My Tonka Truck, Emma.

When we were kids, like nearly every other kid, we’d sit on Tonka dump trucks and scream down the driveway, inevitably tipping over and sanding the skin off our knuckles. I must have been incredibly enthusiastic while describing this dump truck fun to a friend, because it resulted in one of the more unusual birthday gifts I’ve ever received.

There was great intrigue around the gift; a genuine conspiracy with friends and family. I really didn’t suspect anything. I don’t remember what the cover story was. I just remember we were, for some reason, driving out towards Mollala. It wasn’t until the unscheduled left turn and a snicker or two, that I knew a secret was being kept.

There she was, in a field with grass and weeds growing up all around her: a 1952 Chevrolet dump truck. I didn’t get it. Then, Gene handed me a set of keys. I still didn’t get it. What were they for? Then he popped the hood and I realized there was some hope that those keys would start that truck. The dump truck was my birthday present.

We all had a good laugh. Then I started thinking about what the hell I’d do with it? Get it running first, I suppose. Gene and I returned the following day and to my great surprise, with a little fuel, and some coolant poured in the radiator (only after we removed the family of mice who’d built a nest in it), it fired up. A little rough, but it ran.

I named her Emma.

I think she stalled three times on the way home but each time Gene sorted out the problem. It didn’t make the breaks any better, but we got her back to Genes’ warehouse, which solved one of my questions: where am I going to keep it?

The bigger question, of course, was what the hell am I going to do with a ’52 Chevy dump truck? That sorta ties into my Tonka truck rant. You see, part of my rant was a proposed ‘Tonka-land’ where grown-ups could relive the joys of playing with Tonka toys, but in my Tonka-land, everything would be full-scale.

Since I didn’t have any money, I wrote a letter to the CEO of Hasbro/Tonka. I explained my two part plan:

a.) Hasbro/Tonka gives me $15,000 to completely restore the truck, but not to original. It would be painted yellow. It would have the Tonka logo painted across the back. And once done, I would co-own it with Tonka, a lot like a couple’s dog, after they break up: I’d have it for a few months; the rest of the time, they could take it to malls to whip all the kids into a frenzy, insisting their parents buy them a Tonka, like the real one.

b.) Other such equipment (track hoes, graders, bulldozer) could be branded ‘Tonka’. These could live near a Hotel: The Tonka-land Hotel where executive retreats would be held. But instead of other boring, corporate-bonding activities, convention-goers could play in the life-size Tonka sandbox.

I received a letter in return from the CEO. It said something like this:

Dear Mr. Willis,

Thank you for your enthusiasm for Tonka products. I read your letter at meeting of our Board of Directors. While it was met with approval, unfortunately we have already budgeted for this fiscal year.

Enjoy the enclosed gifts.

CEO
Hasbro/Tonka

The gifts included, among other things, three bumper stickers that read “My Other Car is a Tonka” and several miniature Tonka toys (the ones mentioned in the proposal: track hoe, etc.)

Later, I would sell Emma. And I would look back on the experience as the most entertaining rejection I have ever endured.

Rollie Toys: The Cosworth Mercedes

I love Hondas and I love inexpensive cars. I finally blew up my Civic. Not really, but the valves were so shot, it blew smoke like a two-stroke so I sold it to a carpenter for four hundred bucks. I figured I’d get an Accord. Or, maybe an old Mercedes 190e, since the Civic reminded me a bit of them; Honda ripped off a few lines.

I came across one on Autotrader. Mercedes 190, bla bla bla. I thought some kid must have blinged it out. Or maybes somebody’s wife sent it to ‘Pimp my Ride’. Ground effects. Rear spoiler. Low pros. Looked like a standard-issue ‘80’s coke-dealer car.

In fact, it was a Cosworth Mercedes and it was all factory, except the tires and rims.

Turns out the awesome BMW M3 was kicking the shit out of Mercedes in the DTM (a European touring-car race series) in the early to mid eighties. Mercedes couldn’t just stand there and get the crap smacked out of them. But they didn’t have a platform to compete with the M3, so they just cobbled one together.

The 190e was their lightest, smallest sedan—the economy Benz. That would be the body works. Now, how to make it go? They hired Cosworth, the winningest Formula 1 engine builders in history, to turn the demure 190e engine into something formidable. While they only had four cylinders and 2.3 liters to work with, they built a high-flow racing head that chased every bit of ‘family car’ out of the 190. It has headers that look like they should be bolted to a big block Chevy. And they sound like it too.

The new engine didn’t make big-time horsepower; about 185hp—200hp with a few simple mods and a bit more with a hot cam. But the Cosworth was surprisingly light—four hundred pounds less than a Porsche 911, and it’s a sedan. Still, that was no match for the M3s of the day.

If you can’t get ‘em on the straights, you’ve gotta out brake ‘em or carry more corner speed. Mercedes did both. The breaks are fantastic but what was truly remarkable was the innovative suspension: a hydraulic self-leveling rear suspension. In a turn, the suspension system dips the inside of the car into the well of the corner, all but eliminating body roll. Way ahead of its time.

Mercedes looked to AMG, their race division, to make the car slippery. And AMG delivered with one of the lowest drag coefficients of any sedan, anywhere. The Cosworth pierces the air like a bullet. (Ask the officer who tagged me on radar doing 138mph… after I had hit my brakes).

The whole package is truly remarkable. And in ’86 it was at least a decade ahead of its time. And the innovation would cost you back then too, with a price tag of $50,000. Compare that price tag to exotics, and it’s not surprising the Cosworth recently made the list of top twenty exotic cars under 25k.

What’s even better, is that this hopped up economy car I bought on my search for a Honda Accord didn’t cost much more than an economy car. Prices range from 8-12k.

People who know what it is, oogle it. I don’t know how many times I’ve had people take pictures. Even the guys at Schuck’s came out and asked if it was an ‘real one’ and snapped a few pics. I’ve heard there are only six of them in Oregon, but I’ve seen three, including mine, so I find it a dubious claim.

It does have a few drawbacks. The gearbox is the same Gettrag unit used in the DeTomaso Pantera: a dogleg five speed (where first gear is down and to the left, hugging your thigh); it’s great, but it takes some getting used to. And the Cosworth is geared for the racetrack. It was an image-builder to sell 190s so they didn’t bother gearing it for the street. First gear is very tall, and so is second, though it still has a respectable 6.5 second 0-60 time. Third gear will set you back in your seat; it was obviously designed for a track that needed third gear grunt. Oh, and if something brakes, it’s going to cost you. Everything is at least five hundred bucks. But it doesn’t break much. It could use another fifty horsepower and more streetable gearing. Other than that, this is about as much exotica as you can get for the money. And you will NOT believe what this car can do in the corners.

I didn't photograph the car shown, though I suspect it is mine because of the very small numbers and because when I bought it, I had the very same tires and wheels. The odds of that combination in the NW are extremely low

Radical Honesty

Recently, I finished a short story that circled around Brad Blanton’s book, Radical Honesty. It’s a social movement endorsing 200 proof, white-lightning, honesty. Yeah, that’ll work. So long as you don’t mind your girlfriend dumping you, getting fired, loosing all your friends, and possibly neighbors—It’ll work just fine.

To be fair, I haven’t read the book. I’ve only read about it. I sensed an inference that personal relationships are where Dr. Blanton would have us strip off our skivvies and let the truth set us free, and that there are justifiable fibs.

