News from Tualatin
News from Tualatin
We are being seduced by the cell phone.
I admit up front that, in spite of my well-known affinity for gadgets, I am not a fan of cell phones. Although I generally agree with all the normal objections (that they somehow make people thoughtless and rude, that they make people drive as if they're drunk, and they make people walk down the street apparently babbling to them selves like those loons we used to cross the street to avoid), my main objection stems from a fear instilled in me by Martha Mitchell.
No, not Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone With The Wind, Martha Mitchell, wife of Richard Nixon's indicted co-conspiritor and attorney general, John Mitchell. Margaret, for those of you who don't remember (or were unborn at the time), was infamous for a number of reasons, one of which was having a princess phone installed in her bathroom. I thought at the time, "Oh, my God! Are we to have no place, no time, where we can be LEFT ALONE?!?" The cell phone rings to tell you that the answer to this question is now clearly, "no."
Nevertherless, we are living here in Tualatin without any traditional "land line" phone at all, depending entirely on our cell phone to carry the entire telephonic load. And it's working amazingly well!
At home, weeks literally go by without any cell phone calls incoming or outgoing, and very few "land line" calls, either.
But, since we're here in Tualatin, we've been hearing from people we only rarely hear from at all, and the phone has been busy indeed. People call our number, and because the signal here is strong, they think we are in Colorado Springs. This has led to some weird conversations, like an invitation to go out to dinner in C.S. one evening, and an offer to teach at Pikes Peak Community College this up-coming semester, each caller thinking we were at home. It's nice to hear from people for whatever reason, but it's a little dis-orienting until one or both parties realizes we're in Portland, and they're in CS or wherever.
Not that you can count on that, though. Yesterday, we got a call from a cousin of Karen's who lives in Nebraska, and was staying with mutual relatives in Denver last week. When she called, to ask if we would like to go out to dinner, we explained that we are now in Portland (we never say Tualatin, 'cause who the hell knows where Tualatin is?) She said, "Yeah, me too!" She is here temporarily for a conference at Portland State. So, you can't assume anything.
(It was a nice dinner, though. We went to the South Park Restaurant. No connection to the skanky tv cartoon show. This is a nice restaurant in downtown Portland that features a gigantic bronze salmon exploding through the bricks above the entrance. Ah, Portland!)
Last night, we went with the Kunzes (i.e. Morgan and Aaron) to the taping of the radio show "Live Wire," which I mentioned earlier. It was a hoot - kinda like the Portland version of "A Prairie Home Companion." The featured act was the singer and pianist of "Pink Martini," one of our favorite bands. There was also a klezmer house band, and an audience haiku contest. Ah, Portland.
Afterwards, Karen and I headed back to our apartment in beautiful Tualatin (which apartment, by the way, I now know to be located equidistant between the previously-mentioned Wanker's Corner and "Jiggles" nightclub for men, featuring live dancers.) We are learing our way around town, so we have sketched out a few reliable routes, experimenting a little bit each day with small variations.
Unfortunately, our typical route was blocked by a terrible accident, and the interstate was closed down for what turned out to be twelve hours. We're flexible, so we turned around and joggled over to familiar, but less direct, route "B." Which was subject to a 45-minute delay due to night construction activities.
So we turned around and attempted to find alternate route "C;" less familiar, but doable. Yeah, right, maybe in the daytime and with a map!
For the last several days, there have been front-page stories about a series of shootings in a particular area of downtown Portland. I can now drive you right there. As we circled one block for the third time, trying to find the dag-blasted on-ramp for the freeway, a police car stopped suddenly, immediately in front of us, and the officer jumped out and started hollering at a group of profoundly lubricated young people on the sidewalk. These may have been the same young people we saw on a previous orbit exchanging money and packages of some sort. Or maybe not.
Karen called Morgan on our cell phone and begged her to tell us how to get the hell out of there at about the same time that I saw a sign for a street I actually recognized. So, we found our way home.
Unfortunately, we neglected to call Morgan back to tell her we were okay. As a result, both Karen and I received e-mails from Morgan and Aaron which had a slightly worried tone. Ah, Portland.
Today went much better. We went to pick up our pickup, to the tune of nealry $1000, only to find that the problem we took it in to have fixed was unchanged. This confirms Riley's Rule of Auto Repair (and why you'll always be unhappy about it):
We hire mechanics to FIX our car; they think they have been hired to work on our car.
Big difference.
Love to all.
p.s. If you haven't seen Morgan's picture with the baby on board, please go immediately to:
(just click on it.)
posted by Mique @ 1:25 AM
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