Accredit this, y'all: Outside of water sports, Pinkwater is not into sports. But even he knows that in no other state in this great land are the mascots at the biggest schools as hillbilly shitkicker as Oregon's.
And because the unenlightened citizens of this state never leave, never venture out into the wider spaces and bigger cities, they continue to define themselves well into middle age and beyond as "Ducks" or "Beavers," much like a 20-something Dairy Queen employee and on-again, off-again community college matriculation expert defines himself by the Class of 2003 tassle hanging off the rear-view mirror of his slammed Datsun or what have you.
At least Florida has Hurricanes, Gators and Seminoles. Georgia has Bulldogs and Yellow Jackets, which provide nasty bites and stings, respectively.
A duck is something little kids do when something is thrown at them.
A beaver is another word for vagina and its environs.
Are you a duck or a beaver? I honestly couldn't give a shit, and could happily go the rest of my days without hearing some boastful provincial declaring his ardent love for his alma-doesn't-mater.
I know! How about you all eat a big one, and split the difference.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Backing into parking spaces-slash-electing cretins
You may think ol' Pinkwater is grasping at straws, mocking the backing-into-parking-space thing, but these maroons think they're saving themselves some trouble, or being sporty or, or ...
I don't know. Don't care.
Just watch who's doing it. It's a good measure of class. Heck, they might even have one of those "in memory of" memorial tributes on their rear windshield, which is another post entirely. What's the tribute, people? A sign on a piece of shit SUV? Mmkay ...
Ol' Pinkwater hates the very rich and wants to like the very poor if they were more like the poor you see in movies and not the poor you see at Wal-Mart or Albertson's on a Saturday afternoon.
I think these space-backer-inners are trying to prove what good drivers they are. Uh-huh. You can go backward AND stay in the lines. Oh, let's just cue the applause for you! Your boy Dale Earnhardt woulda been proud.
Sorry. I'm conducting some class warfare because these are the same idjits that are going to try to elect Palin and the same retards that have been fucking up the country for 8 years. Deficit? War? Yay!
Go ahead and vote for Palin. BTW, who's that cadaverous fellow next to her? Why that's John McCain, war hero! Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.
By the way, the rich hate you and are just using you and your knee-jerk patriotism and hatred of abortion to elect people who will turn their back on you so fast it'd make your head spin like your steering wheel as you're pulling out of a spot you've backed into.
I don't know. Don't care.
Just watch who's doing it. It's a good measure of class. Heck, they might even have one of those "in memory of" memorial tributes on their rear windshield, which is another post entirely. What's the tribute, people? A sign on a piece of shit SUV? Mmkay ...
Ol' Pinkwater hates the very rich and wants to like the very poor if they were more like the poor you see in movies and not the poor you see at Wal-Mart or Albertson's on a Saturday afternoon.
I think these space-backer-inners are trying to prove what good drivers they are. Uh-huh. You can go backward AND stay in the lines. Oh, let's just cue the applause for you! Your boy Dale Earnhardt woulda been proud.
Sorry. I'm conducting some class warfare because these are the same idjits that are going to try to elect Palin and the same retards that have been fucking up the country for 8 years. Deficit? War? Yay!
Go ahead and vote for Palin. BTW, who's that cadaverous fellow next to her? Why that's John McCain, war hero! Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.
By the way, the rich hate you and are just using you and your knee-jerk patriotism and hatred of abortion to elect people who will turn their back on you so fast it'd make your head spin like your steering wheel as you're pulling out of a spot you've backed into.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Blowing stuff up
Yes, knuckle-scraping men the world over can't resist uniting fuse and match. But each July Fourth here in Oregon, I realize the more rural, less urban you are, the more you're all about the fire, crackers.
What gets me is that the thrill of seeing stuff go "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ... pop!" is so exciting to people here, there and everywhere that the most tinder-dry of conditions in the high desert does not faze them for a moment. Let's tune in to an actual conversation that could have taken place once:
"I dunno, Bob, uh, it's pretty dry out here."
"Fuck that, dude. Let's set this on fire and see what it does."
"Cool! Dunno what I was thinking, bro. Fire it up!"
And, thus, we have wildfires. In truth (well truth as related to this blog and as Avi Pinkwater sees it), I'm surprised that forests and ecosystems and what-not that rely on forest fires for their health ever survived without the intervention of man -- and man-made fireworks.
Somewhere, Smoky the Bear is contemplating his next meal. Good thing he's afraid he could catch stupidity from eating humans.
*UPDATE* At 2:45 a.m. last night -- technically, July 6 -- some white trash neighbor or another was shooting off screamers, awaking a sleeping Pinkwater. They, or the spectators they attracted, were even cheering delightedly, because people who are awake and doing this sort of thing in the middle of the night are retarded and will scream with delight at things that go whistling into the sky. I wish debris from space had landed screaming on them. I'd have cheered.