Maybe in a relationship it’s okay to be radically honest, which is to say, ‘actually’ honest, not just conveniently honest. “Yes. Those jeans make your ass look fat”. How about “Your new painting is quite a piece of shit”! Or, “It’s not a headache; your ear hair is really creeping me out”. Indelicate? Definitely. But it thrusts a dagger into the fantasies of skinny butts, hairy ears, and the irrelevance of painting classes. It pushes us into the open, onto the treadmill; to Rite Aid for some tweezers; to art school.

Here’s my dose of honesty for the day. I think we live with a spectrum of acceptable dishonesty determined by:

a.) How honest we can be.
(We can't tell the truth, if we’re bullshitting ourselves).

b.) How much honesty other people can deal with.

c.) Whether we’ll get sued or arrested if we admit what really happened.

In this world, if you are asked “did you take mescaline, bonk Manuel on the head, then burry him in the garden?”, the correct answer is always “no”.

If your ex-boyfriend hits on you and you quash it from ‘go’, but privately indulge in a ten-second, button-popping, romance-novelesque fantasy—you did the right thing. You honored your current relationship. And if your new boyfriend’s a bit jealous and you tell him “I was talking to the Dish salesman, but they don’t have Speedvision; I know how much you love it, so I’m sticking with cable”—so what?

This is my own society. It’s the Society For The Tolerance Of Lies that keep us from getting divorced, incarcerated, beat up, or shoved in front of a bus.

In my society we don’t lie if it hurts anyone. We do lie if it helps someone. Occasionally we tell little lies just because we're lazy. And we don’t loose your minds if our girlfriend tells us she was with her girlfriends, if we know we’d cringe upon learning she scheduled an extra session with Rocco, her personal trainer. And we try. We try to be ever more truthful, while keeping the peace.

The Bets of Brothers

Some things, only brothers bet on. And no matter how ridiculous, with brothers, it’s all business.

There was the time I walked into his house whistling ‘Delta Dawn’ of all things. He nodded and smiled at the randomness of it all: “Tanya Tucker”.

“Dude, that’s Helen Reddy”.

“Tanya Tucker”.

“Helen Reddy”.

“Tanya Tucker”.

“Twenty bucks”. It’s on.

Turns out they both sang it. And so did a number of other people, so no money changed hands.

And then there was the time we bet on which was the larger ship: a Heavy Cruiser or a Destroyer—or was it a Battleship?

Most recently, sparked by a commercial, twenty minutes into Caddyshack: “A custom GPS Golf device (which gives a golfer a birds-eye view of the course, and precise measurements) gives a player an unfair advantage” vs. “A player with a scale-map can get the same thing with a pair of dividers, a ruler, and a pencil, mariner-style”.

Neither of us are golfers. So... we got that goin' for us.

Showers with George

After my Grandfather died, my Grandmother thought I ought to have George. Once we’d arranged this, she kept him for a two more nights, enjoying his company and saying goodbye to her pup.

He came with several boxes of George-stuff and some instructions: how much he eats; what he eats; which toys he likes the best.

Eventually, I drove to my aunts, to get George. My Grandmother had made her peace and handed him over with grace and courage. No tears. She just cradled his face in her warm hands, looked him right in the eyes, and said “you be good, Kiddo”. She often called him Kiddo.

George came back to Bend with me. He barked at every four-legged critter we saw: horses, goats, cows, deer. My Grandfather taught him to do that, much to the chagrin of anyone who had to endure George’s berserk barking fits when Grandpa would repeat “Deer critter, George. Deer Critter”. Later, I caught my Grandfather in the funniest of tricks. (It didn’t surprise me. His whole life, he kept a twinkle in his eye that warned of playful deviance). As he was harassing his dog, whipping him into a Jack Russell frenzy, he looked around, then stealthily turned his hearing aid down. I’ve dreamed of having a mute button my dog, and Grandpa had one.

When we got back to Bend, George was droopy. I thought he might be. He was stressed and didn’t eat much. He took to me quickly enough. We’d go for walks every day in concentric circles, bigger and bigger, so he could learn his new neighborhood. But when we’d get back, he’d be depressed again.

“A few days” I kept thinking, “a few days, and he’ll perk up”. But he didn’t. A week had passed and I was worried about him.

That Monday morning, I was getting ready for work and stepped into the claw foot tub for a shower. My heart nearly burst when George barreled through the door and leapt into the shower with me, jumping up and down, snapping at the water, like a dog, possessed. I just stood back and watched in amazement.

After my shower, as I was drying off, he’d walk back and forth under the portion of the towel hanging down, indicating I was supposed to dry him off now. I did. And he was a happy dog.

I called my Grandmother and said “You won’t believe what George did”. She said, “Oh, honey—I believe that. Your Grandfather showered with George every day”!

And he’s showered with me ever since. He was happy after that. Generally, he’s a happy dog. But if I lounge too long on a Sunday before taking a shower, he sits on his pillow and stares at me. If I so much as twitch, he bolts for the shower.

I Want One: Scott Conary

I’ve posted four of my top five “I want one”, Oregon artists. My list is perhaps two dozen long, but I had to think about number five, since I don’t plan on posting the whole list.

I saw Scott Conary’s work recently. He’s currently represented by BICA, co-owned by Andy Wachs. Andy and I were talking about Scott’s work. That’s where I learned of his practice of discovering landscapes by motorcycle. That’s a process I can relate to. And so are his landscapes.

Somewhat to my surprise, I was even more taken by his painting of meat. If someone told me I’d be knocked over by a pork-chop rendered in oil, I’d be skeptical. But it happened.

Now, I have to back-pedal about that blather in my post “Gestalt and Weiner’s Don’t Mix”, about artists' statements tendency towards bullshit. Scott speaks eloquently of his painting. So, I’ll let him take it from here:

“The motorcycle is my path to the landscape. I've got well over a 100,000 miles under my belt the past decade, almost all of which are miles out and about trying to take in that vastness that is the American west. As you know, the bike gives a radically different perspective than you find in a car. You're in the space, in the smell, the climate, all of it. You're not just watching it go by, your car's windows like televisions. Out in that space, I'll take photo after photo and stop to sketch. Most of the photos being snapped while moving.

Meat. These are, first, old school paintings—representations of an object. I began painting them as part of a push to be a better painter. Flesh: soft red, pink, and brown. Ribbons of fat running pearly white and cream, sometimes almost blue. Bits of gristle and bone, hard and different. Raw and moist. Meat. It's something we all know. It is, after all, what we are”…

Scott Conary rounds out my Oregon Artists top-five list.

What’s Wrong With Me, Et Cetera?

What’s wrong with me, that you can’t pronounce my full name; that you can't type it out on your keyboard, as if you'll run out of ink? What’s wrong with me that it has to be truncated, abbreviated, every time, as if there’s not enough air to push all my syllables through your throat.

Sure, I’ll answer to Etc. But, is it so hard to say Et cetera, just once in a while? Even if you’re mad at me—“damn you Et cetera”—because I was late for dinner?

And what about my friends? What about:

e.g.          exempli gratia
et al.        et alii
i.e.          id est
id            idem
ad loc        ad locum
neut.         neuter

Well, I suppose I understand the last one if the dog’s looking over your shoulder. But once in a while, it would be nice. You wouldn’t like it if I called you JW all the time.

