These Cities Will Lose Us Soon

Portland, OR

Most of my time for four decades has been spent in San Francisco and most of my extra time has been spent in New York City. I love them both, almost beyond expression. I love the people, the food, the culture, the politics, and the spirit of these two special towns.

But I've glimpsed my future, and, barring a best-selling book, a winning lottery ticket, or some other miracle, I will not be living in either of these places.

Among the aspects of this that pain me is the fact that all of my children were born in San Francisco. But none of them can afford to be there.

I live in a part of town that most San Franciscans would consider a ghetto -- filled with the poor, the homeless, the drunk, and the drugged. Still, my unimpressive flat costs me $1,650 a month BEFORE utilities, which raise that monthly nut above $2,000.

Here in Portland, just up the road a day or so, I could easily rent a place, utilities included, for half that price. Am I scouting a new home base? You bet.

Folks, we are entering the Greatest Depression. Forget the 1930's. This one is far worse, so it is time for those of us who still possess any cash or investments whatsoever to begin a radical downsizing.

I want to get out while the getting out is still possible. Though I've probably enjoyed more financial success than 95% of Americans, I am now facing poverty on a scale I never imagined would be my companion as an old man. I don't even have health insurance, despite having paid probably a half million bucks into this corrupt health care system over the years.

What have I gotten for that? Do not get me started.

If you can do the math, you know what I am talking about. Get out from under those mortgages, overpriced rents, and expensive cars and get yourself to a place where you have a better shot at survival.

I'm going to do it.

You should too.

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The Slugger and Us

He's already been convicted in the press, and in the eyes of the nation, so today's news that he probably will never even be tried in a court of law has to be but a small comfort for Barry Bonds, who has always been and remains in my view the greatest hitter of all time in the greatest sport of all time.

I know the reporters personally who ruined his reputation, as well as their editors, and also why, as the good journalists they were trying to be, why they did what they did.

But, underneath all of your careful work, Lance, and yours, Phil, was an awful flaw and that is the inherent racism that made Barry Bonds an all too easy target for those looking for someone to blame for the steroids scandal that almost killed our national pastime.

You managed to select one guy out of the crowd and pinpoint his errors in judgment to seek a Pulitzer Prize that you didn't win, and you didn't deserve to win. You are not baseball fans, obviously. You don't know the game, or anything about what it takes to be great.

Do not read me wrong. I do not apologize for, nor excuse cheaters in sports. But I've studied the evidence from a mathematical perspective, and the obvious use of steroids by Bonds may have added, at most, 3 home runs to his seasonal totals.

Apply that across the board, and you'll easily see that McGwire, Sosa, and a few others did a great deal more than simply supercede the Babe and Maris. Which leads us back to Bonds.

If you do the math, his records stand.

Case closed.

In the Northwest

My youngest & I hit the road yesterday. She's a great traveler. We pulled into Seattle by noon, toured Olympia briefly, at the Little Red Barn downstate, and navigated our way into Portland under cloudy skies with a slight drizzle.

It's funny that, small as she is, compared to her nephews, a toddler and an infant, she's a giant. It is amazing to rediscover just how small new little humans really are. Today, we all went to a local coffee shop, Airplay, where local musicians perform for kids and their Moms.

Dozens of babies and small kids had gathered and soon they were rockin'...Outside, in the clear air and bright sun, I gazed at Mt. Hood, every crack and peak stood out, covered with snow.

Later still, the cloud cover returned, and the city turned dark and cold.

Everyone in a city has a story, of course. As I wander around, of course, I engage strangers in conversations -- an Indian woman whose family runs a local hotel, for instance. She said business is way off; people just aren't traveling as much these days.

A professor at a local university, who says he's seen a rapid increase in applications as the depression worsens.

A young woman with a tiny baby who smiles shyly when I recognize her as Japanese: "Konichiwa. An Australian woman with her toddler who misses her home country.

In my virtual world, more and more evidence pours in that my given "profession," journalism, is losing some of its most prized institutions. Newspaper after newspaper publisher is forced into bankruptcy; others simply cease publication altogether. The industry trade group cancels its annual convention; its members can't afford to attend this year.

There may soon be no organizations that employ us, but we journalists will still wander among the population, asking questions, capturing stories. Whether anyone will read them any longer is the question we can't answer.

