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So as per usual we were talking about porn, the topic at hand being the website Slasher's been hired to work on. The website involves a lot of specialized fantasy-sex multimedia--literal fantasy sex, as in magical sex. [profile] drawgirl was elucidating the manifold possibilities to [profile] spacecowboytom in the backseat of the car in a perfect monotone: "You can have vampire on werewolf, vampire on fairy, vampire on elf, vampire on dark elf, vampire on succubus..werewolf on fairy, werewolf on elf, werewolf on dark elf, werewolf on..."  The three of us busily came up with various other magic-sex opportunities (centaurs, mermaids, time travelers, Ziggy Stardust, etc).

me: What about superheroes? What about like magical superheroes? Like Dr. Weird. Isn't he a magician superhero? Could you have superhero on werewolf?
drawgirl: Er...do you mean Dr. Strange?
me: Whatever. Sure, Dr. Strange.
drawgirl: (pause) Well sure, but only if he was a magic magician.
me: Oh, a magic magician? Really? Was he magic? Did the magician have some kind of magic powers that made him magical? Thanks for specifying.
drawgirl: You know, as opposed to someone who was bitten by a radioactive magician.
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Suddenly, in the middle of Powells, weighted down by the books in my basket, everything re-aligned itself and I was left to marvel at how much stress can make you forget yourself. Most the reading I'd been doing in the previous months, since the upheaval and uprooting and reschooling, had served the absolutely linked functions of survival and distraction. The fiction had impacted thinly, the reading a function of habit more than devotion. Which was not to say the reading had been poor, or wasted; but I was suddenly recalled to the bottomless passions the best fiction opened to me when I was awake enough to let it.

Yes I know this is overwrought. I'm reading Ann Radcliffe right now. Cut me some slack.
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Many glasses of wine later, [profile] drawgirl and I had resolved all the details of my wedding. Not only will it be a theme wedding, but it will be a pirate theme wedding. And not only that but it will begin with the boys on one sailboat and the girls on the other sailboat and the girls boarding the boy sailboat (maybe while swinging on rigging lines!?!?!?) and grabbing the boys and taking them back to the girl sailboat and then the wedding happens! I plan to wear a blue naval jacket and a hat with a feather. AND there will be rum.

No this is not a wedding announcement, by the way. This is just the wine.
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Every year on TV we watch the same Garfield special, the same Charlie Brown special, and so on, all of which were first animated back in the early eighties. Well, if they can milk those cash-cows year after year, I can replay my Shang-Hai Tunnel post from last Halloween. My parents were in town for a visit and I'd always wanted to take one of the official Shang-Hai Tunnel tours in Portland. They're supposedly the most haunted spot in Portland, if you believe in that sort of thing, and if you don't, they're still wicked awesome as historical artifacts of Portland's seedier days. We didn't see any ghosties, but the photos were kind of interesting. CLICK IF YOU DARES.

 

ghostly musings of an improbable nature, plus pictures )

 

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Today was the first grey rainy day in a while. The rain suits me, to be honest. It's easy on nerves that are sometimes shiver-tight. The colors are quiet and the air smells good through most of the winter. Good book weather, good library weather, good writing weather. I complain about Portland's rain, sometimes wish we had some violence to the weather, some drama. Thunderstorms, temper tantrums. It's nice once in a while. But all in all I am content with the gentleness.

This time of year makes me feel suddenly eighteen again, my first Portland winter, the way the water seems to buoy up depression without breaking it. It's not a bad feeling.

I grew up in Anchorage, where there are three seasons.
1. snow and dark
2. mud and snow
3. exuberance

There are things I always miss, always love about Alaska. But one of the most exciting things for me upon coming down this way was the turning of seasons. I don't always adapt to new things well. I'm not very zen. But the one shift I can embrace, always, is the movement from the white hot sun of August to the gentler gold of September. The breeze carrying moisture through the town, taking us into the calming rains, dove colored sky and leaves drooping under wet. The sun finally cracking through the tedious grey in May. The erratic growth spurts of the days into summer again. You never get tired of the weather, because it is  never here for long. That is where I love impermanence.
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We all know of the ancient Manichean polarity between ninja and pirates. Ninja and pirates have been mortal enemies since the dawn of the intarweb, and even today the Venn diagram of their crossing--that narrow slice of overlap between Japan and the Carribean--clatters loudly with the sounds of their weapons.

But today I found out startling news.

Portland, long a harbor to pirate bands such as the dearly departed Pirate Jenny, the now defunct Dolomites, and the beloved (may they thrive forever) Captain Bogg and Salty, is faced now with a new threat.

That's right. There's a ninja band.

I have not yet encountered this group. This is unsurprising because they are, after all, ninja. Their appearances must have been cloaked under black wing of night. Perhaps that log I encountered on a walk the other day was in fact a Fist of Dishonor member who, alterted to my presence through her superior senses, vanished before I could see her.

That said, I (admittedly a member of the opposite camp; see icon) now know their website. I will report back as soon as new intelligence is uncovered.

The next question is probably: do we need to fear ninja attack at the next Festival de Piratas?
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Drawgirl, Spacecowboy, and I were out for a walk last month to get a bubble tea when we saw the first one. It was right in front of the Plaid Pantry on Woodstock, perched on the curb. A small plastic appaloosa horse was tied to an iron ring with wire rope. I stopped in my tracks. I stared at it. Drawgirl, always quick on the uptake, looked cooly at me and said, "What? Can you see a better spot to hitch up your horse?"

A few weeks later we saw another one, this one outside the Coffee Cat. And another near the Delta, and another up by the library. Every time I saw one I just stopped and reveled in the perfect weirdness. It reminded me of the random "Kommunal Shit Collective" sort of thing I loved to see back at Reed. You know, you go to sleep one night, and the next morning someone's made a sculpture out of shopping carts on the front lawn, or has covered the roof of the health center with furry multi-colored tribbles. That sort of thing. Random acts of absurd art. These horses improved my quality of life more than you probably want to believe.

Turns out this is part of something called the Portland Street Pony Project. These people are like ninja, disappearing and leaving a small plastic pony instead of a log. They've been encouraging community members to participate, hitching plastic stallions all over town. To which I say: fuck yeah! I'm on it!

Check out their gallery on the above link. Seriously, it will make your freaking day.

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In case you're distressed by recent articles of morons inducing labor to avoid birthing the antichrist...

Here in Portland we're actively welcoming him. 

http://www.johnson970.com/stationevents/hah.php

Where's my Rob Zombie CD? It seems imperative.

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December 2009

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