What gets me is that the thrill of seeing stuff go "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ... pop!" is so exciting to people here, there and everywhere that the most tinder-dry of conditions in the high desert does not faze them for a moment. Let's tune in to an actual conversation that could have taken place once:
"I dunno, Bob, uh, it's pretty dry out here."
"Fuck that, dude. Let's set this on fire and see what it does."
"Cool! Dunno what I was thinking, bro. Fire it up!"
And, thus, we have wildfires. In truth (well truth as related to this blog and as Avi Pinkwater sees it), I'm surprised that forests and ecosystems and what-not that rely on forest fires for their health ever survived without the intervention of man -- and man-made fireworks.
Somewhere, Smoky the Bear is contemplating his next meal. Good thing he's afraid he could catch stupidity from eating humans.
*UPDATE* At 2:45 a.m. last night -- technically, July 6 -- some white trash neighbor or another was shooting off screamers, awaking a sleeping Pinkwater. They, or the spectators they attracted, were even cheering delightedly, because people who are awake and doing this sort of thing in the middle of the night are retarded and will scream with delight at things that go whistling into the sky. I wish debris from space had landed screaming on them. I'd have cheered.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Appalachian, Celtic and other imported music
Seriously, what is the deal with Oregonians and their love of bluegrass and Celtic music? They're way too tall to be leprechauns, and most of these people don't seem all that Irish.
And bluegrass. Ugh. Honestly, what is there to say? I know you expect more yuks in this blog, but seriously. I can't even get it up to make fun of bluegrass. It's like kryptonite to a guy raised on electric guitars. It's the opposite of awe-inspiring. It's awe-draining.
In terms of music forms that need to be hung up, bluegrass is up there with, sorry purists and Americana lovers, the blues. Boring! By and large, bluegrass band names have to be the least creative since the '90s skatastic ska revival. They love to put "ramblers" in the name, as in "Puke Lovin' Ramblers." Well ramble on, please, away from my ear space.
But the biggest mystery of all is how much Oregonians love Billy Joel. Every one of them owns at least two copies of Glass Houses. They're issued at the hospital, like infant car seats. "Pressure," "Uptown Girl," "River of Dreams" and "Piano Man": You name it, it's blasting from SUVs and hybrids alike.
Not really. Billy Joel is the furthest thing from the collective Oregonian mind, which is basically like one big solid gray lump of damaged brain. (Imagine the biggest wad of gum ever, and that's the collective Oregonian mind.)
Perhaps that's to their detriment.
Say what you will about ol' Billy, the guy could write a hook, and knew when to end a song. As recalled by your boy Avi over here at Stuff Oregonians Like's office, there weren't a lot of fiddles and harps and shit in his music. Plus, he wrote "Only the Good Die Young," and going by his logic, Celtic and bluegrass can't be any good, because they refuse to die.
Pinkwater out, bizitches.
And bluegrass. Ugh. Honestly, what is there to say? I know you expect more yuks in this blog, but seriously. I can't even get it up to make fun of bluegrass. It's like kryptonite to a guy raised on electric guitars. It's the opposite of awe-inspiring. It's awe-draining.
In terms of music forms that need to be hung up, bluegrass is up there with, sorry purists and Americana lovers, the blues. Boring! By and large, bluegrass band names have to be the least creative since the '90s skatastic ska revival. They love to put "ramblers" in the name, as in "Puke Lovin' Ramblers." Well ramble on, please, away from my ear space.
But the biggest mystery of all is how much Oregonians love Billy Joel. Every one of them owns at least two copies of Glass Houses. They're issued at the hospital, like infant car seats. "Pressure," "Uptown Girl," "River of Dreams" and "Piano Man": You name it, it's blasting from SUVs and hybrids alike.
Not really. Billy Joel is the furthest thing from the collective Oregonian mind, which is basically like one big solid gray lump of damaged brain. (Imagine the biggest wad of gum ever, and that's the collective Oregonian mind.)
Perhaps that's to their detriment.
Say what you will about ol' Billy, the guy could write a hook, and knew when to end a song. As recalled by your boy Avi over here at Stuff Oregonians Like's office, there weren't a lot of fiddles and harps and shit in his music. Plus, he wrote "Only the Good Die Young," and going by his logic, Celtic and bluegrass can't be any good, because they refuse to die.
Pinkwater out, bizitches.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Saying 'This is paradise'
Admittedly, I haven't heard this one in a while. Probably not since, oh, last fall. The reason for the paradisus interruptus is WINTER LASTS UNTIL JUNE HERE.
Whether native or newcomer, the idjits and beardos love telling you this is paradise. They say it again and again and again, then once more for good measure. They say it so much, with a glint (yes, crazed glint) in their eyes, and eventually you start to question their thinking, and possibly their motives. Are they trying to turn around the real estate mess by blurting out propaganda about paradise so that a visiting passerby might be convinced something that is not true IS true, and buy a still overpriced home?
Worse possibility: They mean it.
A year or two ago, I was talking to a guy who owns his own business in Bend. He'd moved here from Portland, I dunno, three years earlier, let's say.
