Man Made Lake

Broke As a Joke

How To Make A Dollar Outta Fifteen Cent

   During my weekly ventures into new neighborhoods I've found that you can tell a lot about a local population from their storefronts.  For example, I live in a Polish neighborhood and there is a significant number of meat markets.  Coincidentally, cured meat is a staple of the Polish diet.  If you go to any Chinatown in North America you are guaranteed an overabundance of internet cafes, indicative of their youths' addiction to online gaming.  In Seattle's Georgetown, the hippest neighborhood in the world, the priorities are clear from a scarce five businesses: a gallery, a coffee shop, two bars, and a Vespa retailer.  Arab neighborhoods always have mosques, Irish neighborhoods always have pubs.

   I started noticing a certain discomfort with the local businesses when visiting exceptionally poor neighborhoods.  In the middle a three- or four-hour long walk it's nice to take a break somewhere.  Maybe have a cup of coffee or a small sandwich, maybe just to use a bathroom or sit and think about what I've been seeing.  But I found this consistently hard to do.  No coffee shops, no bakeries, no sit-down restaurants besides McDonalds, no working bathrooms.  No grocery stores where I could buy an apple or a loaf of bread and some cheese.  Nothing.

   This got me thinking about what local amenities I would want, what businesses I would patronize, if I had less disposable income.  Say my girlfriend lost her job and I suddenly had to cover us both.  The biggest concern would definitely be food.  I'd want a decent grocery store nearby, or, better yet, a farmers market (they're cheaper).  Even better, I'd want a little plot in a community garden to grow my own food.  It would be nice to have a local credit union in the neighborhood since they often have better rates than big banks.  Throw in a reasonably priced internet cafe and a little library branch and I'd be set.  Yet my ideal poverty stricken lifestyle would be completely unattainable in any corresponding neighborhood in New York. 

   When a neighborhood is poor enough, ethnicity becomes irrelevant.  The businesses are always the same.  Food seems to be the lowest priority.  There are no decently sized grocery stores or even a basic fruit market or bakery.  All food is bought at overpriced corner bodegas, most of which severely lacks nutritional content.  Restaurants are scarce and tend to be limited to fast food chains (and knockoffs).  You're best bet is the little carts selling gyros and hot dogs. 

   Some of the storefronts, as sad as they are, may be expected in such an environment: Western Unions, military recruiting centers, liquor stores.  I find the others confusing.  There are always "gift" stores selling useless cheap knickknacks, often specializing in luggage.  Why would poor people invest so heavily in suitcases?  Nevertheless, in any poor neighborhood you'll find several of these stores spilling onto the sidewalk.  Electronics stores, especially video games and cell phones, are also trivial yet ubiquitous.  Above all else, the businesses that I see the most in these neighborhoods are shoe stores, jewelry shops, beauty supplies, nail salons, and hair salons.  These commodities are anything but cheap.

   A September article in the New York Times about pawn shops in the Bronx told the story of a woman who pawns the same piece of jewelry over and over again.  In many ways, pawn shops function like banks for those who don't have a bank account, jewelry being their sole liquidable assets.  The author wrote that the woman's story "illustrates the murky ground between financial help and sentimental regret, between luxury and necessity, that the stores occupy."

   Initially one might think that the counterintuitive business climate in New Yorks slums can be explained by the lack of education and discipline of the neighborhood residents.  Their unhealthy habits and lust for flashy appearances help solidify the cycle of poverty and ensure that they will never succeed.  On further inspection, however, I've found that in all neighborhoods people buy useless shit that makes you pretty, regardless of the median income.  New York would no doubt be a frustrating city to be poor in given the high cost of living and the widespread display of outrageous wealth.  The difference is that to fill their apartments with plastic junk, to look in the mirror with a sliver of pride, to be modern, the poor have to make greater sacrifices: their health, their financial security, or both.

(photos taken in the Hub, the retail center of the South Bronx)

B.A.D.

When I was eleven there was nothing cooler than a good titty 'mag. Nothing. Puberty shifted my priorities from candy and ghostbusters straight to women. And women grew inexplicably appealing. What I wanted from women was not quite clear but I knew that titty mags held the secret. The women around me were still girls, no meat on their bones, no hips, no breasts. The women in the magazines, however, knew what you wanted. They looked you square in the eye and said: "Yes, I'm a pleasurable institution, but I'm so baaaad. Are you man enough?"

