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.

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.)

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)