"Why'd you pick Bend?" I asked.
He made that universal quick exhalation of derision and/or disbelief, "Pff," spread his arms, and said "I mean, look around" like I was the moron here.
That holds no weight for me. (The one about this being paradise; the one about my being a moron has potential.)
If I had any testosterone, I would have said, "That -- can I call it an argument? -- holds no weight for me. Please give me some actual words, brainchild."
It was a sunny day in probably August or so, but unlike the ardent (and forgetful!) fans of this supposed paradise and their head-ringing endorsements, I know another 7-month winter looming when I sense one.
Now this is paradise:
I've actually had the pleasure of living in the continental U.S.'s actual paradise, or the closest thing to it: Miami, Fla. No, not the one you know from TV shows and movies. Well, actually, sorta that, but in addition to gorgeous women, overdevelopment, hurricanes, bugs and mayhem, there are virtual jungles to explore, banyans to climb, mangrove trails to paddle down, and most importantly: all the oranges, mangos, grapefruit and coconuts you'd ever want to pick off your backyard tree and huck at Oregonians who would tell you this place, where the women have hairy legs, is paradise.
Yes, Oregon has mountains and forests and desert. A whole lot of barren-ass desert. Like, at least five times more desert than a place people widely call "paradise" should have.
Brainchild please, don't even talk to me about "the coast." The reason people call it the coast instead of "the beach" is because you don't swim or loiter on the beach. There are frigging seals and sea lions there, people. You don't see that shit at real paradises.
Oregon is so far north and, the part I live in, situated at such a high altitude, that it prevents paradise's prerequisites: Warmth, strong sun and the sonorous sound of palm tree fronds blowing in the wind.
Three other reasons this is not paradise, in case you're not convinced: 1) March, 2) April, and 3) May.
Enjoy the snow, rain and cold, beardos of paradise. The fleece looks great on you.
(Photo of the Miami skyline by BryanSereny via Flickr.)
Whether native or newcomer, the idjits and beardos love telling you this is paradise. They say it again and again and again, then once more for good measure. They say it so much, with a glint (yes, crazed glint) in their eyes, and eventually you start to question their thinking, and possibly their motives. Are they trying to turn around the real estate mess by blurting out propaganda about paradise so that a visiting passerby might be convinced something that is not true IS true, and buy a still overpriced home?
Worse possibility: They mean it.
A year or two ago, I was talking to a guy who owns his own business in Bend. He'd moved here from Portland, I dunno, three years earlier, let's say.
"Why'd you pick Bend?" I asked.
He made that universal quick exhalation of derision and/or disbelief, "Pff," spread his arms, and said "I mean, look around" like I was the moron here.
That holds no weight for me. (The one about this being paradise; the one about my being a moron has potential.)
If I had any testosterone, I would have said, "That -- can I call it an argument? -- holds no weight for me. Please give me some actual words, brainchild."
It was a sunny day in probably August or so, but unlike the ardent (and forgetful!) fans of this supposed paradise and their head-ringing endorsements, I know another 7-month winter looming when I sense one.
Now this is paradise:
I've actually had the pleasure of living in the continental U.S.'s actual paradise, or the closest thing to it: Miami, Fla. No, not the one you know from TV shows and movies. Well, actually, sorta that, but in addition to gorgeous women, overdevelopment, hurricanes, bugs and mayhem, there are virtual jungles to explore, banyans to climb, mangrove trails to paddle down, and most importantly: all the oranges, mangos, grapefruit and coconuts you'd ever want to pick off your backyard tree and huck at Oregonians who would tell you this place, where the women have hairy legs, is paradise.
Yes, Oregon has mountains and forests and desert. A whole lot of barren-ass desert. Like, at least five times more desert than a place people widely call "paradise" should have.
Brainchild please, don't even talk to me about "the coast." The reason people call it the coast instead of "the beach" is because you don't swim or loiter on the beach. There are frigging seals and sea lions there, people. You don't see that shit at real paradises.
Oregon is so far north and, the part I live in, situated at such a high altitude, that it prevents paradise's prerequisites: Warmth, strong sun and the sonorous sound of palm tree fronds blowing in the wind.
Three other reasons this is not paradise, in case you're not convinced: 1) March, 2) April, and 3) May.
Enjoy the snow, rain and cold, beardos of paradise. The fleece looks great on you.
(Photo of the Miami skyline by BryanSereny via Flickr.)
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Hunting
"If you're into pickup trucks
grown men shootin' little ducks
You're probably into drinkin' beer,
collecting guns and killing deer"
-"Lucho Lucholo," by Minimum Wage
I was walking when I saw a deer cross my path this morning. I'm nobody's hippie, but it was a quiet moment. Tranquil even. The deer saw me and worriedly trotted toward a bus stop full of middle-school types.
This being Oregon, and my mind working the way it does, I wondered how many of the mini hillbillies wished they had their pa's Smith & Wesson 38-caliber Glock rifle -- der! That's right, I'm making fun of guns! -- as the confused deer wandered into their neighborhood.
