Memorial Day 2015

Alternate title: My family, Sally, Sweet Pete, and the Cemetery Gates 

Memorial Day  weekend started for me around noon, last Saturday. But the Memorial Day 2015 story began about a year ago, in 2014, at Joe's Burgers and Bar. I was sitting at the bar with Sally,* enjoying happy hour drinks and eats (and probably also awaiting a to-go order for her to take home to her mother), which seemed to coincidentally happen with semi-regularity. 

"Pete's birthday is next weekend, you should go with me," Sally says.

"Who's Pete?"  I ask.

"My great, great  friend—we were even housemates at U of O. I love Pete, he's so great! Sweet Pete!! You'll have a great time!" 

"Ummmm ...  why would I go to Pete's birthday?  And why exactly would I have a great time?"

"Because he's awesome, Will!" 

"You'll have to at least try something better than that—I'm sure he's awesome if you say so ... but that's not the hook I'm looking for." I was always skeptical of Sally's intentions. Wrongly skeptical, as it always turned out; but I was skeptical, nonetheless. 

"Garcia Birthday Band is playing. You'll have a great time."

"Where?"

"Southeast."

"Southeast? So are we talking inner southeast ... or like east Gresham/west Sandy? Or like Georgia or South Carolina?"

"I don't know,  I think it's by Reed College."

"It? What's the venue called?"

"It's his house. GBB will be there. You'll have a good time and I'm planning to go with you."

"Okay, I'm probably in." Even as I said that, I thought the odds of me actually going were slim. Either I'd forget, or she would. (Again, I had a long history of badly misreading and miscalculating Sally).

"You're in, Will. Plan on it." She made sure we made eye contact as she spoke.

The following Saturday (which was also the summer solstice), I pick Sally up at 6. Her brother, Chipper, happens to be in town and it takes awhile for us to leave the house, which is a completely insignificant part of this story. We finally get out the door and head toward I-84 East.

"So, wait, whose birthday is this again, and who might I know here?"

"Pete's—Sweet Pete!—my college friend. We lived together, Will! You might know some people—I don't know who."

We arrive. Cool, nice house, right on Eastmoreland Golf Course. Charming neighborhood. The makeshift entrance was a kind of tarp-and-tent setup that looked like any other outdoor event at a temp venue. But it didn't have that "big event" type feel (which would've been inappropriate, anyway).

Garcia Birthday Band is playing. But not many people are  there. It's early, but it still felt like a family picnic—groups of teens and pre-teens were scattered about the perimeter, yet keeping to themselves—they clearly had no interest in the music/party, but were digging that their parents were occupied (which brought back some instant childhood memories).

Sally introduces me to Birthday Boy Pete. He's all festive, clad in tie-dye. Seems like a good dude and already I can tell he knows how to throw himself a party. I also know what another friend paid GBB to play at his gala birthday event, and given the relatively few people here, I'm a little confused about Peter and this party. He says he has to go, but says to enjoy myself and have a good time. Then I meet his wife—gorgeous gal, decked out in a hippie-ish sundress. I meet another Sally friend, Clark, whom I've met several times before. Other than that, I knew nobody. 

GBB had been playing Must Have Been the Roses since we walked in. It sounded good, but not great—like something was missing. I finally gravitate toward the makeshift stage and notice there was no rhythm guitarist in this ensemble. Some guy, though, with his back to the crowd, was hunched over and plugging in and whatnot. Probably the rhythm guitarist, but I didn't stop to process it. I start groovin' to the music and checking out the still-sparse group of guests. The rhythm guitarist finally starts playing and turns around to face the crowd.

It was Peter.