-30-

Hai! Aso and the Plant Eating Man Ride into the Sunset

Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, now comes the Japanese Prime Minister, a fellow named (I'm not making this up) Aso. When the only guy you can find to run your country is an Aso, you can be sure that your economy is going down the toilet.

And that's exactly what is happening to our beloved Japan. When it comes to governing, the Japanese say, Aso really is an Aso. Headlines all over the world are blaring "Obama Meets with a Real Aso."

Meanwhile, back in the home country, soshokukei danchi, or (literally) "plant-eating man" is all the rage. These are very gentle young men who are too shy to even look at a woman, let alone flirt with her.

They are very quiet, neat, and they are presumed to not eat meat.

Here, I suppose, they would be called wimps. But in Japan, as always, everything is viewed differently.

It's hard to comprehend but Japan is still supposedly the world's second-largest economy, despite an almost permanent state of stagnant growth that has recently deteriorated into utter shrinkage.

Maybe, plant-eating man is just another way to cope with hopelessness about the future? After all, if you think things are going to hell in a hand-basket, the last thing you'd want to do is create children.

Having long admired the way Japanese tread lightly on the earth, compared to Americans, it was disturbing to learn they also throw away more food per capita than any people on earth.

This is because they are obsessed with only eating the freshest of foods. (Day-old sushi is not a good idea.) Maybe this discard slightly less fresh food mantra will have to change, as the Japanese, like all other people, have to adapt to The Global Depression.

Just Another Uninsured American

Let me tell you a story that is so ordinary and commonplace that you may recognize it as the most truly American of stories.

I have a friend. This guy has worked hard all of his life, and his career achievements have been quite respectable.

He is a journalist, primarily, but he's worked in a number of professions, as a business executive, a screenwriter, a professor, an author, a content producer, a non-profit administrator, a volunteer teacher (unpaid), a writing mentor (unpaid), a private investigator, a TV programmer, a radio producer, a magazine writer, a newspaper reporter, and editorial writer, and investigative reporter, an environmental activist (unpaid), a website editor, a guest lecturer, a guest editor, a blogger, a photographer, a marketing consultant, a branding consultant, and a bunch of other, less glamorous jobs, including pizza delivery man, hobby shop operator, newspaper delivery man, tomato picker, assembly line worker, truck driver, inventory manager, office manager assistant, sales assistant, civil rights activist (unpaid), anti-war activist (unpaid), adviser to a Buddhist sect, volunteer and propagandist for post-Katrina relief organizations (unpaid), chef on a sailboat crew (unpaid, except in lobster tails), dishwasher, carpenter on house-building projects, quasi-doctor administering eye-saving drops to people with Trachoma, tutor (unpaid), song-writer (unpaid), TV movie consultant, magazine entrepreneur, and on and on and on.

In other words, a typical guy with way too much energy who tends to get around.

Throughout his long and colorful "career," he's almost always had health insurance through his employers, which is in his opinion a terrible idea on its face, because he rarely stays in the same "job" longer than a year or two.

You see, my friend is a human butterfly, hopping from flower to flower, trying to spread pollens as widely as possible in the limited time available. If you re-examine the list above, you'll notice that much of what he has done in his life has not been paid for. This is the stuff he prefers, which is giving.

Taking does not come naturally.

But, if you want to know what I think, this guy is an idiot. Sure, he is a good person, generous, compassionate, blah, blah, blah.

But he has never grasped the fundamental principal of America. We don't take care of people here. You are utterly on your own.

Thus, tonight, this poor fellow came home, after a day of not being paid for anything he did, though quite happy until he opened his mail.

There, he discovered the following letter from "Anthem Blue Cross Life and Insurance Co.," which informed him that he has been deemed unsuitable to be insured due to a "cigarette smoking addiction."

Holy Fucking Crap! Unbeknownst to him, it turns out he is a nicotine addict! He must be, because the all-powerful Insurance Company says so.

There's just one, two, maybe three problems here.

This guy has never smoked a cigarette in his life. The famous Surgeon General's Report about the consequences of smoking came out when he was a teenager, and he therefore idealistically (and naively) went to the man he loved most, his father, and begged him to stop smoking.

His Dad promised to do so, but the truth is, he never could do it. Years later, after the inevitable strokes and heart attacks that resulted, his Dad still "went for a walk," which of course meant going outside for a smoke.

In the end, he forgave his father for this addiction. What else can a loving son do?