And they were bad. Really bad. Worse than swearing, worse than stealing candy. Cigarettes and drugs were still light years away - this was it. My friends and I would walk to the bookstore and pretend to look at video game magazines while inching towards the gold. Sometimes one of us would slip a magazine in a pant leg and take off. But usually the cute sixteen year-old would come over from behind the counter and stare us down with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised. We'd drop the magazines and run home giggling.

To this day, nothing in my life has been as exciting as holding one of these magazines was when I was eleven. Just holding one. Not even opening it. The tension was incredible. Once I'd had one for a week and seen it all, there wasn't much left to it. The small stack under my mattress were just trophies really. It was the new ones that held secrets.

I can't remember how the discussion came about - I don't think I was caught. But somehow, for some reason, I found out that my parents didn't particularly mind me having these magazines. As long as they weren't terribly crass, it was my sexuality and that was my business. In retrospect, it's a pretty good attitude to have. Pubescent sexual curiosity is about as natural as it gets. And let me tell you, I was fucking overjoyed. Maybe I would get a subscription! Maybe a couple! Why bother failing to steal them or paying through the roof for someone else to? The future looked bright.

I went to my bedroom to celebrate by pulling a new one I hadn't exhausted yet from under the mattress. Much to my horror, the appeal was completely gone. There was nothing special about a partially nude woman photographed on a bearskin rug! Why should their be?! Who the fuck deserves special credit for growing breasts! It's just flesh! It's just DNA! It was all just a BIG FUCKING SCAM!

Thirteen years later I feel the same emptiness with regard to pornography. Many of my friends, while eventually acquiring attractive sexual partners, still enjoy a good porno flick every now and then. They even go to strip clubs occasionally and get a thrill out of throwing a five on the stage. I have no such luck. With the taboo of sex written off as a mere cultural idiosyncrasy, I am immune to these pleasures.

Perhaps taboos should be maintained to ensure easy diversion. One time Kayt and I were walking through a Hasidic part of Brooklyn and everybody looked wide-eyed at Kayt's exposed knees. Knees have never given me an erection. Maybe they should.

Hump a pillow

    In Ghostface Killer's fantastic "Maxine," the rapper raps of the awkward emotions and confusing signs inherent in an elementary school romance.  In particular the following lyrics grabbed me:
"Puppy love
shootin puppy water
might hump a pillow
dick an inch taller"
    As the title of the post would suggest, the act of 'humping a pillow' caught my attention.  In 6th grade, a friend surprised me by humping a pillow in my bedroom; when I told a few people at school it caused a scandal.  However, a little farther back, say 3rd or 4th grade, this act might make a little more sense.  I can't remember whether or not I've humped a pillow myself, but it seems like something I might have done.  It's a prepubescent  act of sexual frustration before you really know what sex is.  It's an uninformed and somewhat pathetic attempt at masturbation.
    But more importantly, it's an interesting phrase that I plan to use in other contexts.  But what contexts, you ask?  I've got two so far.  First off, it can be used as an off color expression.  Instead of saying 'Johnny is being a big baby,' or 'Johnny went home to his mommy,' you could say 'Johnny had to go hump a pillow.'  It implies that Johnny is sexually frustrated and yet too stupid to successfully masturbate.  And although most women probably never got to hump a pillow, the phrase works even better on them because of the increased absurdity.  You could also say 'go hump a pillow' as an alternative to 'fuck off.'
    Second, I could start producing sex educational new jack swing LPs for kids ages 8-11 and release them on Hump A Pillow Records.