So, it's not like "Sweet Pete" got GBB to play for his birthday, he was GBB** and he was playing at his own house. Anyway, they ripped until about 10 p.m.,with only about a 30-minute set break. It was incredibly fun. There might have been 50-75 people there, the whole night. The NFA>GDTRFB closer felt almost like a private serenade. It was surprisingly special. (As if it might have been my birthday.) Everyone I met was pretty cool. Peter and Jill Bach were extremely gracious hosts and by all accounts (first- and second-hand), are good, solid people. It was a fun, kind crowd. Plus there was Tang:

So we left around 11. The drive home was a typical ride with Sally. I drove while she turned up the music and opened all windows and started calling people. I don't think I ever drove anywhere with Sally without her calling her friend Cindy and/or talking with her other brother, Scott. Always on speaker phone. Which is amusing in retrospect, but I'm sure it was annoying in real-time for everyone involved. But that was Sally.

As we turned up from Macadam Ave. to Taylor's Ferry Rd., Sally blurts out, "I want to see my Dad!"

"What?!" 

"Pull over, up here, to the right, I want to see my Dad. Now!" 

I had no idea where this was going, but even though I was driving, I knew I had little choice in this itinerary audible.

We pulled over at Riverview Cemetery and parked. 

"Come on, Will, follow me," Sally said, as she leapt from my car. 

We walked back to the Trillium building and peered through the glass, where her father rests in peace, just inside the locked door.

She took a personal moment of silence, and then I told her that my Dad was also right there, about 12 feet away. In all the time I'd known her, this had never come up. 

We then found ourselves at the Crap Bowl*** on Barbur Blvd,  where I karaoke'd for the first time, ever. I sang Mama Tried, which seemed appropriate (we'd been listening to Dead tunes all evening and Merle Haggard had performed at the Zoo, that same night) ... and the lyrics and song are relatively simple. (Sorry, no video proof, but I killed it—or at least Sally made me think I did.)

After several drinks in that hellhole-of-an-upstairs bar that is now partially condemned, we wound up at Sally's for 2:00 a.m. hashbrown-bacon-onion-sour cream-and-ketchup feast that was beyond necessary and obscenely satisfying. Sally could cook, whether it be baking pies and desserts, gourmet meals, or the heavenly type of food that is so tasty at the end of the night. She cooked the way she did most everything else—loudly, flamboyantly-with-a-sense-of-ordered-chaos, but successfully on all levels.

So anyway, getting back to more of the present-day Memorial Day story ... last Saturday, I met my aunts (Marybeth and Olga) and my cousins (Lorene and Jennifer) to continue a generations-old family tradition of visiting our family members' grave sites on Memorial Day. Half of our deceased family lies at Riverview, and the other half lies among the gypsies at Rose City Cemetery in NE Portland. 

We met at Riverview and visited the outside family plots and arranged flowers. Mostly, the Kuzman branch of the family tree is settled out here. 

Then we went inside to visit Uncle Lon and my Dad. 

As we entered the Trillium building, I shared the story about how Sally's dad's digs were just a dozen feet from Dad's space. Since I wasn't going to make it out to Sally's cemetery, I dropped a couple of Dad's flowers in Mr. Vesley's vase–an impromptu gesture that seemed appropriate at the time. In retrospect, it might have been a little weird, but I bet all three of them somehow understood and nodded with approval.

Then it was off to Rose City Cemetery, where we were joined by my Uncle George and Aunt Jeanne to garnish the Yerkovich's (and others) with memorial bouquets. The Gypsies had apparently taken the day off.

The four lovely ladies and I capped off the afternoon at Stanich's on Fremont, which is also a family tradition, of sorts.****

Aunt Olga, Lorene, Jen, and  Aunt Marybeth enjoying our post-memorializing lunch. Coincidentally, a certain burnt orange and maroon pennant hangs in the top-center background—perhaps appropriately appearing in a photo of my favorite ladies. 

So, that's my Memorial Day story. It was a pleasant Saturday, full of love, sadness, joy, and memories. 

On Sunday, I woke up with pneumonia. 

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* This might be the first of many posts that include reference to full or partial Sally adventures. The world lost a (often brazenly) shining spirit and I lost a great friend, when  she died unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm on Labor Day weekend, 2014. 

**  Peter Bach, at the time, wasn't a Garcia Birthday Band member. But he is now a full-time, first-string, GBB rhythm guitarist and vocalist. He's killing it, and has an impressive musical resume - the latter of which I was oblivious to at the time, but probably should have known. At the time, I was just pleasantly surprised and confused.

