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Showing posts from February, 2014

This Table

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This table served many before I made it my own, Oak warms food too, And then one day it was mine, Taken from an antique store to my kitchen, I sit there still, Bumping my knee--catching my thigh on an angular corner, How many have I invited here to sit and eat, sit and think, sit and explain. I used to paint at this table Brush aside a sandwich, or cold coffee,Peel off a slice of watercolor paper, and do my best imitation of Paul Klee, Somewhere in the grain must be teal or magenta, maybe underneath, Paint brushes have their own agenda on occasion. Who sits here now? and who will never appear? with hands folded or tucked, resting flat or propped up. This table recognizes me, Waits, Sometimes for my forearms, This table is my legacy. It knows what I write, who I write, why I write, This table, like me, gets smudged, newsprint tells more than one story, This table is all about feeding and finding.

I'll take Social Justice for $800. Alex

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I saw an interesting video clip this morning with regard to Black History Month.  It was a version of the college edition of the TV game show Jeopardy.  I've always enjoyed this type of program because I learn something even though it's just based on quick recall of specific fact.  All in the form of a question, right? http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/19/jeopardy-black-history-month_n_4815162.html So here we have three of the nation's best and brightest representing Texas A&M, the University of Chicago, and the University of Oklahoma.  In the Final Jeopardy round, where the cash values are doubled and the questions are supposed to be more difficult, the game came down to the last category selected.  That is to say, every question had been chosen in every category except the entire last category: African American History.  Hmmm.   OK, three white kids as contestants might explain this.  So they start to attack the last five questions and the good news is that thre

Which Side Are You On?

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We're just a few days away from a teacher's strike here in Portland, Or.  Though the negotiations continue and will all weekend, the calendar has been set and the media is already sporting photos of teachers cleaning out their rooms. I still think the strike will be prevented at this writing.  The reason is simple: chaos will result.  There will be sparse attendance and even less learning or what might otherwise pass for real education taking place. Strikes make bitter enemies; often for life.  I think the school board and most of the top administrators know this.  If they don't, they are about to get a real education themselves. What resonates strongly for me is the fact that many teachers don't realize their power as a group.  That's why this labor action is so important.  Union membership has become a virtual stigma in this mean time.  That might change if Portland teachers can jump start the willingness to look at how much power they really have if they repre

Lucky Snow

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It doesn't snow very often in Portland, Oregon.  But when it does, I mean really snows, it locks everything down for a few days.  Maybe it's just all the former Californians who can't drive in it or are too busy enjoying the sudden whiteness.  If we get more than a few inches, as was the case last week, it will stick and totally put the city on hold.  Schools close, most folks don't drive, the buses, complete with chains, handle most everyone's transportation needs, and the media goes off the deep end. Even the Olympics or Nightly news can get preempted so that some reporter can go outdoors and stand in a few inches of snow and seriously report to us about what it looks like, what it feels like, and how long it might be around. Some folks try to act like it's not snow and go about their business as usual.  We find then in ditches with their cars, or walking around in shorts, or even unaware that public facilities and scheduled events have all been cancelled

Still Friends

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I thought he was dead.  If fact, I'd heard he died, or must have.  But there he was sitting across from me in the small OTB on the Sonoma County fairgrounds known as The Jockey Club.  The chances of me being there, 650 miles from Portland on a Saturday in January were slim and none.  This time slim won. Ted, my old friend from the Bay Area could have died for many reasons.  My complete opposite, in many ways, this Vietnam Vet, former heroin addict, turned caterer, lived alone and chain smoked his way into my life as a thoroughbred horse handicapper.  We met along with a slew of characters at Golden Gate Fields in a small room called The Top of the Stretch.  There was Zim, the psychiatrist, Mike the Berkeley publisher/writer, Bob, the day trader, and Gene the lawyer.  A motley crew of horse players and friends, we'd swirl in and out of each others lives from Friday until Sunday for a few years.  And then we fanned out, back to other lives.  I went to Oregon, Ted ...who knows