I know the defense, the logic, the received wisdom of hunters. Somehow, in spite of these guys' love of bulk Costco shopping, they still fancy themselves frontier-living trappers --the scrappy forebears who paved the way for the westward hos.
But you don't NEED to do it for survival. They kinda did. And I don't buy the argument that it helps winnow down the deer population. The grills of long-haul trucks seem to be doing a fine job of that.
Above all, it doesn't really matter to me why you do it, whether for sport or food. It's that I can't imagine the mind that wants to kill something, whether for sport or food. And I'm not a vegetarian -- I just recognize and accept that there's a different system in place that works well enough if I don't think too much about it. I know, I know. I'm weak. Spare me the lecture, Mr. Nugent.
Enough about me. Most of the hunters I've talked to seem like they have a little too much testosterone coursing through their chubby limbs. And what's with the dumb stickers of deer with big racks (the bad kind, not the awesome booby kind) on your F350s?
Are you advertising your "sport" for your fellow Neanderthals, or is it like a faux-Native-American-appreciation-of-the-thing-which-you-consume posture? If the latter, then why don't you go ahead and paste on stickers of beef jerky and oil barrels too?
I'm sure many hunters' rationalize killing deer for the freezer full of venison they'll have. Yeah? Well, if venison is so effing good, why is there not a bunch of it on special in the deli section of Albertson's, Safeway or Ray's along with all the other meats?
Here's why not: Because venison is a gamy, gross meat that, upon consuming, lowers your IQ and makes your womenfolk hairy and mole-ridden (judging purely on looks).
(Decal from www.cafepress.com/noveltystuff)
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Yakima vs. Thule
The answer to this dilemma, of course, is that you are a tool (rhymes with "Thule") and quite possibly an entrenched, full-fledged Oregonian if you have these kinds of problems in your life.
Here's the deal, broseph: I'm considering the purchase of a lifestyle-enhancing roof rack and a sleek, locking, streamlined box that will protect my gear -- fly-fishing reels or creels or whatever, extra tubes, lube and headlamps for my bike and full cavity searches (spelunking, anyone?) -- when I cruise around with it on top of my Subaru, Xterra and/or Prius. And face it: It'll look wicked bitchen plastered with Dutch Bros stickers.
What? There are two popular brands? Shite, dude. Which kind do I buy?! Do I get a Yakima Roof Rack or a Thule?! Man, are decisions ever hard to make. My ... my brain hurts. Help!
But cognitive dissonance is in the mind of the beholder, and I'm nothing if not here to help. Because I know what a sad, terrible corner you could paint yourself into should you make the wrong decision.
Ready for a little Pinkwater succor, sucka? OK then.
1. Go to the roof rack store and yak with the sales person. (Yes, they actually have stores that cater to gearheads and all their roof-rack needs. If that ain't Xtreme, I don't know what is.)
2. Buy one, or go to wherever they sell the other brand and buy the other brand there. It doesn't matter.
3. Mount your new Thule or Yakima cargo box on your roof according to instructions.
4. Lock yourself in it, because that would be really Xtreme. Ask your friend to help you out. No, it's never Xtreme to require a friend's help under any circumstances, but dude, sometimes you just have to ask for help.
5. Finally, if you don't suffocate immediately, ask a friend or family member to drive you into a cold mountain lake. Remind them that it's the least they could do since this will be the last favor you'll ever ask of them.
Perhaps they could use your newly purchased cargo box as your coffin.
Admit it: That would be 101 percent punk rock, broseph.
(Photo from Yakima.com)
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Giving kids dumb names
Let's build on the last post a little.
Go to any playground with your kids and you will hear dumb, pretentious name after dumber, more pretentious name being trotted out: "Soleil! Time to eat your rice cakes and drink your vitamin water!"
"China! Don't you dare take off your helmet!"
Yesterday at a museum I heard a guy call his kid "Reno." Honestly, what are these parents thinking? And why are so many such lemmings that they employ the same logic? I'm not talking semi-ridicule-worthy, like Jaden or Tanner. I just think of those as being left-coast names.
There are two modern methods for naming babies in Oregon:
1. Choose an awkward last name and insert it: Sellers, Rasmussen are two actual ones my kid's heard at school. So if you're thinking of a name for your baby, why not just grab a phone book and have at it.
I'm sure there are parents out there naming their kid Clooney or Pitt or Selleck in the false but cute hope that such a name will help them get over the hump of having two fools for parents. I've heard the name "Diesel" out there, too, which is extra-unfortunate because the lummox actor he is named after is a laughingstock. But if he's named after the totally rad, smelly fuel, then I am willing to eat crow. Kudos to you for having such a cool name, kid.
2. Unfold a map or open an atlas and jab your finger. Extra points (deducted) for geographical features. Native Americans were at least imaginative with Running Bear and what-not. Naming your kid Dallas or Sumpter isn't anything.
Wait. Yes it is. It is something to mock.
