The Ur-Wookie is a look that says about its wearer: “I’m a recluse, an enigma, the object of grainy film footage on YouTube. I am probably mateless.”
We assume that the Bigfoot type is mateless because, um, we read that somewhere on Google. Anecdotally our conclusion seems strong. We have never seen a Sasquatch on a date, in a bar, or at the couples skate.
But it seems that Willamette Week has scooped us in the hairy-mythic-creature-fact-gathering department.
“Probably mateless? I think not,” responds Shawna Mckeown, associate publisher at the weekly paper and apparently also a bride of Sasquatch. She is pictured, here, with beau.
Wait, was there a Willamette Week couples skate that we weren’t invited to?
It looks like we’ll be snowed in this weekend, which, all told is kind of an awesome thing
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 17, 2008 at 02:39PM3 Comments
RECOMMENDEDWEEKDAYVIEWING
The Darkness “Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End)”—because holiday rockers make us merry.
FRIDAY
It looks like we’ll be snowed in this weekend, which, all told is kind of an awesome thing. Unless, like me, you live in one of those “emerging neighborhoods”—code for “kind of scary and culturally desolate”— and you think watching meth heads fight in front of the Plaid Pantry counts as cultural enrichment.
So while I’m watching the toothless fisticuffs, those within walking distance of the Clinton Street Theater should slide, skate, and ski their way over for a neat history lesson. Because tonight’s 9:30 showing of a Pink Floyd concert film from 1970 should remind us (or prove for the first time) that before they were bloated prog-rock monsters, they were an awesome, experimental outfit that changed the way we listened to music. Filmed before they truly hit the big time (at least on this side of the ocean), the movie captures a band at the height of their drug-addled powers. It has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. A week away from the big day, that’s totally fine with us.
SATURDAY
Assuming you’re like most people you will spend the majority of the next week on your butt. And that’s cool, but maybe you’d prefer a good long sit listening to some beautiful music as opposed to stuffing your pie-hole. If that’s the case, then tonight’s 7:30 performance of Handel’s complete Messiah is the kind of butt-numbing experience you can be proud of.
If a rousing rendition of the “Hallelujah Chorus” doesn’t awaken your dormant seasonal spark, nothing will. The Portland Baroque Orchestra’s annual full-scale, three-hour performance of the Handel classic will be augmented by the heavenly voices of Cappella Romana.
SUNDAY
My family has a rather odd holiday tradition. On the night of Christmas Eve we bundle up, hop in the automobile, and make our way around our widely-strewn town to make fun of holiday lights. Not all of them, mind you. Just the ones that deserve a good tongue lashing from behind the safety glass of a moving vehicle. You know the type…houses with mismatched lights, those tacky blue lights, the even worse icicle-shaped lights, any decoration with moving parts, live nativity scenes. (Okay, we’re picky and perhaps sick.)
Luckily, the folks who put together the Christmas Ships on the Willamette have a little bit better taste. For more than fifty years, the fleet has twinkled in local harbors, lighting sea and shore alike with holiday cheer. The Yuletide armada of fifty to sixty pleasure crafts will glimmer nightly at various sites along the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. Tonight, starting at 5 they’ll sail from downtown to St. Johns. It should be a sight safe from ridicule.
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 12, 2008 at 10:32AM0 Comments
Live by the three, die by the three. That’s what I kept repeating ad naseum while dodging darts of hate slung from the eyes of the ladyfriend as we watched Portland lose again last night, 97-88 to Utah. This time it was the Fightin’ Mormons (seriously, the crowd is so white it’s basically a prism) who basically let the usually hot-shooting Blazers fire away from 3-point land on a night when nothing seemed to be going in.
This is a little worrisome. No team, whether in college or the NBA, has successfully relied on the 3-point shot as a path to a championship. And looking at the box score the initial reaction is: how the eff did they lose this game?
Brandon Roy had 33 points and I’m convinced he could’ve easily gone for 40 if he’d wanted to. (Side point: Is anybody else ready for Roy to just go off and destroy a team? It’s nice that he likes to distribute the ball and get everyone else involved, but nobody can stop him going to the rim. I want to see blood on his Nikes.) LaMarcus had another solid night (22 points, six boards), signaling that he might have finally woken up from his early season slumber. That’s great news, but Aldridge is best when he’s working outside of the paint, nailing mid-range jumpers and running the floor.
On a night like last night against Utah when the three weren’t falling, the Blazers needed an inside presence and they just never got it. I’m looking at you, Oden and Przybilla.