The Secret Cost of a Piece of Shit Car

I seem to be the exception in thinking cars are ridiculously expensive these days. What’s a good car cost, $30K—minimum? If you spend that, you’ll certainly want full coverage insurance. If you finance it, you won’t have a choice.

And what’s it all for? Getting from a to b.

I love cars. And I love purpose-specific cars. And I know a reliable car can be had for $5K, no problem. If you’re not a mechanic or a car buff and don’t know how to choose a reliable $5k car, $10k will take the guesswork out of it. Consumer Reports is a good investment too.

On this front, I like to take things to the extreme. One of my vehicles is a Toyota Cargo Van. Yes, Cargo Van. It didn’t even have an official name. It was the weird, slant-nosed van of the 80’s. Built on a Toyota SR-5 pickup chassis, with the same engine, they will run forever, so long as you consider 300,000 miles forever.

Mine is an ’84. My first one was an ’86 but somebody ran into me in that one and totaled it. So, the ‘new’ one cost $1,200 as I recall. With 136,000 miles it was barely middle-aged. And not long after I bought it, a kid in a parking lot smashed into it and creased the left side.

Guess what insurance companies do when their client dents your $1,200 car? It ain’t worth fixin’ so they just give you $1,200. So, now I’ve got a free car.

Sure, people call it the Scooby-mobile, the Short Bus, the Rapist Van, and other choice names. Sure mothers clutch their daughters if you pull up to a stoplight where they’re standing.

It’s not a chick-magnet. In fact, when my brother pointed out the roomy back, with a wink, I responded “dude, consider the woman who’d sleep with you in the back of this van, then really ask yourself if it would be a good idea”. He nodded knowingly.

However, benefits include a pre-thrashed vehicle. If it gets dented, so what? Driving in winter? Rock chips in the paint? So what? Use the back for a dump run? Absolutely. Throw your fishing crap and your dog and a sleeping bag in the back: you’ve got a ready made tent-on-wheels.

The real cost however, is that it would seem such vehicles are often used in the commission of crimes. Just try to drive through Redmond, OR after dark in a Toyota Cargo Van. Somehow, you blinker didn’t go off. A taillight was mysteriously out for just a few minutes. Once my license plate was precariously mounted and in danger of coming off (as the bolts that held it in place were rusted, permanently on).

And one time, when pulled over after dark, the cop noticed an annoyed look on my face and invited me to say what was on my mind. So I did.

“Officer, it seems that if I drive this vehicle, I get pulled over and if I drive my nicer, newer vehicle, I never get pulled over.

He replied, “I’M NOT PROFILING YOU”!

I quipped (in poor judgment) “But it would seem you’re quite familiar with the concept”.

Then, the police officer went on to explain the simple fact that cars like mine are often used in the commissions of crimes. I’d have given him a dictionary and thesaurus, but I left them at home. Besides, I’m not sure he knew how to read.

To this day, I drive my free car. No payments. I self-insure, only carrying liability. And sometimes as drivers of Cadillac Escalades sit next to me at a stop light and look at my piece of shit car, full of judgment, I look back and see a $600 car payment; $150 in insurance; and a car that’s worth half their loan; I think they’re pissing away a beach house. And they think I’m smiling back, just to be friendly.

But the truth is, my car isn’t entirely free. Because cops love those fancy new cars. Nobody who’d own one of those would ever knock over a liquor store. Hell no.

I Want One: Hilda Morris

I can’t say I know much about Hilda Morris. But I’ve seen her work. And that was all it took. It leapt out from the masses.

While I started my artistic expression, drawing, like nearly everyone else, it took me years to know I am a sculptor at heart. And sculptors are somewhat under-appreciated.

Painters are the stars of the art world in the way lead guitarists are rock stars. But anyone who’s every played music knows that great guitarists, while great, are not uncommon; however bass guitarists, drummers—they keep everything together. They are the unsung heroes.

I don’t have a clue wether Hilda Morris is sung or unsung. I just know she is a sculptor and they, by and large, are under-appreciated. Though she hasn't escaped my appreciation.

That’s why she’s in my list of top-five Oregon Artists.

She passed away in the early nineties, but The Laura Russo Gallery currently represents her work.

Gestalt and Wieners Don't Mix

It came to my attention that my posts on art are shorter than others.

(Hey. You, in the back row. I heard you sigh with relief)

There’s a reason. Have you read very many ‘artist’s statements’. I have. And they may as well be written in German. They’re the most likely place to encounter the word ‘gestalt’ referencing a painting of an Oscar Meyer Weiner.

In other words, they are bullshit-rich environments. Fortunately, I speak a little art-jive, but still avoid the ‘artist’s statement’ for two reasons:

1.) If an artist could convey with their pen, exactly what they convey with their brush, I’d be reading their book, not coming to their show.

2.) It’s pointless to describe something, verbally, that is visual by nature.

In other words, the best artist’s statement is the artist’s work. This post maybe a tad dogmatic. But it illustrates an important point. Sure artists can help us see their work. And not all artist’s statements are total bullshit. The point is, it doesn’t matter. It’s their work that’s important. And it’s your opinion and your response to it that counts, not mine. I just like to do what I can to support our artists; share my favorites; let the work do the talkin’, and move on.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

I Want One: Michelle Russo

We shouldn’t have to justify art anymore than a sandwich. It ought to be enough to simply like it. But, If I had to justify a painter, Michele Russo would be easier than most. But, here, I’m going to simply say “I like him”.

Russo was one of Oregon’s most prolific and celebrated artists, creating a massive body of work. The large supply of his work doesn’t equate to ‘affordable’. While that delights me for Russo, knowing he was able to rightfully enjoy the spoils of his effort (see The Society for Artist’s Who Make More Money Than Lawyers), it makes owning one seem more of a dream than a plan. Many of Russo’s paintings cost as much as a car.

Technically, I have a Russo, a small print, that is not only a print but a color photocopy on sheer paper, signed by Michelle, who was thoughtful enough to create them so more people could afford his images. Oh, but one day, I’d like to have one of those great canvases.

Michelle Russo is #1 on my top five Oregon artists I’d like to have.

The Laura Russo Gallery handles his work.

The Private Collection: Alexis West

Buying art in a gallery is full of great excitement and a little fear. You may not know the artist; their body of work; whether the piece will continue to please you. Your decisions are a bit hurried, the way you find yourself forming opinions quickly on a first date.

Buying art from a friend, however, is like being set-up on a date. There’s already an endorsement; some familiarity by association. It’s calm. It doesn’t require as much luck.

This is one of those pieces. I was fortunate enough to ponder it for a while, before it came home with me.

I'm not sure if the title was ever settled: "This Human Birth" or "Buddha is a Stripe". Oil. 60"x30".

And here are some thoughts from the artist—Central Oregon painter—Alexis West:

"looking at art has a LOT to do with distance and flat internet jpg don’t do most paintings much favor. It’s just about color online but in person its a total different experience, so yes how far away you are does make a difference you are correct. in seeing the texture and brush strokes, the kind of energy that's in the making of the painting one has to be in the room with it and both close and far to “get it” emotionally. Also big art is very emotive. i once sat between a 'warm' Rothko and a 'cool' Rothko ( colors warm and cool ) in the nelson atkins museum and i have never forgotten the impact of his vibrant works in such huge format - something like seven x nine or larger. when art is bigger that you are physically it is stronger.

i dont paint representational anymore because that bores me. it’s not right or wrong but i only paint abstact and its all about emotion or tone. the great thing about modern art is that whatever you see makes it your experience and what one viewer may see may be entirely one hundred and eighty or three hundred and sixty degrees from another's perspective.
so not to worry the little card is just an arrow but if it goes over your shoulder or into your heart... well that is a play between your experience and the painters experience. as in PLAY BALL!"