The latter is also how people here name their dogs, by the way. There seems to be a glaring lack of imagination when people name their pets (or kids), oh, say, "Hoodoo," a local ski facility (or "ski hill" in the lexicon) as well as at least one unfortunate dog.
Guess what? Naming your kid after a number is not hip. Didn't you see that episode of "Seinfeld"? All of your neighbors did, considering how much they STILL invoke the show, and it's been 10 years since its demise. But it's not "Seinfeld" they're laughing at -- it's you.
The funny thing about the ubiquitous name McKenzie is that it's both a river and a functional last name (e.g., Bob and Doug), so you're killing two birds with one stone. Inbred, retarded birds, perhaps, but still.
For all I know, this naming thing is a problem back east, too. I've heard there's been an explosion in strange, almost psychotic doggy love -- just like here -- but I'd wager that Oregon is on the leading edge of both these trends.
Baby names: Yet another reason smug Oregonians may want to rethink their pride just a little.
Go to any playground with your kids and you will hear dumb, pretentious name after dumber, more pretentious name being trotted out: "Soleil! Time to eat your rice cakes and drink your vitamin water!"
"China! Don't you dare take off your helmet!"
Yesterday at a museum I heard a guy call his kid "Reno." Honestly, what are these parents thinking? And why are so many such lemmings that they employ the same logic? I'm not talking semi-ridicule-worthy, like Jaden or Tanner. I just think of those as being left-coast names.
There are two modern methods for naming babies in Oregon:
1. Choose an awkward last name and insert it: Sellers, Rasmussen are two actual ones my kid's heard at school. So if you're thinking of a name for your baby, why not just grab a phone book and have at it.
I'm sure there are parents out there naming their kid Clooney or Pitt or Selleck in the false but cute hope that such a name will help them get over the hump of having two fools for parents. I've heard the name "Diesel" out there, too, which is extra-unfortunate because the lummox actor he is named after is a laughingstock. But if he's named after the totally rad, smelly fuel, then I am willing to eat crow. Kudos to you for having such a cool name, kid.
2. Unfold a map or open an atlas and jab your finger. Extra points (deducted) for geographical features. Native Americans were at least imaginative with Running Bear and what-not. Naming your kid Dallas or Sumpter isn't anything.
Wait. Yes it is. It is something to mock.
The latter is also how people here name their dogs, by the way. There seems to be a glaring lack of imagination when people name their pets (or kids), oh, say, "Hoodoo," a local ski facility (or "ski hill" in the lexicon) as well as at least one unfortunate dog.
Guess what? Naming your kid after a number is not hip. Didn't you see that episode of "Seinfeld"? All of your neighbors did, considering how much they STILL invoke the show, and it's been 10 years since its demise. But it's not "Seinfeld" they're laughing at -- it's you.
The funny thing about the ubiquitous name McKenzie is that it's both a river and a functional last name (e.g., Bob and Doug), so you're killing two birds with one stone. Inbred, retarded birds, perhaps, but still.
For all I know, this naming thing is a problem back east, too. I've heard there's been an explosion in strange, almost psychotic doggy love -- just like here -- but I'd wager that Oregon is on the leading edge of both these trends.
Baby names: Yet another reason smug Oregonians may want to rethink their pride just a little.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Weird names for stuff
Yurt = round tent cabin
checkstand = cash register
fifth-wheel = trailer
chautauqua = a kind of lecture or talk
no-host bar = cash bar
Freddie's = Fred Meyer
McMenamims = McMenamins
These terms are probably used elsewhere on earth, but I didn't encounter them when I lived there. There are probably better examples of this phenomenon, but I'm too tired to think of them. No-host bar is completely unnecessary. Cash bar says it all, people.
Freddie's is awesome because it captures people at their dumbest, and then some. Shortening an already short name and making it possessive is silly in a childish way. What possesses people to make Barnes & Noble "Barnes & Noble's" or Victoria's Secret "Victoria's Secrets"? I don't know. Perhaps it's a secrets.
McMenamins is a little out of place here, because it's a chain of bars and restaurants in the Beaver State -- remind me to post on that nickname sometime -- but there are a lot of people around here who get tongue-tied trying to pronounce McMenamins correctly. And I guaranfrickintee that there are people who pronounce it "Mcmenamins's," though thankfully I don't know any of them.
Related: People here seem pronounce genre "johnre," which I'd never before realized was a viable alternative to the far more melodious "zhenre." In their presence, you should never, ever pronounce the final "e" in coyote, or you'll hear about it. And never, ever pronounce "Nevada" in a way that reflects you know some Spanish. They're all about white-bred pronunciations here.
checkstand = cash register
fifth-wheel = trailer
chautauqua = a kind of lecture or talk
no-host bar = cash bar
Freddie's = Fred Meyer
McMenamims = McMenamins
These terms are probably used elsewhere on earth, but I didn't encounter them when I lived there. There are probably better examples of this phenomenon, but I'm too tired to think of them. No-host bar is completely unnecessary. Cash bar says it all, people.
