This street is lined with houses of varying hues of pink. First we have the salmon-colored one. Then the cotton candy one. We’ll call the third one dusty rose. It’s almost as if cotton candy house went first, which either inspired or infuriated the homeowners to the left and right. Regardless, this is no coincidence.

I’m looking out the window of Cellar Door, a local coffee house in Southeast. The latte was exceptional and went down way too quickly. If you’re in the vicinity of SE 11th and Harrison I recommend you drop in and try the espresso, maybe even buy a bag of beans for the road. While you caffeinate, sit in the window and watch people pause before entering the A-1 Food Market across the street. For some reason they all reemerge with nothing in their hands.

I’m not a licensed hair person. At one point I thought I wanted to become one, but that didn’t pan out. Not to go on a rant about Aveda, but having my product sales numbers read out loud to the class wasn’t the kind of beauty school for which I thought I’d signed up. Nope. I did sales at The Container Store. Hell, I taught people how to sell at The Container Store. Why the eff would I want to be Aveda’s product pushing corporate pawn when all I wanted to do was learn how to cut hair really, really well?

And no, the Aveda Institute’s stupid sales stuff didn’t run me out of beauty school. You see, I’m grateful for learning that hair is really about products. I now can do some cool stuff with pomade and hair spray. But! I didn’t want to pervert my purpose, which was only about the art of giving a good hair cut. Being “just a good hair cutter” won’t sustain you in the beauty business, though. No, it’s product sales. And up-selling. That deep penetrating hair treatment that costs $120 in the salon? It will wash out in 48 hours and you’ll be back to looking like a frizzy mess. Worse yet? You’ll feel disappointed and misled. Take it from me: You’ll get greater satisfaction out of that money if you book yourself an amazing massage with a huge-handed guy named Sven.

I couldn’t keep lying to people in order to make money off of them. It’s wrong. I had to get out of hair sales before I ended up like Willy Loman. Worrying about what people thought of me and having to constantly watch my back was literally driving me crazy.

After about three months I withdrew from the Aveda Institute/Aveda Product Sales Machine and had myself a good old-fashioned summer vacation (those of you who know me personally are probably saying, “Whew!” because there is truth here that I am withholding because the Internet doesn’t get to know everything about my life). Thought I’d sworn off hair. Truly, I swore off sales.

When I go back and read the journal I kept during that period of time I see a lot of conflict between giving a good haircut and asking for money. I walked all over town and sweated and drank coffee and read books and contemplated selling my hair-doing kit. People, I have a golden curling iron. It’s ridiculous. I looked at it for weeks and said to myself, “Hair is so stupid. Look at this impressively shiny, yet poorly functioning piece of equipment.” That thing embodied everything I hated about hair school. It merely looked expensive. And I said to myself on a long walk from from NW 20th and Flanders to SE 50th and Hawthorne, “The only way I can do hair for people is if I don’t take money.” It was a breakthrough. A hot, caffeine-charged realization that freed me to pick up the scissors again.

“That’s right,” I thought, “I don’t want to do hair because I want to swim in cash. I want to do hair because it’s fun for me and helps people feel good about themselves.”

It’s all or nothing. I don’t want to ask for just a few bucks for a haircut, let alone a lot of bucks. When you put a dollar amount on something, an expectation is set. Nobody goes to Rudy’s expecting the most fantastic razored haircut ever. Why? Because Rudy’s is cheap and the people who work there want you cut, styled and paid up in as little time as possible. On the flipside, when you pay $80 for a smashing new style you expect better than smashing. You kinda hope that new ‘do will get you laid. In Nyco’s One-Woman Unlicensed Salon? I’m just honored that you asked me to do your hair. That’s it. If you want to make me cookies, cool. Otherwise, thanks for letting me do what I love, and do it for you.

Jed and I are experiencing emotional and sensory overload thanks to this dog.

THIS dog?

I mean, thanks to Charlie. Sorry, Charlie. (hehe, I couldn’t resist)

First of all, we apprehensively ride the roller coaster of vet visits (i.e. the bills that accompany them) and pulling chewing gum off of footpads at 6am after the poopie scoopie bag burst while picking up dog bombs during the morning walk.

Both are expected. Neither are fun.

Speaking of fun?! Let’s talk about obedience training.