There's more:

ALXSw = alexis west
www.alxsw.com

I Want One: Rick Bartow

I love nature. I love birds in particular.

I love art. I love contemporary art in particular.

How, could I not love the work of Rick Bartow—one of Oregon’s finest artists? The first time I saw the regal head of a Kestrel, or perhaps it was a Peregrine Falcon, in one of Bartow’s paintings, I was immediately excited.

“This is something new” I thought. Falcons are certainly wildlife. But it’s not wildlife art.

Nature is such a part of Oregon, I like to think all of our artists are touched to some degree by our wild places and wild creatures. Perhaps that is the source of Bartow’s natural images? Perhaps it is his Native American heritage.

Whatever it is and wherever it comes from, I want one. I confess my desire for his delicate drawings and austere prints, but a Rick Bartow painting—that is high on my top-five Oregon artist’s list.

Take a look for yourself.

Rick Bartow at the Froelick Gallery

I Want One: Jody Katopothis

My Grandfather once said “a medium should be celebrated by the artist: woodcarvers should leave chisel-marks; painters should leave brush marks. I agree. And for that reason, I don’t especially like watercolor. How do you leave thick furrows in oil if you’re painting in washes?

At least I didn’t like watercolor, until I saw the work of Jody Katopothis. I saw her work several years ago on Oregon Art Beat and immediately began thinking “I have to have one”. I called her not long after. A very friendly woman, we chatted about a visit to her studio, next time I’d be in Portland. Though it hasn’t happened and my art-fund has been meager. (By meager, I mean absent).

I still believe in my Grandfather’s idea of celebrating a medium. And I still have an affinity for thick paint and camelhair brushes. Maybe I just don’t know how an artist ‘celebrates’ watercolor? I can’t honestly say I’m any closer to the medium in general. Perhaps Jody could explain that part of her work to me?

But what I do see is in her work is celebration of color. I see compositions so strong, I don’t care what was used to paint them. They lack for nothing. And that is why Jody Katopothis is on my top five “I want one” list.

Check out this very special Oregon Artist.

Jody Katopothis: http://www.jodykat.com

16 Through 44

My grandmother lived to be nearly a hundred years old. When she was born, Theodore Roosevelt was our President—our 26th. Teddy Roosevelt was born October, 26th 1858. My Grandmother—my flesh and blood, experienced in her childhood a President who experienced Abraham Lincoln’s Presidency in his childhood.

And when I think of it that way, knowing how very real my Grandmother was, it seems a hundred years or a hundred and fifty years just isn’t much time. When I think, in ten years, I’ll have lived a third of the distance in time from now to the mid 1800’s— it seems like even less time.

And now I think of Lincoln, our 16th President and Barrack Obama, our 44th, and what changes have occurred in that short span, and it strikes me as even more remarkable in light of my Grandmother, who’s President saw it all begin.

Here are only a few stepping stones of this historic ascension... or perhaps, redemption?

• 1862, September 22nd: Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation ordering the freedom of all slaves in the Confederate States.

• 1865, December 6th: The Thirteenth Ammendment, banning slavery was passed into law

• 1866, The Civil Rights Act, extending the rights of blacks was vetoed by Andrew Johnson, then overturned by Congress to extend the rights of black Americans. The act clarified that black Americans were legal citizens of the United States (though blacks were clearly not afforded the same rights as anglo Americans).

• 1868, July 9th: The Fourteenth Amendment was ratified, overruling Dred Scott v. Sandford which held that slaves and their descendants could not posses Constitutional rights; the Amendment expanded on previous reconstruction legislation providing a broader definition of citizenship as it applied to black Americans. Its equal protection clause required each state to provide equal protection for all citizens under the law and was a critical foundation for desegregation and the landmark case Brown vs. The Board of Education.

• 1870, February 3rd: The Fifteenth Amendment was ratified, ordering that no government in the United States shall prohibit a citizen from voting based on their race.

• 1957 Civil Rights Act establishes the Civil Rights Commission.

• 1960 Civil Rights Act allowed for Federal oversight of voter registration polls and created penalties for obstructing any citizen from voting. It was a futher measure to stop the rampant thwarting of blacks from registering and voting which had gone on since Reconstruction.

• 1964 Civil Rights Act was signed into law by Lindon B. Johnson. The sweeping legislation outlawing racial segregation, ending the southern Jim Crow laws. The legislation also implemented the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.

• 1968 Lyndon B. Johson signs the Fair Housing Act which protected blacks and other minority groups in their acquisition of housing. It identifed the practice of ‘redlining’ by mortgage banks and made illegal the common practice of purchase contracts that precluded buyers from subsequently selling their home to a black person.

• 1991 Civil Rights Act expanded the rights of empoyees suing employers for descrimination.

• 2008, Barack Obama elected President.

Regardless of the inequalities that remain, the precedence of this election establishes that no minority will ever again be prevented from the highest ascention of power or social esteem; the road for minorities may not be equal, but now, it is undeniably possible.

Primitive, Modern, Folk Art

Commercial gunners harvested ducks by the boat-loads, throughout New England—the Atlantic Flyway. Hunters set great rigs of decoys in marshy waters to tease the wildfowl with in reach of their guns. And they weren’t shooting 12 gauge, Remington Wingmasters; these turret-mounted cannons, or punt guns, had barrels you could nearly fit your fist in. A single blast could knock a dozen birds from the sky.

When congress outlawed commercial duck hunting in the early twentieth century, tens of thousands of duck decoys were heaped in barns, discarded, added to piles of firewood. Somewhere along the line, somebody set one of those old decoys on their shelf; just liked the look of it. And then one showed up in a decorating magazine, then another.

Antique dealers began knocking on doors, inquiring if they might peek in the barn in search of these discarded treasures. Along about the sixties, decoy collecting was a popular pastime for retired dentists and the like. A very good decoy could be had for fifty bucks. A really special one could go for two-fifty. Last year (2007) a fella paid $856,000 for a Red Breasted Merganser decoy, carved by Lothrop Holmes. That makes you think twice before complaining about inflation of gas prices.

That’s a world record price. But excellent decoys frequently fetch over $1,000, and there is a long history of very rare examples going for four and five figures. That’s what began the art of bird carving. Collectors who realized their antique Brant decoy could buy them a new Mercedes would sell it, but not before making a copy. Since there was no utility in the decoys anymore, they might add a detail here or there. The next one might be more realistic. Before long they weren’t ‘making decoys’ they were carving birds, in great detail, of all species—game birds, shore birds, raptors.

So, folk art gave way to wildlife art. And many early collectors chose a lucrative hobby, as it turned out.

As for me, I see something very different in these hunting tools—neither folk art nor wildlife art. My favorites are, modern art. Some might not agree, but I stand by it. They are abstract.