Freddie's is awesome because it captures people at their dumbest, and then some. Shortening an already short name and making it possessive is silly in a childish way. What possesses people to make Barnes & Noble "Barnes & Noble's" or Victoria's Secret "Victoria's Secrets"? I don't know. Perhaps it's a secrets.
McMenamins is a little out of place here, because it's a chain of bars and restaurants in the Beaver State -- remind me to post on that nickname sometime -- but there are a lot of people around here who get tongue-tied trying to pronounce McMenamins correctly. And I guaranfrickintee that there are people who pronounce it "Mcmenamins's," though thankfully I don't know any of them.
Related: People here seem pronounce genre "johnre," which I'd never before realized was a viable alternative to the far more melodious "zhenre." In their presence, you should never, ever pronounce the final "e" in coyote, or you'll hear about it. And never, ever pronounce "Nevada" in a way that reflects you know some Spanish. They're all about white-bred pronunciations here.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Saying how long they have lived in Oregon
In the local newspaper, alongside the usual crazed letters, people are often given extra space to weigh in with their unsolicited opinions -- you know, like me with this blog. Often, below their signature, there is a tagline explaining their background, expertise, reason for caring. 19 out of 23 times it goes something like this:
Timmy Johnson has lived in Bend 11 years.
My assumption is that the guest author is allowed to give whatever info he or she thinks most important. I'd assume you would want to put something that would give you that little extra oomph of gravitas, maybe "So and so graduated with honors from Yale" or "This douchewit worked in lame-ass Salem for 30 years."
But what's considered paramount in importance in this area is how long you have lived here. In the real world, located back on earth, people would have laughed at you for this biographical tidbit of meaningless geography. But in this cliquish, stand-offish, niche-heavy community, the thinking -- that's a loose use of "thinking" -- is that the longer you've lived here, the more worth you have as a human.
Of course, the exact opposite is true, but let's give these geo-biography lessons some merit for two nanoseconds before we casually dismiss them. Extrapolating from their inclusion, we can see that this senseless, childish logic is somehow supposed to give whatever dumb thing they're opining in about -- how great or stupid the war is, how much you like/love/hate roundabout art, how awesome/great Bend is or used to be, whatever -- more sagacious backing. Supposedly. But guess what? They don't mean anything.
Let's say we're the first settlers, only I've been here 11 days to your measly 7. Does that give my arguments more weight? Hell to the no, if your brain works.
Unfortunately, we're surrounded by people whose brains do not work because they have not been sufficiently oxygenated nor supplied with the challenges and grit of urban life. They think that if you've lived here only, say, 3 years, you'd better keep your trap shut, interloper.
I love that when the New York Times wrote about Bend in 2002, the reporter thought to include this gem:
This "outdoorsman" --one of those hilarious labels that don't mean anything; I'm a naturalist myself! -- moved here and now hates people who behave exactly like himself? I guess I have a different perception of time than some people do, because even if it had been 30, 40 years since his move, he'd still be a self-hating Californian. Welcome to Hypocriteville, mayor Woodward.
It's the same everywhere. People move to a place they think is nice, then want to pull the door shut behind them. Perhaps unsurprisingly, some of the natives I've met are far less hostile or xenophobic, although many stand to profit from the growth.
All I know is that I hope I don't become like these people. Folks, if your long-time status as an Oregonian means so much to you, you should, I don't know, get something more going on in your life. Maybe volunteer? Or, I got it, keep quiet.
But you know where you can go if you're so miserable because the Oregon of right now is not the Oregon of whenever you got here? There's a whole vast desert to the east, clear through to Boise, and there are few if any Californians to hear your complaining. Go there and romanticize the hell out of that shit.
Timmy Johnson has lived in Bend 11 years.
My assumption is that the guest author is allowed to give whatever info he or she thinks most important. I'd assume you would want to put something that would give you that little extra oomph of gravitas, maybe "So and so graduated with honors from Yale" or "This douchewit worked in lame-ass Salem for 30 years."
But what's considered paramount in importance in this area is how long you have lived here. In the real world, located back on earth, people would have laughed at you for this biographical tidbit of meaningless geography. But in this cliquish, stand-offish, niche-heavy community, the thinking -- that's a loose use of "thinking" -- is that the longer you've lived here, the more worth you have as a human.
Of course, the exact opposite is true, but let's give these geo-biography lessons some merit for two nanoseconds before we casually dismiss them. Extrapolating from their inclusion, we can see that this senseless, childish logic is somehow supposed to give whatever dumb thing they're opining in about -- how great or stupid the war is, how much you like/love/hate roundabout art, how awesome/great Bend is or used to be, whatever -- more sagacious backing. Supposedly. But guess what? They don't mean anything.
Let's say we're the first settlers, only I've been here 11 days to your measly 7. Does that give my arguments more weight? Hell to the no, if your brain works.
