three generations of urban hippies, elderly country folk with flamboyant sideburns who remember the rockabilly Elvis, middle-aged straight people who simply love the music. Everyone was friendly. I ran into a couple of people I've met since we moved to Portland. That felt good, too; another indication that we're growing some roots here. It seemed like everybody was asking the same question: "Are you going to Wintergrass?" Hmmm, maybe next year.