It doesn’t take absolute realism to fool a duck. Just some basic functionality: They shouldn’t be too shiny. They should have the general posture of the species. They should be placed appropriately and look calm. But there is a great room for artistic expression once the basics of a functional decoy have been achieved.

This gap between function and form, forced a choice by each maker. Would they render it realistically? Would they render their impression? The chose of many is subtle abstraction—the simplification of and reinterpretation of form. Ironically, some call these ‘primitive’ as I call them modern (art). I take great pleasure in seeing such expressions of a decoy maker; knowing they added their own version of beauty, not out of necessity, but just because.

Pictured at top right is an photo of an Eider and Eider Decoy. Below that is a is a photo of a Goldeneye and three interpretations of the same.


Guyette & Schmidt are the premiere auctioneers of hunting decoys and often hold auctions in association with Christie’s. Take a look at their website.

Fresh Daily

Ken Graham Jr. was a hardworking man with the motivation only growing up poor can bring.  Work and responsibility; that was his life: always a demand, a need to be met.  Few things where only his.  But there where a few things that where off limits to everyone but Ken.

He’d always had a sports car.  It was never too flamboyant or flashy.  Not a Ferrari or ‘pop your eyes out’ exotic.  He usually had an older Porsche.  In ’84 he had a classic 911, meticulously cared for.  Nobody drove that car.  His only son, Matt would back it out of the garage into the drive to wash it, but he didn’t dare so much as drive it around the block to dry it off.  

His other sacred object was unusual and I never fully understood it.  But you could feel it must have been symbolic, metaphorically the center of his universe; a tidy bow that held his whole world together.  The object?  It was a large ball of twine, kept in the garage on a shelf with nothing else but a large pair of sheers.  

Maybe it was because every drawer in the Graham house was a junk drawer, packed with unused and unimportant clutter, pressed in tightly with no more purpose but to be out of sight.  For thirteen years, there was never a pen to be found, only dried out Marvy Markers you would have to lick to write down a phone number.

            It wasn’t an orderly house, but it was a perfectly orderly ball of twine.  Away from the clutter and junk drawers, safely in the garage next to his prized red Porsche.  

Everyone had chores, especially Matt.  But when it came time to taking the old newspapers and tying them in neat bundles to be recycled, Mr. Graham did that.  There where three or four inches of twine sticking out of the top, like an apple’s stem.  And you could pull two or three feet of twine from the center of the melon-sized ball without a tangle or snarl.  Snip.  It was done and it was immaculate.  

The Grahams where old fashioned and one of the last families in the neighborhood to have their milk dropped off in plastic bags every morning. The milk man would deposit two bags of milk in a small wooden box just outside the garage door and outside the precious car and the celebrated twine.  

One morning, things where a little different.  One morning Ken’s younger daughter Sara stepped outside to get the milk, only to find the bags slouching against the side of the box.  She didn’t think too much about it as she took the milk into the kitchen.  

But, the next morning as Sara saw the milk resting outside the box her her curiosity was piqued.  She lifted the lid, peering inside to find poop in the milk box!  Several smallish turds, maybe the size of big dogs?  

“Dad, somebody threw poo in the milkbox!”

“They did what?”

“Go look.  There’s poop in our milkbox.  Matt probably did it, the little shit.  He’s always whining about scooping K.C.’s poop all the time”.  

“Take it easy” he said to Sara as he went to investigate.  Sure enough, there lay three little dumps.  

Matt was a mischievous kid, but he was terrified of his father’s wrath—a salty old Marine who built a lumber empire from pure sweat.  

“Matt!  Front and center.  Get that crap out of the milkbox, now!”  

Grumbling his innocence, Matt walked the box over to K.C.s dog pen and shook the poo onto the cedar shavings, then hosed out the box.  

“I cleaned it dad, but I didn’t put it in there”.  Ken gave him a careful scowl and knew his son was telling him the truth.  

The next morning, Ken swung the porch door open, arms crossed, staring down the steps at two bags of milk leaning against his milkbox.  He grabbed the milk and took a quick peek to see a brand new crap inside of the white wooden box marked “Alpenglow – Fresh Daily”.  

            “Shit”!

He thought about it all day.  “What kind of sick bastard would put shit in my milkbox”?  And he thought about it on his way home.  As he pulled into the driveway, Jeffrey Seavers appeared from the walkway between the garage and the porch.  Mr. Graham didn’t need to spend any time scratching his head to connect the dots.  You see, Jeff was a special kid.  It wasn’t clear whether he was retarded, but he sure as hell wasn’t right.  

He once hung upside down from the monkey bars at Duniway Elementary, nine feet off the deck, and he let go.  You’ve never seen a knot like that one.  It looked like a tumor the size of a tangerine, more an appendage than a bump.  When the school counselor asked him what happened he replied, “I just wanted to see what would happen”.  The kid was off.

 

Ken picked up the phone:

 

    “Yeah Mitch, Ken Graham here.  I’m not quite sure how to say this Mitch, but I think Jeff has been going to the bathroom in my milkbox… number two”.

    “Geez, Ken; are you sure”?

“Well, I’m not positive.  I didn’t actually see him do it, but we’ve been having these little surprises for the last couple mornings and I saw him walking out from the side of the garage, not fifteen minutes ago and there’s a fresh one in there”.  

“Uhhhh…  Ah, Ken I’m really sorry.  I don’t know what we’re gonna do with him.  Let me come over and take care of it and…. Well, we’ll talk to him”.  

Given, Jeffrey was a little old to be working on potty training, but a milkbox does resemble a little kids potty and if your wiring is a little different… maybe it made sense to him?  

 

The phone rings:

 

“Yeah Ken, Mitch.  We talked to him and I think we’ve got your problem solved.  Gosh, I’m really sorry.  I don’t know what else to say.  Let me know if there’s anything I can do”.  

Ken felt badly, because he knew it wasn’t easy for Mitch and Marcy.  But at least their milkman wouldn’t be traumatized anymore.  

The next day, no problems—right in the box where it oughta be, and the next day, and the next.  Things where back to normal.  

Then, on Saturday, after a few hours in the office, Ken pulled up to the driveway, squinting, hoping he wasn’t really seeing what lay before him.  He turned off his engine and walked up the gently sloping drive and stood in disbelief.  

In the middle of the driveway there was a wet circle, only semi-moist at the edges, telling of how long ago someone had peed there.  Just a few feet away, there was a fairly fresh crap.  And around the poop there where three circles of twine which continued to encircle the pee three times, a taunting ‘infiniti’ symbol that continued down the drive.  

Ken was mortified, panic-stricken.  It wasn’t necessarily his twine, but who’s could it be?  

He followed the strand down the drive to the sidewalk.  At his feet lay three strands. Ken looked to the right, then to the left, his eyes tracing each strand disappearing around the corner. Checking. Making sure he was seeing the truth, before he acquiesced—accepted that Jeffrey Seavers had tucked that grand ball of twine under his arm and dispensed it one tug at a time, three loops for the pee, three loops for the poo and three loops all the way around the block. It was a thousand tugs, and a single pluck of the bow-string—the keystone of Ken Graham’s world.

Star Queen Memoirs #8: Recon Fly-fishingThere are no 600lb Black Bears

Dan and I carried heavy duty marine radios used to communicate with the Star Queen, or one another, when we were out fishing. There were always staff on board the Star Queen, so at very least, we’d coordinate meal times and such.