We’ll let Przybilla slide on this one. He’s been having a great season so far and, truth be told, is actually more integral to Portland’s 15-9 start than Oden. But Greg is mired in a string of games where he’s making almost no impact. That’s okay sometimes. But last night was inexcusable. We’ve always figured that all Oden would need to focus on is rebounding and defense. Put-backs and dunks would be his main mode of scoring. But on a night like last night when the usually reliable 3-point shooting of the Blazers abandoned them (they shot six of twenty-seven for game; a ghastly 22 percent), the team needed Oden to step up. He did not.
We’re patient. We’re in love with this team. With these players. But after 24 games I want to see my main man Greg get pissed. I want him to throw some elbows. I want him to bring a rim down. I want to see him unleashed.
Until that happens, Portland will remain a team that lives by the three…and like last night, dies by it.
Confession time: Before I was a writer I was a tuba player.
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 11, 2008 at 09:42AM0 Comments
FRIDAY
Imago Theatre’s Biglittlethings is described in the press materials as, “11 short pieces that mix mask theatre, illusionistic costumes, original music, special effects lighting, and pure spectacle.” The New York Times calls it, “a mastery of dance, mime, and acrobatics.” Back Row Blog says, “Uhm, if you ever wondered what would’ve happened if the Brothers Grimm took psychedelic drugs, this is the show for you.”
There’s a 7:30 show tonight and two shows on Saturday and Sunday. It’s like laser Floyd for kids.
SATURDAY
Confession time: Before I was a writer I was a tuba player. In fact, I bet you didn’t know that the purveyor of this here blog was, at one time, one of the best junior high tuba players in the entire northwest region of Arkansas. Yes, quite the honor. Let me tell you, the ladies love a tuba player (like they love a cold sore on their eyeball). My crowning achievement was winning first chair honors in the marching band by plowing through a bottom-heavy rendition of the great Billy Ocean’s “When the Going Gets Tough (The Tough Get Going).” Take THAT Scott Ward. Looking back, this explains why it took so long to lose my virginity.
Anywho, a group of tubists (is that the right word?) far better than I will be blatting and bleating through some holiday classics this afternoon at a magical little event called Tuba Christmas. It goes down at Pioneer Courthouse Square at 1:30 p.m.
In celebration I plan on wearing my green v-neck sweater and white jeans—the official awful uniform of the Chaffin Junior High School band.
SUNDAY
Perhaps you’ve heard that this time of year many folks turn their thoughts to another benevolent bearded fellow, one with a thing for eternal salvation instead of sleighs and flying deer. Whether or not you believe in virgin births and parties at out-of-the-way mangers, there’s no denying that some of the best holiday songs have a certain heavenly bent. And what better way to enjoy them than with a full-on gospel choir belting out all your favorites? The Gospel Christmas at Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall starts at 7:30 p.m. It won’t save your soul (Santa knows what you did), but it might lift it.
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 08, 2008 at 11:10AM0 Comments
So far this year Axl has had heartworms, Sloppy has had both surgery on his teeth and an ear infection, and Leroy…has remained in perfect health, though his fear of any noise above a feather touching the ground is a bit disconcerting.
This past week, Sloppy decided to once again get sick. It was an episode of doggie diarrhea befitting of his name.
It’s meant the ladyfriend and I have spent good portions of the last few days on our hands and knees scrubbing horrendously foul messes out of our floors. Now, you might think his name is cruel…but then, you haven’t met him. Sloppy is some mix of Lhasa Apsa and a-hole. He hates bicycles and bites babies. If he was a human he would be a short, swarthy fat man with a combover and mustache. We love Sloppy, but he is a most difficult dog who is happiest when he is full, grooming himself, and laying in a bed.
Anyway, after three days it passed but I’m left with this visual. It’s Friday night and I’m kneeling over Sloppy, tucking his head under my rump so he can’t bite me and holding his tail straight up like a furry stick-shift so the ladyfriend could get a perfect angle on the brown mess scattered across his backside and stuck in his fur. The ladyfriend set about cutting out the effected fur with a pair of tiny scissors. We did this while holding our noses and talking in gasping breaths.
This morning while getting ready for work I looked in the mirror and spotted a stray nose hair reaching out from my nostril like a wily tree branch. I reached for the pair of scissors…the same grooming scissors the ladyfriend had used to excise the nastiness.
I got it halfway up there before I remembered the scene from Friday night.
Franchise now worth $307 million; Paul Allen buys new plutonium fueled jet pack.