Unfortunately, we're surrounded by people whose brains do not work because they have not been sufficiently oxygenated nor supplied with the challenges and grit of urban life. They think that if you've lived here only, say, 3 years, you'd better keep your trap shut, interloper.
I love that when the New York Times wrote about Bend in 2002, the reporter thought to include this gem:
Robert Woodward, 63, artist, writer, outdoorsman and mayor of Bend in the late 1990's, grimaces at the city's growth and the loss of mountain biking trails. A migrant from California more than two decades ago, he calls the Californians rushing here lately 'the locusts of our time' ...
This "outdoorsman" --one of those hilarious labels that don't mean anything; I'm a naturalist myself! -- moved here and now hates people who behave exactly like himself? I guess I have a different perception of time than some people do, because even if it had been 30, 40 years since his move, he'd still be a self-hating Californian. Welcome to Hypocriteville, mayor Woodward.
It's the same everywhere. People move to a place they think is nice, then want to pull the door shut behind them. Perhaps unsurprisingly, some of the natives I've met are far less hostile or xenophobic, although many stand to profit from the growth.
All I know is that I hope I don't become like these people. Folks, if your long-time status as an Oregonian means so much to you, you should, I don't know, get something more going on in your life. Maybe volunteer? Or, I got it, keep quiet.
But you know where you can go if you're so miserable because the Oregon of right now is not the Oregon of whenever you got here? There's a whole vast desert to the east, clear through to Boise, and there are few if any Californians to hear your complaining. Go there and romanticize the hell out of that shit.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Recumbent bikes
I went broad in my first post, obvious in my second, so let's get into a niche and be slightly more arcane in this one. Unfortunately, recumbent bikes are not arcane enough. Their popularity seems to be growing, and in 15 or 20 years, I will probably be forced to saddle up on one myself.
Why would I someday ride something I'm now mocking? If you must be that personal, it will be, I predict, due to prostate problems, since it's usually old white guys you see riding them. And all old white dudes have giant swollen prostates, right?
Look at the guy in the photo. He already rolls on a small recumbent and, from his expression, is fighting a case of Recumbent Envy -- or maybe he's just insecure about the size of his recumbent. He is also wearing slip-on checkerboard Vans, so you know he passed the cool test in 1982 and just kept on pedaling. BTW, the Oompa-Loompas called and want their hair returned.
If you've never seen a recumbent bicycle wiggling uphill towards, say, Mt. Bachelor, you haven't experienced the feeling of wanting to reach out and knock someone over. Often they have orange geek flags waving on a long pole on the bike, presumably for better visibility being all radly low-slung and all. I like to ride my bicycle, too, but if I have to look like that, then, well, no.
And, no, you do not look like you're riding a chopper.
Maybe it goes back to childhood for me. In the late 1970s, all I had was a worn-out Big Wheel, the brittle plastic wheels wearing through from so many then-cool, now-rad asphalt skids. Then along came the Huffy Green Machine, which totally blew away the Big Wheeling 6-year-olds community in my home city. I'll venture to say, just for shiggles, that the choppered-out Green Machine might have been the birth of what came to be called "extreme."
So I guess recumbent bikers resemble, to me, overgrown children on Green Machines. That's it! The problem is with me, not the cyclists who are saving their knees and taints.
I rushed to judge. I take it back.
Just kidding. Recumbent-riding adults are the "take my lunch money" crowd of the bicycling world.
(Photo by Payton Chung via Flickr.)
Monday, April 21, 2008
University of Oregon
Sure, in any state the denizens love their big college team. But take a state with an isolationist bent, a solitary pro team, and people with more pride than shame, one giant middling institution, and you have a recipe for Oregon with a side of fashion disaster.
Many is the time you'll be walking along a trail (de rigeur in Oregon), minding your own business as you try to figure out what all the fuss is about, only to pass a middle-aged couple adorned in matching green and gold with either a big O -- not in the awesome sense of "big O" if you have any functioning brain cells -- or the whole word "Oregon," in case the other people subjected to your garments are too dumb to figure out what the colors and giant "O" might possibly refer to.
And 98 percent of the time it's not even a game day, which is when, in saner states where things work right, you'd be subjected to these silly duds.
Think about it: This means these people woke up, at worse hung over and in need of caffeine, and they still pulled their thoughts together to come up with matching sweatshirts and hats. Bravo, friends. Bra-vo.
There's even Duck Store, which conveniently lets you know it's a store by putting store in its name, dedicated to outfitting these people in their preferred attire. Not just people, but their dogs, too. That couple, on the trail? They had a dog on the leash, and guess what? It's flying the colors too, yo.
Aw, how cute! Back at the parking lot, look, there's an SUV with a gigantic green O decal on the back. It's a more succinct way of saying, "I am bland, can't think for myself and peaked in college." If you liked that one, you'll love the drive home, because there will be more of those stickers on other SUVs, maybe a ginormous truck or two, because if there's on thing these presumably college-educated geniuses have figured out, there is safety in numbers.
(Photo from UODuckstore.com)
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Oregon, Ho!