All radio communication went:

“Star Queen, Star Queen, this is Star Queen Mobile (schzzrrrtchchs...) Do you read. Over”.

“Star Queen Mobile, this is Star Queen. Read you loud and clear”.

I admit it was a guilty pleasure and kinda felt like playing dress up—pretending to be in the military or just sounding official, but I always got a kick out of it anyway. And that’s how the Coast Guard talked, in case we ever got in trouble and had to call them.

Recon fly-fishing was probably my favorite part of the job. That’s where I’d get up before daybreak; hop into my waders and head to the mouth of a creek. I'd survey the water; catch a few fish; figure out whether we'd fish there or steam to new water.

That morning, fog lay thick on the fjord, just as the sky began to brighten. I couldn’t see the mouth of the creek, let alone the island. Normally, I’d have asked Dan, but he stayed home that week. Ken gave me a compass along with a look, like I was stupid. But I didn’t care. I’m no mariner. A compass and a map, hadn’t even occurred to me. And the thought of sneaking up on the island, with only a compass heading, in an eight foot Zodiac was too compelling for me to be bothered with Ken.

My gear was light. My radio was strapped to my chest. I had my fly-rod and one box of flies. I didn’t bring the rifle—a cannon—the biggest of them all: a .458 Weatherby Magnum. If you had to shoot a bear, you would want to drop it, immediately. And we were trained to take a shoulder shot, instead of a heart or head shot; that was supposed to stop the bear first. You could kill it after it stopped charging you. But I didn’t like carrying it. I loved the bears and hated the idea of ever shooting one. So, I’d bring bear mace.

I fished right at the mouth for thirty minutes or so. The fog had begun to lift. And I turned and walked up the center of the creek, looking for some pools and some fish. In the flats, I'd stomp to startle the fish; it was an easy way to spot them so long was it was shallow enough that their backs would break water when they'd bolt. Then, abruptly, I heard:

“Star Queen Mobile, Star Queen Mobile, this is Star Queen, copy”.

I grabbed my handset. “Copy, Star Queen—Mobile One”.

“Mobile One, be advised: 600lb. Black Bear followed you up the ravine. Repeat. Large Black Bear behind you. Advise caution”.

“Copy, Star Queen. Over”.

Well, that came from a visiting guide from the East Coast and he was full of shit. It was enough I didn’t like him. I didn’t appreciate the attempt at humor. There were no 600lb Black Bears. Hell, half of the black bears looked small enough to wrestle; it surprised me. The others weren't all THAT intimidating by their sheer size. Not like a Grizzly or giant Kodiak bears or even a Coastal Brown Bear. They looked like really big dogs. Like giant Rottweilers. 250lbs. You looked down at them, not up. Biggest I’d seen was maybe 400lbs. But I'd keep an eye out.

Then, sure as shit, big daddy came trompin’ right up the creek, right at me. And the fucking thing was nearly as a big as a Brown Bear—every bit of 600lbs. He was huge, and he stared right at me and sorta grumbled and snorted as he walked. And he didn’t walk like a Black Bear. He had the swagger of a Grizzly; the air that says “They call me Big-bear; Who the fuck are you”? There was no trail or opening and no obvious way to yield the right of way. I dropped my hand to my bear mace to click off the safety, then realized I’d left it on the Star Queen. So, I backed up, slowly and let him amble right on by. No big deal. He seemed friendly enough. But, still. I was scared. Just because he was so fucking big.

And it turned out that the first and last thing that full-of-shit, New England guide said to me, that wasn’t total horse shit, was “there’s a 600lb bear, right behind you”.

The McKinley House

In 2000, I bought my first house. It was a disaster; a bona-fide biohazard. I got a lot of “you must be crazy” looks. It was so filthy, it really shouldn’t have been habited, but it was. A whole family of five lived there, including a young couple and their child, who slept in the attic, accessible only by a foldout attic ladder.

The first task was to tear out the carpet. To my surprise, layers of carpet had been installed without removing the underlying layers as thought they were installing roofing, not the surface you walk on—live on. Under multiple layers of carpet was carpet pad. Once that was removed there were patches that looked like concrete, from what I imagined as a slurry of Coca-Cola spilled onto the dirt that had burrowed through the fibers. Most of the floor just looked like a volleyball court from decades of Central Oregon's sandy soil grinding its way to the first impenetrable surface.

But, once the flooring was ripped out and swept out, I lived in it while I renovated it, sleeping on an Army cot next to my table saw. I moved walls. I rewired the entire house. I supported the floors with new pier-pads and posts. I replaced the bathroom and renovated the kitchen. Lights were added everywhere. It went from four circuits to 24 (should they be needed); from 110 to 220amp service. All windows and doors were replaced, except the grid-windows in the front. Every interior surface was replaced. And I did almost all of it myself. Though family and friends threw in at critical times. Thanks Dad. Thanks Austin. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dave. Thanks John.

What started as a biohazard became home and it was great fun. It was also an investment and I wasn’t overly sentimental about it. But there was one great surprise: the aesthetics of peeling away the old. I expected to enjoy making the old new again; I always have. But seeing the beauty of layer after layer, year after year, being peeled away—that was was a big surprise.

Where I had been photographing the project for posterity (and to document wiring details, and such) my photographs turned to expression—a documentary and history of the house. And it was rich with interesting compositions, colors, textures, and light.

There are close to two hundred documenting the project. Most of them functional, but thirty or forty, surprisingly beautiful. I will post them in a slide show as soon as I learn how to do it. If you know how, I’d appreciate your advice.

Graduated Motorcycle Endorsements—Disclosing Speed and Acceleration

Riding motorcycles is inherently dangerous. Yet something about the Y chromosome makes it seem like a great idea. Young guys always, always, always want to go quicker and faster. (I’m not leaving you motorcycle-ladies out; just saying guys tend to be stupid about it).

We start with our parents to keep us out of harms way, but once we turn eighteen, we’re free to buy the fastest bike we want.

While I’m all for personal responsibility, it’s only reasonable that all products disclose their inherent dangers, especially those that aren’t self-evident. And therein lies the problem.

You can’t explain to somebody who’s never ridden a fast motorcycle what it’s like. Well, you can, but thay won’t understand it; it is experiential. You have to conceptualize it and feel it to understand it. It’s not like other dangerous products: chainsaws, garbage disposals, weed-whackers, firearms.

With fast bikes, there is a limitation of perceptual psychology that simply doesn’t exist with most other products. There are two things in particular that can’t be communicated in a pamphlet or owner’s manual:

1.) Big-time acceleration It doesn’t matter if a kid has driven his dad’s Porsche. Not even a Ferrari. There is an invisible threshold of quickness, that when crossed, will play mind games with you. I sense it in anything that will do 0-60 in less than four seconds. That rules out nearly every street legal car ever made. But motorcycles that will do 0-60 in the three seconds and change are not uncommon these days. Some will do it in the two’s!

If you haven’t built up to this gradually, your mind hasn’t learned to process it. Much of your mental processing is overwhelmed with everything that’s coming at you: a logarithmic sensory explosion. It results in a loss of depth perception. Many fatal accidents occurred when inexperience riders accelerate hard then think they are approaching an intersection, when in fact, they’re in the intersection. Their depth perception has never been asked to update itself so quickly.You can learn to overcome this. The tragedy is that a lot of kids die first.