Meanwhile, as a journalist, over the years, he's been blessed with opportunities to learn about the power that addictions hold over us humans. A former colleague (at Rolling Stone) had inadvertently helped design the seductive "Joe Camel" ads that were intended to addict teenagers to smoking, just as his Dad had long ago been addicted. My friend wrote about that as an editorialist at the San Francisco Examiner, then a Hearst paper, now a free paper.

On many other occasions, he found a platform to advocate against smoking. As only the only son of a Dad can know, my friend comprehended the true, long-term consequences of smoking, and thus his heart broke at the sight of every young man or woman who chose that form of comfort to cope with their pain.

So, tonight's cruel news was also rich with the irony only ignorant bureaucracies can deliver. "How dare you?" he screamed at the form letter at Anthem Blue Cross Life and Health Insurance Co.

But, of course, nobody was there to hear his cry, which echoed across this great land like a ghost with no place to land...

-30-

Raining Seeds Depression

My favorite researcher tells me that rents are bound to come down around here soon. To check if that is yet true, I searched Craigslist today. I capped the monthly rent at $1,500 for a minimum of two bedrooms, and found many entries in less desirable parts of the city.



My researcher also assures me that the price of cars will come down soon. So I read the "auto section" of my newspaper today and found a new Yaris for around $11,000, with financing at 2.9% APR.



This kind of window shopping becomes possible when you are secure that, however tempting any housing or transportation option might appear, they are off the list of purchases available to me.

Rather, food deals are the ones that matter; those too are now appearing. I bought a large packet of American salad for one dollar and a large bag of fresh baby spinach leaves for another dollar.

At Walgreen's, I surrendered another dollar for three bags of seeds. I'm stockpiling seeds until the rains subside enough to allow a planting -- as you can see, tomatoes, onions, parsley and sweet basil are all here, ready to go to work for me.

The rains, which returned last night, have continued unabated ever since. Though driving the Bay Bridge was stressful, being inside my home with heat, food, water, newspapers, books, seeds and this computer -- my connection to the outside world -- feels perfect.

Here, I love the rain, probably because the place doesn't leak. Lacking any temptation whatsoever to go outside and play, or snap photos for my sister blogs, instead I write, write, write.

Much of this writing is pre-writing, actually, living inside my brain. Every time I need air, I open the front door or the back door and smell the wet air, hear the singing birds undeterred by the rains, or inhale the odors of moist soil and clover rising from my backyard.

Back inside, the words start taking shape, rather like snowflakes hitting the window, or ice freezing in the tray. Each phrase struggles to be born, making me dizzy in the process.

The contractions hurt at times, but I'm experienced at giving birth to stories, so I know it will feel better once they're out, and breathing on their own. Some stories are born like tender, naked, pink beating hearts. These are the ones the writer dreams of having. We don't create them so much as they visit us, who knows from where.

These precious guests, when they arrive, must be hidden for a while before we let them out. They make our eyes hurt, like the blinding sun. There is an awful screech to them, too, like fingernails on a blackboard, as we let them go.

Then, of course, we never know who hears these sounds, squints into this light, and falls back, weakened, light-headed. Because, of course, it is not the writer whose opinion matters. And mostly, readers will remain silent.

Just like the feelings unleashed by the soft rains, the unplanted seeds, and the unspoken emotions, my hope is always that my best stories are yet to be told.

The Cut of the Ice

Our favorite local artist cannot explain why or even when she started drawing stylized girls spinning on their skates on ice, but her journey parallels mine on so many levels.



Every tree, no matter when harvested, yields its own unique archeology of memory -- its own set of rings. These patterns are so mesmerizing that they take my breath away. I often stop to pick up a discarded piece of tree, not because I have any use for it, but it has its use for me: To make me mindful of the meaning of time, including time spent, and time lost.



Very recently, for the first time, I realized that trees are not the only living creatures creating rings. Ice does it too. Upon close observation (not available here because I am a rotten photographer, so just trust me) the layers of water in an ice cube tray freeze with different consistencies and colors -- dark and light.

As they melt back into liquid status, they become water, which reminds us how our current liquidity crisis will, eventually, end. Credit is frozen, much like the cube. You can't so much as lick a loan these days, because yo' tongue will stick to it, and that hurts.

On the other hand, from what I read, this Global Depression has just begun and nobody knows how to turn it around. Perhaps what we are actually facing is the end of time, the end of our time, when humans melt away so the planet gets to drink again.

-30-