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Showing posts from March, 2009

Overheard Conversations #43 and #44

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They both looked Southern California. But here they were in downtown Portland having one of those conversations that exemplify how women disclose far more easily than men. The blonde was slightly younger and slightly better looking. The auburn head's eyes wandered more and even caught mine for an instant. Normally I wouldn't listen but what followed caught me off guard. "He's not like the other guys I've introduced my mother to, I mean he's actually a little overweight and bald, but fiercely intelligent and so different to be around." Her friend concurred. In a few minutes they were on to other things; vacations in Mexico, career choices, restaurants. At the Saturday Portland Farmers Market : "Run Sarah Beth run." Rain pounded, children pounced on mud puddles, toothpicks in dried cherries, walnut-topped oatmeal, Hood River pears and honey crisp apples a dollar a pound. Native American salmon sellers on cell phones. &

People's Horse

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His name was John Henry. Yup, the same as the famous American folk-hero, the steel drivin' man. Both became folk-heroes. For a good while John Henry, the horse, held the record for most purse money won. But inflation being what it is, that record was bound to fall. It's possible for a 3-year-old colt to earn what John made these days given a couple of Triple Crown victories and perhaps a good showing in the Breeder's Cup Classic. But John was never about the money. By the way, it's OK to call him John, that's what his trainer, Ron MacAnally, and exercise rider Lewis Cenicola and the Rubins, his owners all called him. To say that John Henry had personality is to suggest that the economy could be better. He'd come out on the track before a workout and stop every now and again, look over his surroundings, listen, make sure everyone equine and human alike were impressed and then go about his business. All he did was win races. Sometimes in the la

End of an Error

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A friend of mine is dying. Sometimes that's not such a bad thing. If it were a person, there might be more sadness. But I'm not talking about a person. A friend nonetheless. Someone who's always there, offers non-judgmental support, and inspires hope, ingenuity, creativity, and my best efforts. Like a true friend, this one comes with issues, too. Complete frustration, aggravation, anger, despair. But resilience, redemption, affirmation, optimism. Like me, my friend has contradictions. In fact, my friend is a mirror, a metaphor, an omen, an art form. Some would call my friend a sport, others a curse. No matter, for many, like me, it's a passion. It's also a sub-culture, an alternate universe, and occasionally an indulgence. But it's dying. My friend is Horse Racing. Tell you what I'm not gonna do...I'm not gonna bemoan the loss. I'm not gonna drone on about the good old days. I'm not gonna play the blame game. Death is

Bye the Bay Meadows

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While straightening up a dresser drawer the other day I found a small metal money clip with the Bay Meadows logo on it. The shiny little gold colored artifact joins a Tee shirt I have, a few press guides and handouts in colorful file folders, and a few photos. That's what's left of the San Mateo thoroughbred track for me. That, and many recollections locked away in the starting gate of memory. I've been carrying the money clip with a few bucks tucked in my front pocket these days. It reminds me of something I saw or experienced there every now and then. It can be difficult to say good-bye to a race track, even though the old guy was dying for quite a few years now. I'm not sure when my last visit to Bay Meadows was, maybe 4 or 5 years ago. I didn't know it was the last time I'd ever see the distinctive art deco facility. Probably better that way. When I was covering stakes races for The Blood-Horse magazine there were some mighty long days at Bay Meadows

Reel to Reel

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Sometimes I wonder what I'd do if something happened to my laptop. But then I know the answer. I'd get another...quickly. While it burns me that it has become such a big part of my life, I know that social change is inevitable and that technology is a huge part of that equation. We were warned early on during the last quarter of the 20th century. We knew that computers would impact everything we would do from going to the bank to sending mail; from reading books to paying bills. Going into education, even back then, we knew that the film projector, the record player, and the typewriter were only momentary. When I observe one of my student teachers today, everything emanates from the laptop. All video material is inserted and on DVD. Sound bytes, overhead visual aids, grades, attendance, et.al. comes from the little white techno-giant consuming less than one square foot. A few schools have and use dry erase boards, and fewer still use chalkboards. I still say black bo

Can You Spare a Song?

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Every era has its own music, just as every decade has one particular tune that succinctly puts the zeitgeist of that time into perspective. For the Great depression, it was simply known as "The Song" "Brother Can you Spare a Dime," by Yip Harburg says it all. For our current malaise, I offer one of Bob Dylan's lesser known gems: "Everything Is Broken" Broken lines, broken strings, Broken threads, broken springs, Broken idols, broken heads, People sleeping in broken beds. Ain't no use jiving Ain't no use joking Everything is broken. Item: A tent city has recently appeared in Sacramento, California. So many newly unemployed are finding their way to this free campground. It resembles the scene 70 years ago when the Great Depression forced so many into shanty towns and hobo jungles. Let's see, if it was called Hooverville back then, what would an appropriate name for this city of the dispossessed be? Broken bottles, broken plates, Broken

Happytown

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There it was in print. Unhappy...according to some sort of unofficial research from Business Week, Portland, Oregon was crowned the most unhappy city in the country. Shhh...don't tell anyone the truth. Portlanders are lots of things, but unhappy hardly fits the bill. Keep it on the QT will you, we don't need any more people up here. If the rest of the country wants to believe the residents of Stumptown go around in depressed funks with frowns on their faces, I'm OK with that. It's just that it is laughable; so untrue. I read that the study used some suicide and crime statistics that were five years old. It also based the designation on some sort of quantified Depression rate as well as the weather. Yes, we do have lots of rain. Most folks here can easily handle that. They obviously wouldn't live here or stay here if they couldn't. Besides, we know that the rain gives us the stunning green mountains forests, the clear streams and rivers, the pristine

Sihugo

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His name was Doug Ostrom. At 5'10" and 150 lbs. he wasn't the most intimidating basketball player, but he didn't need to be. He was quick and could shoot a sweet jump shot from anywhere on the court. He could pass, too. The starting guard on my high school basketball team, Doug Ostrom was getting looks from college scouts in his senior year. Though much lighter and smaller, Ostrom could easily be compared to Jason Kidd. I saw Kidd play when he was in high school. It's a fair comparison. I loved watching Doug Ostrom play because the guy really enjoyed himself. Even 4 decades later, I can easily see his grin, those knobby knees and the arc of his jumper. Because I played class B basketball in high school, in the off season, I was programed into period 7 P.E. with coach Burton. In those days, there were 4 leagues, 4 classifications based on age and size. Freshman and sophs played "C" or "B" basketball; juniors and seniors played JV o