2.) Speed Things that work when you’re going slow, don’t work when you’re going fast. For one, your front brakes provide nearly all your stopping power on a motorcycle. If you’re cruising around town going forty-five and feel compelled to use your back brake, it’ll do the job (though I don’t recommend it). Next, leaning will turn a bike. Again, if you’re going slow and don’t need to steer with much precision or speed, leaning the bike will do. But there’s a delay. You lean—then the bike turns. Doesn’t seem like it at 45mph, but it’s there. Now, double your speed and lean the bike to turn it. You may clip a curb and launch yourself learning this dynamic. Counter steering is the way to turn a bike, positively and quickly but it’s not at all intuitive. And the only thing that exclaims its importance is speed. Here’s a brief explanation of counter steering.

I don’t want to rain on anyone’s parade. I just want young motorcyclists to live to be old motorcyclists. But it seems impossible to warn an 18 year old of these things. Like some college courses that have prerequisites, to understand the dangers and experience the fun in relative safety, you have to have some experience.

My suggestion is to have graduated motorcycle licenses. I’ve been told it’s been done before. If so, it ought to be brought back. Perhaps there would be three stages of quickness and speed. Organizing stages by motorcycle size wouldn’t work, because there are terrifically fast, little bikes. Exceptions aside, it would look something like:

50cc No endorsement required (as is currently the case)
51cc — 350cc starter endorsement (no RZ 350’s!)
351 — 500cc intermediate endorsement
501cc and up, it’s a free for all

I would either have this in effect where all riders would have to spend one year in ‘class one’, then one year in ‘class two’. Or, if they were dead set on moving up faster, they could opt for an intensive rider training class to get accustomed to more powerful bikes. It would have to be thorough enough that if they read the product disclosure after plunking down their cash for a new Gixxer 1000, they’d think “I know exactly what they’re talking about”.

Feel the same way? Write your congressman.

PS: Some people can't be helped. You will NOT believe this video!

The Isle of Mann TT

A British isle—the Isle of Mann—hosts the greatest, most exciting, crazy, stupid, bitchinest, road race ever. In fact, I think it is the last road race ever. These days road racing isn’t done on roads so much as race tracks.

The trend towards racetracks is to keep people from dying, which is still common at the TT. The danger almost gives it a quality of The Running of the Bulls as much as a race. An annual test of courage as much as skill. The only place on earth, I know of, where you can ride your motorcycle 200mph on a public road if you’ve got the bike to do it.

A storied race, going back over a hundred years, the TT (or Tourist Trophy) invokes images of road racing legends: Mike Hailwood, Giacomo Agostini, Jimmie Guthrie. And let’s not forget legendary rides: The Norton 500 Manx, MV Augusta, Matchless.

As a teenager, I always wanted to ride in the TT some day. Then I learned why road racing on open roads is so dangerous and why, surprisingly, racing motorcycles on paved tracks is relatively safe. It’s impact that hurts you, not speed. And the streets of the TT are full of potential impact. In its over 100-year history, there have been over 225 deaths, racing the Isle. In my lifetime, I don’t know of any death in FIM or AMA road racing. I’m sure there have been a few, but they are rare.

With those statistics, I guess I’ll enjoy the race in concept and hope to watch it live someday.

Isle of Mann Videos from You Tube

Here are some select videos from actual races:
(I have included some crashes, but no fatal ones)

An amazing review of the 2007 event
Massive speed wobble (crash)
Incredible, crash! How did he survive?
(It says he was going 200mph; more like to 150mph)
Don’t think you can jump a roadbike?
Unbelievable tank-slapper. He pulls it out!

Honda Super Hawk: Classic & Modern

A few years ago, I broke down and bought my first big-bore bike. Buying a one litre bike wasn’t an impulse. But buying a Honda VTR1000, also known as a 996 Super Hawk was pure impulse.

I was in Seattle and had a couple hours to kill when I saw a vintage 100cc road racer in the window of University Honda. I’m like a moth to light, that way. Wandering around the showroom, I saw a beautiful red bike. It was clearly a partial rip-off of a Ducati 900 Super Sport. But beautiful, nonetheless. And bypassing the super-expensive Ducati valve adjustments was also attractive.

I think I had a motorcycle-blackout. The next thing I knew, I was riding this wickedly torquey machine along the streets of Seattle. It seemed too hectic at first. So much power right off the line. Acceleration was strong and speed very deceptive. Things were happening fast. As I was returning to the shop from my test drive, it occurred to me, the back of my van was completely empty.

On my return, I said without hesitation “if you can fit that bike, in that van, it’s sold”. So much for diligence. It was fun watching those guys try to wedge it in my van. I wasn’t sure they were going to pull it off. They had to loosen one handlebar and remove both mirrors. Finally, they did it.

While it was an impulse, I was familiar with the ‘format’ of the bike—it's general layout. After riding manic street-bound two-strokes, and high revving inline four’s much of my life, I wanted the steady power of v-twin. And having said goodbye to my twenties (and most of my thirties), I knew I didn’t want a ‘race-replica’ or track bike.

Sorry kids. I know GSXR’s are wicked-fast and you can kick my ass in a drag race. But being a race-bike makes it better on the track, not on the street where I’ll be riding. A Super Sport is a better street bike than a race bike. This distinction takes all motorcycle-guys between fifteen and thirty five years to figure out. And don’t kid yourself. This bike is fast. Roll-on torque wheelies on the highway are NOT a problem. (Though those days are over for me—well, almost).

It was only after I bought it, I learned something of the Super Hawk heritage. That there had been other Super Hawks to come before the VTR. Pictured is a bike nearly identical to mine and an early, classic Super Hawk. The performance is… slightly different, but it’s hard to say which is prettier.

Clicking the links below will take you to a site dedicated to the classic Super Hawks and a review of the modern Super Hawk. I think I want one of each.

Honda Super Hawks: Modern
Honda Super Hawks: Classic

A Few Of My Own: Grid Panel #1

Musicians collaborate. Dancers collaborate. Screenwriters collaborate. Yet, the visual arts are not prone to collaboration. Andy Wachs, life-long friend, fellow artist, and co-owner of Bend’s hottest new gallery, BICA, wondered why. In fact, we both wondered why, at a party at my house in 1984.

We agreed. There are no reason painters or sculptors shouldn’t work together, then we started slinging paint. The results were—they weren’t good. A hodgepodge. Pure mud.

But it was fun.

And we’ve been having similar art sessions ever since. For years, the results weren’t very good. But I looked at it as an exercise more than a production. And a great exercise at that. Solo painters can plan. They have only themselves to react to. But that can entice complacency, allow deliberation, kill spontaneously.

Having a collaborative art-session changes all that. You make a move. Then it’s their move. Yours. Theirs. Yours. Theirs. A volley. And just as you see something pleasant emerging—a direction you want to take, it disappears. You can’t fall in love with little bits of it. You have to relinquish expectations to the process.

It may not produce great art. But it will make you a better painter. I guarantee it. And eventually, you either get lucky, or learn how to harmonize with someone else’s aesthetic.

After years of our occasional impromptu art sessions, we finally did a couple good ones. Andy has one. I kept this one: Grid Panel #1.