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 04, 2008 at 12:01PM1 Comments
WE’RE NUMBER 20!
…out of 30. But seriously, hear me out: this is a good thing for the Blazers.
Forbes’ annual rankings of the value of the NBA teams is out and, as I said above, Portland is number 20. But the important thing is this: Just as the Blazers are one of the league’s fastest rising teams ON the court, they’re just as rocket-powered OFF it. According to the magazine, “the biggest change in value belongs to the Portland Trail Blazers, who increased by 21 percent to $307 million.”
Not bad for a team that finished with a losing record last season. For the record, tops again in the NBA are the New York Please Lebron Sign With Us in 2010’s (aka, the Knicks) who despite sucking are still worth $613 million. Apparently Isiah’s goal to leave the team in shambles remains unfinished. Oh, and the Milwaukee Bucks are last with a reported value of $278 million.
And here’s a link to neat little story about team owner Paul Allen and the journey his franchise has taken from near-champs to chumps and back again. It’s a good read even if, like me, numbers make your head hurt: www.forbes.com/forbes/2008/1222/083.html
Since we’re talking Blazers. Friday night Portland travels to Boston to take on the defending champion Celtics. How awesome is it to actually be geeked for a game against an elite opponent? Even as late as this year I eyed games against New Orleans and Phoenix with a lump in my gut. Now? We win those games. Or at least, we can.
As Brandon Roy told the Oregonian’s Jason Quick last night, ‘This is where we want to be. I want it not only for this team, but for me personally. To see where I’m at, you know? To see where this team is at, to see where I can get this team to.’
What is this strange sensation of, how-do-you-say, confidence in my chest?
In which a friend of mine gets an email from THE Pete Townshend.
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 03, 2008 at 11:26AM2 Comments
So, real quick cool story.
The ladyfriend works with a girl named Kelly. Kelly is, perhaps, more of a music geek than I am. In particular she loves the Brit-Pop. She collects photos and runs web groups and even corresponds with some of the fixtures that dominated London’s Mod years.
So, anyway, earlier this year in coordination with some festival for the dearly departed ex-Faces bassist Ronnie Lane, Kelly planned a trip to England. She noticed that during the dates she would be in Jolly Ol’ Pete Townshend (the godlike guitar genius behind The Who) would be celebrating his birthday. Kelly, being the lovable nerd she is, decided that since she already knew (somehow) where Pete lived, she would make him a birthday present. In this case a lovably dysfunctional scarf (it was her first knitting project ever, you see).
On the given day she and a friend took the Tube to Townshend’s pad and left a small package on his doorstep. In it was the scarf and a picture with a note on it giving her email address. The idea was to let Pete put a face to the gift so he wouldn’t think a crazy person had soaked a scarf in cyanide or something. (Because crazy people don’t leave gifts on strangers doorsteps…)
And that was it. A sweet gesture from a devout fan. That is until yesterday when Kelly got an email from…PETEEFFINGTOWNSHEND. ARRRRGGGGHHHH! Pete just wanted to say thanks for the scarf and to thank her knitting it for him.
How awesome, right? The lesson here is: When stalking your idol in a foreign country, knitted scarves work WAY better than creepy “we should be together” poetry and posterboard signs made with your own hair.
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 03, 2008 at 10:49AM0 Comments
FRIDAY
I was listening to The Thermals’ last album, the excellent The Body, The Blood, The Machine, on the bike ride into work this morning. This was a mistake. What with their furious riffing, lyrics about sticking it to The Man (in this case, the big bearded dude in the sky and his followers), and unbounded energy, my legs were pumping faster than they’re used to. I made record time and when I finally got to the office and off my bicycle, my legs felt like a pair of boiled carrots.
My point is this: The Thermals are great and one of the big reasons why Portland’s music scene is as amazing as it is. If you don’t already own the above album, please exit this blog, stand up, and run to your nearest record store as if your hair was on fire.
Here’s the thing: the guy-liner wearing dudes in Green Day are one of the biggest bands in the world, but The Thermals, who mine the same three-piece punk-pop territory (only about eight billion times better and more poignantly), have to work day jobs. Bad for them, good for us. That means more gigs like Friday’s intimate sweat factory at the Doug Fir. (They’re playing an all-ages show on Saturday at 5, also at the Doug Fir.) This is their last show before heading to Spain…so, obviously they’ll be huge international sensations and start wearing eyeliner any day now.
