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Showing posts from March, 2010

MIA

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Two stories have twisted around themselves this week. Two stories that while seemingly unrelated, have much in common. In Massachusetts, at South Hadley High School, as many as 30 students are being questioned as participants or witnesses to the events that led a beautiful Irish immigrant, Phoebe Prince to take her own life. Bullied? Yes, but much more here. A cyber crime, yes, but still more here. Not the least of the details that are so disturbing about this tragedy is that fact that apparently many teachers and administrators knew, to some extent, about the harassment, the verbal and emotional abuse, the fear involved in this most vicious display of inhumanity. I won't bother with the details, you are no doubt familiar with them by now. Where is the disconnect here? Who saw what? Most importantly, what lies behind the sensational spectacle of the headlines, tabloid media treatment, and temporary outrage? Was it her accent? Did her "hook ups" with a couple of

Got Default?

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When I was 28 I started drinking coffee seriously. In my second year of teaching, I found that a morning cup really got me going. The revolution in coffee was beginning to brew and Peet's became my gourmet coffee of choice. There was only one Peet's back then, but a few Bay Area restaurants started serving Blend 101 and my department bought a Mr. Coffee machine with the stipulation that only Peet's be used. In the half dozen years that followed, I drank 4 or 5 cups a day. These days I'm down to only a couple of cups, but Peet's has found its way to Portland as well as many other places. It's almost the same. Not quite. In recent years, I've fought the "corporitization" of Peet's. They only play classical music now, they limit internet use to 1 hr. the baked goods are all sugar/fat laden (no more bagels) and now the issue is milk. We have to ask for 2% milk these days. But in this malaise, I recently came across a new term in use: &quo

American Metaphor

Alex Chilton, dead at 59. American Artist, American Original, American Music Industry Metaphor

Peach Pear Pyramid

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Not once do I burn myself. But the hot steam and hot water pouring out of the fire hose occasionally splashes up and around my face. Fortunately the spaceman outfit I wear, complete with gloves, keeps me dry. I have visions, on slow days, of the boiler erupting as I twist the big valves. Keeps me on my toes. With the women on the line on their dinner break, I hose down the equipment and the floor. No mushy pear detritus anywhere. I roll the hose onto it's bracket, empty the wheelbarrow one more time (the third time since my shift began) and rest on my feet, watching the women on the level above me finish the first half of their shift and prepare for their break. They have a most peculiar job. There are only a half dozen of them, on a rise off to the side. They watch the cubed pieces of pear pour out of a slot and onto a small belt. They look for brown. These fruit cocktail bound chunks are slightly cooked for softness and occasionally a piece is burned. With a small h

Canned

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We all wear ear plugs. Thousands of empty tin cans rattling above and in front and all around will eventually wear away anyone's sanity. Those who don't wear plugs have some sort of ear phone plugged in to a radio. It's 1972, only small radios have ear plugs. Some take drugs. Lots of speed in your co-worker's systems because after this shift gets off at 10:00p.m. they barely have enough time to grab a bite, or a another dose of something and head down to the Hunt's cannery in Hayward. Tomatoes are in now and the Ketchup brigade in in full swing. But we're in Emeryville, the little industrial town between W. Berkeley and W. Oakland, and the cannery belongs to Del-Monte. I'm in pears. Literally. From 1 p.m. till 10 I empty big steel wheelbarrows full of rotten pears, or spilled fruit into large fruit dumpsters on a loading dock that rivals any for activity, noise, muck, and large trucks moving in and out all day and all night. I have just completed m

Odd Jobs

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In my writing group the other night, I asked my fellow writers and poets about the weirdest jobs they've ever had. It was my turn to "share" and since there are a couple of upcoming contests, one of which involves work (Work Magazine). I thought they and I might like to try our hands at a bit of memoir. So we went around the room with good success. A cab driver in Honolulu, a really bad waitress, drinking vodka with the Polish army, stuff like that came up. I recalled a job that was passed around among roommates in a Berkeley house back in the 70s. I had the pleasure for a couple of months. It was essentially being a janitor in a small "art house" movie theater. I'd go in about 3:30 or 4 p.m. and sweep up then vacuum two small theaters. Next, I'd clean the two restrooms in between Theater A and Theater B. All told, about two hours a day. Aside from free movies... (mostly what were termed "foreign" or offbeat films" back then) sw

Keep it Weird

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The signs are everywhere. On city busses, sometimes, on billboards, and especially on car bumper stickers. KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD. There are even variations. My favorite is Keep Portland Beered. But that's only because of the many fine brew pubs with a sparkling array of home brews to choose from. Portland will always be beered, but it's the weird part that has me fascinated. By way of definition, weird could mean any of the following: People here dress comfortably. There is a definite look and it often has something to do with the weather. Hats, scarves, casual warm. Weird includes Voodoo Donuts, an institution with it's hangover Peptol Bismol frosted morning offering to it's Fruit-Loops covered special for kids of all ages. It's the horse rings that most streets still have. These are the original steel rings cemented into the curbs left over from the days when people would tie up their horses in front of a business or residence. Now people are fond of att