Star Queen Memoirs #7: Bad Day at the Beaver Hut (or, How I almost got my ass kicked by a girl)

There was a fish packing plant right on the edge of the port. I assume, that’s where everyone sold their catch, the moment the Halibut season ended. It was, coincidentally, almost directly across the street from the Beaver Hut. I’d never seen a bar so big in such a little town. Prior to Halibut payday, I’d wondered why.

The Chamber of Commerce likes to talk about the friendly people. But, I’d recommend Alaska for the fishing and scenery. You don’t count in Alaska, unless you’ve spent a winter. And if you’re a fancy-ass, college-boy, fly-fisherman who lives on a yacht—doesn’t do any ‘real’ fishing, it would be a long winter. But I decided to go to the party anyway.

I was wary. The guys on the Catham in the slip next to us were great. But a few of the commercial guys were some of the meanest son’s a bitches I’d ever seen. I had no intention of getting punched in the face.

The Beaver Hut could hold nearly four hundred people. And it was full. Drunken fisherman with rolls of hundreds—thousands of dollars in their pocket, would buy rounds for the house, which meant everyone in earshot of the offer.

I avoided activities that had gotten me punched in the face, previously, like playing pool. When I saw a woman, playing a game with her friends, it seemed safe, so I tossed my quarters up, and tried again to make friends with some locals.

She didn’t think much of me. First question “you go to college”? I didn’t respond but she didn't let me get away with it. I said “no”, suspecting it was the correct answer. The interrogation continued. The more she fucked with me, and the more I took it, the louder and more emboldened she became.

This all sounds familiar—like some of those times I got punched in the face. Holy shit. Was she going to punch me in the face? I took a good look around and I think a few people had already tuned into this channel. It’s an unmistakable feel: The anticipation of a fight. Were they looking at me? Other than the fact that she seemed to be a girl, every instinct I had said “you’re gonna get punched in the face”.

Oh, the litany of terror. Were do I begin? First, she looked like she could kick my ass. Second, it was becoming clear, it wouldn’t be the first time she punched a man. Third, the hometown crowd was rooting for her to win. And fourth, but not last, they seemed as though they might have helped her.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, college boy… city boy…” She was sloppy. I hadn’t said a word. I was just standing there quietly, with the cue ball in hand, about to break. Then out came the magic words “I’m gonna kick your fucking ass”.

Freeze frame.

“Beaten up by a girl—in front of hundreds of witnesses. It’d be in the newspaper for sure—a public interest story. Local woman makes good. Where are the exits? Would anyone I know find out? I should just run. Oh, yeah. It’s my break”.

Roll camera.

She glared at me from the end of the table, sitting on a bench, staring right down my cue stick.

Crack! From a thundrous break—but I missed, slightly, skipping the ball off the table, right at her head. It crashed into the cinder block wall just three inches to the left of her temple. She shut up. Everyone shut up. Just long enough for me to leave.

Star Queen Memoirs #6: dit dit dit—da da da—dit dit dit

Halibut season was the damnedest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s a twenty-four hour shopping spree. Then, fish are counted and if a quota hasn’t been reached, they have another 24-hour season, and so forth.

They’re as fun to catch as a garbage can. But they’re good to eat. And they’re big. Up to 400lbs or bigger. 250lbs isn’t uncommon. Multiply that by five bucks a pound or so, allowing for some fish guts, and you can see there are a lot of thousand dollar bills traversing the fjords.

So, naturally, the number of ‘fisherman’ triples on this first season; every vessel pressed into service, seaworthy or not. Duct tape. Bailing wire. Caulking. Corks. Whatever would make them float. A fella could make five or ten thousand in that one day fishing.

With a knowing smile, Ken turned the radio to the Coastguard emergency channel. The frenzy harkened back to the scene from Jaws were cash-crazed islanders took to the ocean in dinghies, madly dishing out chum, and tossing sticks of TNT over the transom: a floating calamity.

There were 24 S.O.S. distress signals sent out in twenty-four hours. It reminded me of my dad, who’d been a radio operator in the Navy, teaching my brother and I “dit dit dit, da da da, dit dit dit”, which is S.O.S. in Morse code, if I remember correctly. Though these guys would mostly just get on the radio and start screaming “mayday, mayday…we are taking on water, mayday…” as they were bailing.

The nearest vessel would come to help. In this mix of serious fisherman and the ‘dynamite crew’ from Jaws, it was strictly the later requiring help from the former. If a floating bathtub began sinking, another vessel, might steam by and toss a loaner-pump aboard the sinker, and go right back to work. They only had 24 hours to make their wage.

I was surprised that the folly of the incidental fisherman was tolerated at all. There seemed to be an unwritten code (or maybe an actual one) that no matter how stupid a mariner is, you help him if his boat is sinking. And help they received.

The final count: Twenty-four signals went out. Twenty-three boats came home. One boat lost at sea, August 6th, nine’een nin’y three.


The image was borrowed from Tim Berg’s Alaskan Fishing Adventures (clearly not among the ‘incidental’ fisherman).

Star Queen Memoirs #5: Oh-fer-Six

Weekends, I had off. There wasn’t much purpose in having weekends off, because there wasn’t much to do in Wrangell but fish. And being the only permanent resident of the Star Queen, it could get boring.

Saturday’s I’d polish some brass for a few extra bucks. And they’d usually spare me
some leftover’s. Sundays, I was on my own to entertain and feed myself. What to do, what to do?

I’d go fishing! Pat’s Creek was the only place to go on the island for fly-fishing. Though I didn’t have transportation. Ken was fairly fussy with his stuff and wouldn’t let me take the jetboat. I suppose I don’t blame him. Boats break often. In Alaska, they break even more often. He offered me the skiff and I took him up on it once, but I hated that boat. It wasn’t stable enough for the fjords. A little chop and some wind and the bow would come right around unless you had a forward passenger.

So, I found other transportation. I tried hitchhiking, but soon found the dirt road was barely traveled. Then I noticed a bicycle that was always parked in the same place at the top of the ramp, next to the Harbor Master’s. It was a girl’s three speed. No lock. “Must be a community bike” I figured, so I’d ride it the five or so miles to Pat’s Creek.

It really was a creek, not a small river like Anan Creek. And like nearly all the creeks and rivers in the Passage, it flowed from a lake formed in the crater of the volcanic islands. Wrangell has a couple of them, connected by a creek, then the final run is a mile and a half or two miles to the ocean.

Catching a three to five pound Pink Salmon was challenging on Pat’s creek. Portlander’s can compare it in size to Johnson Creek, but it drops about 400’ in its short journey to the ocean. Its shores are lined with rocks and boulders. Fish would be found in pools, but as soon as you’d hook them, they’d go mad, dragging you through rock-laden runs.

I’d generally catch a number of Pink Salmon and keep a small one for my Sunday dinner. Silvers, however, were another story.

Oh, to see a Silver Salmon—a ten pounder holding in a deep cut, taunting you. Of all the species, Silvers are pound for pound, the greatest fighters. They can make a Steelhead feel gentle. They strike with fury. I spent two fly-rods on Silver’s that shattered them at the base on their initial strike. To catch one on Pat’s Creek—that would be a feat and I was sure I would.

I literally caught tons of Salmon on a fly rod—thousands of pounds. 5lbs. times hundreds. And I think I made seven journeys to Pat’s Creek. Each time I caught Pinks. Nearly each time, I hooked a Silver.

But, at last, on Pat’s creek they beat me. I was oh-fer-six. Maybe another day.