***Yep, that was an intentional typo.

****Perhaps a controversial family tradition, depending upon whom you ask ... 

The birth of this blog  

Alternate title: The Lucky Lab: worst place on the planet?   

A few years ago, I met with some good friends to brainstorm a blog partnership-collaboration. Tim and Jeff are both talented writers; while we share many likes and have several other commonalities, we each bring a unique dish to our blogospheric table—not to be confused with the real, literal table at the Lucky Labrador Public House, in Multnomah Village, on a beautiful NW summer evening, where this meeting took place. 

I love Portland, maybe even more than ever, but the Lucky Lab (a.k.a. the Dirty Spaniel*) is nearly a perfect microcosm of all that I loathe about the City of Roses. I can't prove that the service is as intentionally bad as it is routinely bad, but the Lab can make McMenamins seem like a world-class hospitality and efficiency operation. It's also unnecessarily expensive. Almost everyone there (workers and patrons, alike) is laughably hipster, millennial-slacker, or some other form of extra-douchey.** The scene is not completely degenerate, though, like say, Cactus Jack's is, but it seems like it should be a classier joint that might feebly attempt to provide a nice customer experience. It makes little-to-no attempt. And people clearly don't care, it's usually packed. The other thing is that someone's dog might sidle up next to you and lick-taste your food if you turn your head for a second. 

Photo not taken at the Lucky Lab, but here's what a dog on a picnic table might look like.

Since it was unreasonable for a server to take our order, I went inside to grab a beverage. I waited in an agonizing line and finally reached the front. (Meanwhile, this was the first time Tim and Jeff had met; even though I knew they'd probably click, my history of friend circle-mixing is horribly unsuccessful, so I was a little concerned about being stuck in line while they chatted outside.) Anyway, Skyler,*** the 20-something hipster-millennial girl behind the counter gave me a blank stare—as if she's programmed to not  speak until another voice activates her.  I glanced up at the giant chalkboard beverage menu.  

Me: Um, hi; are these all ales?

Skyler: What?

Me: Everything you have on tap - are they all ales?

Skyler: You mean beers?

Me: What? ... Yeah, I don't really like ales and just wanted to know—

Skyler: Oh, 'cause they're too heavy or dark or—

Me: Yeah, ... just not a fan, generally.

Skyler: Totally understand  .. sure, we have a really good IPA.

Me: Doesn't the A stand for ale?

Skyler. Of course! 

Me: I'll have a cider.

So, I took my cider to the outdoor picnic table. Jeff and Tim seemed to be hitting it off famously, and we all proceeded to scheme our masterpiece of a blog that would likely change the entire Internet in 2013. We were energized and ambitious, even setting some tentative deadlines and benchmarks.

Nothing ever came of it. The dream died unspectacularly in the following days, and it remains dead.****

So really, the story of this blog dates back only to late April 2015, when I decided that I should commit to writing and sharing stuff that is too long or not appropriate for a Facebook post. One thing led to another and a few days later, my blog was born. It's part overdue, part premature. But it was natural—no c-section necessary. And I hope it will steadily and quickly grow and improve to be an upstanding citizen of the blogosphere. Or at least that will continue to entertain me and hopefully a few others.

* Credit Jeff Birney for coining the "Dirty Spaniel."  

**That's not totally fair. I'm sure other reasonable people were there, too, and were just as irritated as I was. Also, as I post more, you'll find I use "hipster" and "millennial" and "slacker" interchangeably, with little regard for demographic accuracy. Generalizing is fun, easier. Especially when I don't know the people. (I'm also sure I've now irritated 90% of my dog-loving, micro brew-sipping, Portlandia lifestyle-embracing friends.)

*** Not her real name. I suppose it could be, but it's purely coincidental if she happens to have the name that simultaneously annoys and amuses me enough to use it in a story like this (and others to come). 

**** Or at least dormant. As of 5/10/2015, anyway.  A bet on a future collaboration might not be a bad bet, though. Just sayin'.