From the altitude sickness of the high desert to the rain-soaked coast, Oregonians LOVE Oregon. They can't get enough of it. They grow up here and never leave. The only state geography they need to know is wedged between Washington (yay!) and California (boo!). To the east, across a wide expanse of suicide-inducing desert, lies the forbidden land.
Careful: There be dragons!
Why ever leave? Oregon has everything an Oregonian can't get enough of: Dogs. Mountains. Interminable winters. Nike. Subarus. Other Oregonians. Extreme! athleticism. Dogs. Skiing. Golf. Parks. More Oregonians. Caves. Dogs. Buttes. Coffee. Forests to cut down. More bluegrass than you can shake an Appalachian at. Trader Joe's. Snowmobiles. Fleece. Dogs wearing fleece outfits. Acid casualty hippies. Mustaches. Pretentious beer aficionados. Red Robin. Descendants of pioneers. People that really, really believe in Bigfoot. Swimming dogs. Camping. Roadkill. To round it off, there's, like, rocks and stuff.
Here's a picture of an Oregon dream vacation:
It's a regular microcosm of America, with waterfalls. Only, macrocosmic America is not as awesome to the Oregonian mind, which has generally ventured as far away as the states of Hawaii and Alaska.
Remember the McDLT? The hot stays hot and the cold stays cold? Oregon is like that, only the wet side's wet and the dry side's chill! There's very little humidity on the dry side and the sun purportedly shines there 300 days a year because GOD LOVES OREGONIANS. People from Portland call Central and Eastern Oregon "paradise," even though their attempts to lobby the rubes in Salem (the state capitol) for a palpable spring season have gone unanswered. Not enough funds -- because if there's one thing Oregonians hate, it's Californians. If there's a second thing they hate, it's the thought of a sales tax.
Still, Oregonians are a proud, curious people. Most of their trips involve hitching the fifth-wheel to the F350 and driving to other parts of the state to see relatives. It is required, if you are a resident of Oregon, to own an equal number of SUVs and RVs and take several trips in them. During get-togethers, they discuss how awesome they are because their ancestors came to Oregon in ancient times.
"I remember it like it was, eh, 30, 40 years ago," Granny pipes up. It is possible for several generations to amass at these reunions, as the average couple starts breeding right out of high school, if not earlier.
Then they go hunting. Because they are not allowed to shoot Californians, they take their aggression out on furry animals who will end up in a freezer marked "venizen."
That's their misspelling, not mine. This blog will take an socio-anthropological look at Oregon and its proud, indigenous (for two or three whole generations!), navel-gazing, narcissistic, xenophobic pioneer stock.
(Gbaku photo via Flickr)
Careful: There be dragons!
Why ever leave? Oregon has everything an Oregonian can't get enough of: Dogs. Mountains. Interminable winters. Nike. Subarus. Other Oregonians. Extreme! athleticism. Dogs. Skiing. Golf. Parks. More Oregonians. Caves. Dogs. Buttes. Coffee. Forests to cut down. More bluegrass than you can shake an Appalachian at. Trader Joe's. Snowmobiles. Fleece. Dogs wearing fleece outfits. Acid casualty hippies. Mustaches. Pretentious beer aficionados. Red Robin. Descendants of pioneers. People that really, really believe in Bigfoot. Swimming dogs. Camping. Roadkill. To round it off, there's, like, rocks and stuff.
Here's a picture of an Oregon dream vacation:
It's a regular microcosm of America, with waterfalls. Only, macrocosmic America is not as awesome to the Oregonian mind, which has generally ventured as far away as the states of Hawaii and Alaska.
Remember the McDLT? The hot stays hot and the cold stays cold? Oregon is like that, only the wet side's wet and the dry side's chill! There's very little humidity on the dry side and the sun purportedly shines there 300 days a year because GOD LOVES OREGONIANS. People from Portland call Central and Eastern Oregon "paradise," even though their attempts to lobby the rubes in Salem (the state capitol) for a palpable spring season have gone unanswered. Not enough funds -- because if there's one thing Oregonians hate, it's Californians. If there's a second thing they hate, it's the thought of a sales tax.
Still, Oregonians are a proud, curious people. Most of their trips involve hitching the fifth-wheel to the F350 and driving to other parts of the state to see relatives. It is required, if you are a resident of Oregon, to own an equal number of SUVs and RVs and take several trips in them. During get-togethers, they discuss how awesome they are because their ancestors came to Oregon in ancient times.
"I remember it like it was, eh, 30, 40 years ago," Granny pipes up. It is possible for several generations to amass at these reunions, as the average couple starts breeding right out of high school, if not earlier.
Then they go hunting. Because they are not allowed to shoot Californians, they take their aggression out on furry animals who will end up in a freezer marked "venizen."
That's their misspelling, not mine. This blog will take an socio-anthropological look at Oregon and its proud, indigenous (for two or three whole generations!), navel-gazing, narcissistic, xenophobic pioneer stock.
(Gbaku photo via Flickr)
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