How I learned to love gentrification

    Part of my job is going to various business districts in Portland and measuring the pedestrian traffic.  It's nice to people-watch during the lunch hour and the results have surprised me quite a bit.  But the best part is that I’m forced to sit at each 'main street' and really look around.  It's easy to think of a particular street as 'the place where that burger joint is,' etc. etc.  By spending some time just watching things I've had the opportunity to really compare the different areas beyond where one should drink and eat.
     That brings me to NE Alberta Street.  This isn't just another street that used to have a streetcar in the 30's that finally filled its empty storefronts with restaurants.  Less than ten years ago Alberta was in the heart of the ghetto.  It was just another east-west corridor in an area that had plenty, almost completely abandoned except for the drug dealers and prostitutes.  Over the course of the last five years it has been totally revamped, and not just some coffee shops and community centers either.  I’m talking about high-end restaurants, boutiques and a slew of galleries.  On the last Thursday of each month the street turns into a huge fair where artists peddle their wares.  Sleek new glass and metal condominiums have been built.  SUVs flood the neighborhood recently coined the "Alberta Arts District." 
     It's astonishing how much money has come in.  Not only has the private sector invested millions in new buildings and restoring old ones but the City has gone ape shit promoting it too: Alberta has fresh curb extensions, hokey street lights, fancy metal banners, new bus shelters with large art installations and bi-directional curb ramps.  Meanwhile, other neighborhoods with higher patronage wait on the long list for similar infrastructure improvements.  It's not that I don’t think Alberta deserves them, but it's obvious that everyone wants this to be another Portland success story with regard to urban design and commerce.  Anyone standing on Alberta Street can tell you right off the bat that it got hip fast.
     What really fascinates me is that, despite all the investment, there isn't a single block in the mile-long stretch that doesn’t have at least one abandoned lot full of overgrown weeds and old tires.  Despite all this money and hype, the businesses are still spread out enough for you to get a glimpse of Alberta Street's past.  Beyond all of this 'arts district' shit, for me, it's the defining characteristic of the neighborhood.  And I like it and I don't.  On one hand, it makes me feel (like too many eastside neighborhoods do) that I'm in the middle of goddamn nowhere.  Desolate and sprawled, it's like a hip college town.  A far cry from an urban center.
     On the other hand, it's a very unique aesthetic.  And it's a testament to the neighborhoods rapid change of character.  Every time I go up there all I hear is people talking about how 'it's changed so much' 'its so different now' 'there didn’t used to be all this money.'  But it's still changing just as quickly.  The abandoned lots along side sleek condominiums are proof.  There's no way those will be there in 10 years.  Someone who moves to Portland today will say the same fucking thing five years from now because Alberta will have a distinctly different feel.  Every inch will be used up with retail space or hi-end residential and the minority community that has lived there for generations along with the more recent influx of tattooed train hoppers will be long gone.
    It's not that I wish things would stay the same.  The character of any urban neighborhood is the product of a complicated mix of social and economic patterns.  Cities with a halfway healthy economy cannot and will not remain static.  They never have.  But in embracing that change I realized how fragile and time-sensitive the character of this particular neighborhood is.  And that's refreshing.  It's refreshing to know that things are noticeably different than they were in the recent past and noticeably different than they’ll be in the near future.  The mid-2000s will be remembered as a distinct period of time.  At least by me. 

the Civic

Before-and-after taken from the PGE Park lightrail station at SW 18th and Morrison.

        All buildings are disposable where I come from. There isn't any real history to idealize so newer is always better: cars, kitchens, stereos, even homes. Upon moving to Portland, a relatively young and new city, I was thrilled to be in and around older buildings. My building was almost 80 years old! I wondered how many people had lived in my studio. It felt good to know that some things were worth keeping. Some things were built to last and they got better with age.
        That wasn't true for all the buildings in my neighborhood though. Half of my almost-daily walk to the grocery store was spent passing the Civic Apartments. Anyone who has lived in Goose Hollow or Northwest is sure to remember the 400 foot long off-white slum housing along West Burnside between 18th and 20th. Residents leaned out of ground-floor windows smoking and staring down passerby. Newspaper and cigarette butts littered the adjacent sidewalk. And it was ugly as sin. I hated walking past that building.
        Income Property Management tried repainting the place, even posting security, but finally the lot was worth too much. When I found out about the new building I was overjoyed. The replacement was to be an 18-story tower for condos and income-restricted apartments along 18th Av and a 4-story apartment building to occupy the rest of the site bisected by a new pedestrian thruway. That section of West Burnside is a little gross- perhaps a little yuppie disposable income could change that.
        It wasn't until I saw the original Civic vacated and ready for the wrecking ball that I realized that, like it or not, I had a relationship with this building and it was going to be slaughtered. It was more like a mean, comatose great-aunt being euthanized than an old friend being executed I suppose. Still, I passed this rock twice a day for more than four years and I didn't want to forget. So the day before it was leveled I took a couple dozen photos. Buildings are disposable, but memories are not.