We tell ourselves that, ‘This year we’re going to beat the Christmas bulge. We’re going to work out in preparation for those holiday feasts. We. Will. Not. Gain. Weight.’ And then we sit on our backsides for the weeks leading up to the 25th in our offices and in our cars, gorge on food, and hate ourselves for the next few days until we make a New Years’ resolution about losing weight. It’s a vicious cycle.
And since it’s a foregone conclusion, why not watch someone else do something athletic?
Do Jump dance troupe’s Home for the Holidays is the perfect excuse to live vicariously. The visually dazzling acrobatics, aerial dances, live music, and comedy of Do Jump’s holiday show account for half of this two-act spectacular. They’re complemented by a newly arranged performance of Do Jump’s “The Doors”, a set piece featuring six doors and six acrobats. Things get hopping at 7:30 p.m.
SUNDAY
To close the weekend it’s a simple two-fer: America’s Largest Christmas Bazaar at the Expo Center (just typing those words sent cold chills of horror down my spine…gimme a second) and the Holiday Ale Festival at Pioneer Courthouse Square. Because if you do the former, you’re certainly going to need the later.
How did I survive 32 years of family holiday gatherings without alcohol?
Posted by: Bart Blasengame on Dec 02, 2008 at 10:53AM0 Comments
I haven’t lived near my family in twelve years. It’s not something I’m happy about, but until Arkansas establishes itself as a media mecca it’s necessary. This means usually spending one of the major holidays on my own, with friends, or with the family of a significant other. Specifically, for the last two years, this has meant spending the last couple of high holidays with the ladyfriend’s family, either in Seattle or Northern California.
The ladyfriend’s family is lovely and it is large. Even when just one side is gathered, it’s a coming-together that’s at least twenty-something strong. They are a gregarious bunch and, especially during the holidays, a little lubed up on good wine. Growing up in my devout Christian family, I didn’t drink alcohol during Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. And when I’m not hiding behind a computer keyboard I tend to be shy. When surrounded by strangers, I stick to the walls and corners and try not to look unoccupied.
This whole stealth thing can be a problem, though. Especially when, by the time you arrive at the shindig (as we did this past Thursday), everybody else, in true celebratory fashion, is half in the bag. This is even more of a concern when a certain member of the ladyfriend’s family (let’s call him “Bill”) is not just drunk, but belligerently so. He is the husband of the ladyfriend’s cousin, and as we wade into her family he spends the entirety of an awkwardly long hello hug telling her how hot she is. Then he turns to me. “You’re a good-looking dude, man! I mean, like, you could be a model. Y’all are a hot couple. Wow, you’re a handsome man …”
This goes on for a good five minutes until, feeling entirely too uncomfortable, I try and make a joke.
“So, Bill… You wanna make out?”
It seemed simple and ice-breaking enough, a light deflection to defuse the situation and let me reach the sweet, sweet succor of the beer cooler in the kitchen. But no. Bill was wasted. And, apparently, not in the mood to have his weird fixation with my appearance construed as some sort of come-on. Even in jest.
“What!?” he spat. “I will KICK your ass!”
To recap: Less than five minutes after walking into a room full of my ladyfriend’s kin, I’d been challenged to a fight by a barefoot drunk.
Now, to be fair, Bill quickly reined himself in and realized that I didn’t really want to swap spit with him in front of his wife and kids. Later in the evening, in fact, we actually bonded over SEC football, quoting forty-times, coaching changes, and good-natured smack talk like it was tender poetry.
Of course, by that time, I was riding a nice beer buzz too.
Which leads me to a question I’m still twisting about in my head: How did I survive thirty-two years of family holiday gatherings without alcohol?
More important: How will I survive Christmas in Arkansas this year with not a drop to drink?
Bart Blasengame is a senior editor at Portland Monthly magazine. A native of Arkansas, he comes to Portland after spending six years as a staffer at Details magazine in New York City, where, he admits with much shame, he helped popularize the term “metrosexual.” The line to punch him in the stomach begins at the corner of SW Oak and Broadway. Blasengame has three dogs (one of which is named after his personal hero W. Axl Rose), a patient girlfriend, and a unhealthy obsession with ping-pong, Intervention, Razorback football, and AC/DC karaoke.
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Bart Blasengame’s dim-lit corner of the world revolves around local arts and entertainment: Previews, reviews, and small features. But since this is his domain (and since he runs almost entirely on caffeine and snark) he’ll also pontificate on the world around him in his own wise-ass way. Other times he’ll just poke things with a stick.
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