You see, Charlie has this thing about other dogs. That thing is “Omigawd I SEE another DOG and I’m GOING to GET IT and if you don’t LET ME I’m going to FREAK the EFF OUT!” and then when we let her meet the other dog it’s “OH NO YOU DIDN’T just try to SMELL my butt NOW I WILL BARK and SHOVE and SCARE your owner HAHA I SHOWED YOU.” She’s pretty harmless, but that behavior is not great for meeting new people, yanno.

So, $100 later we meet Tim the Trainer and yesterday began the process of teaching Charlie to, well, behave like the good girl we all know she is. That process involves meat (lamb, that fancy/gassy bitch) and a clicker thing. We click the thing and she gets lamb. And we click. Lamb. Click. Lamb. And then we feed her dinner one kibble at a time. Click. Kibble. Click. Kibble.

We are in the midst of the maddening process of getting Charlie to “love the clicker” as Tim the Trainer puts it. See, the clicker is really an annoying training device. It’s piercing. Frankly, all involved are put off by it. That’s the point. We teach Charlie to not worry about insanely irritating things by giving her delicious noms when she hears a click. (That’s not completely accurate, but I can’t explain the concept in any sort of concise manner. So, we’ll go with what I got.)

Clicks for every piece of food at breakfast and dinner. One hundred thousand million gajillion clicks a day.

I hate the clicker. At least Charlie gets lamb when we use it. Know how I can learn to love the clicker?

I’ll give you a hint:

Click. Ice Cream. Click. Manicure.

But, it’s not about me.

So, Jed and I are holding on to bare threads of sanity and hoping that Charlie “loves the clicker” soon so we can move to Phase 2, which Tim the Trainer promises will be less intense. And that’s awesome. I can’t wait.

Click.

Click.

Click.

More later…

PS. We LOVE this dog. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t put ourselves through this madness. I hope you understand. Doglovers, do you know what I mean?

Meet Charlie Browne.

The “e” at the end is for femininity. Or something.

Stats:
Gender: Female
Breed: German Shorthaired Pointer/Laborador Retriever
Height: 22″ at the shoulder
Weight: 46 lbs
Age: 8 yrs

As of Memorial Day weekend she still called a second-chance dog shelter, Family Dogs New Life, home. We saw her on their website and immediately went to meet her. Back then she was called Marley. The place was hoppin’ and I was nervous that she’d already been snatched up. But we lucked out. I remember thinking she was smaller than her picture let on…

Charlie’s first week was focused on getting her situated and helping her trust. It took four baths to get her completely clean. In the process we discovered that she doesn’t shed. BONUS! She also checked out completely healthy at the vet office. Can I mention that the people at Mt. Scott Animal Clinic are amazing? One thing we discovered after a day or two is that she suffers from urinary incontinence, which isn’t uncommon in older female dogs. That accounted for some of her discomfort during the part of the week, but thanks to some inexpensive medication she’s dry as a desert rock. And we can tell that she’s happier for it.

And now for the trust part… The kind (and truthful) folks at Family Dogs New Life warned Jed and me that Charlie had a history of food and toy guarding. At their office we were able to induce some of her guarding behavior, and we felt like it was something we could work with her on. During week 1 breakfast and lunch were presented to Charlie in small, hand-held increments. We kept toys away from her until we established that we were the bosses and givers of all things delicious and nourishing. Now we can reach into her filled dish and grab kibbles while she wags her tail and munches around our fingers.

As far as toys are concerned, the progress is slower because Charlie doesn’t seem to have a whole lot of interest in playing right now. When a local intuitive animal communicator, Bridget Pilloud (@petsaretalking), talked with Charlie she discovered that grief over what Charlie perceived as the death of a previous owner causes Charlie to crave peace and quiet. Bridget assured us that if we give Charlie space and not overwhelm her with attention she’ll be a whole different pup in about three months. Fair enough. In the meantime, rather than push Charlie to play I’ve been stuffing cookies into a Kong and letting her kick it around as she pleases. She’s smart enough to know that if she bites the Kong hard enough the cookie will break and the pieces will fall out. It took her about 10 minutes to figure that out.

And that leads me to Charlie’s intelligence. She already knows Jed and me by name and has learned to “wait”, which is useful at crosswalks (someone else taught her “sit” “stay” and “down”). One downside of her smarts is the fact that she is very reactive when we show stress or speak in anger about work, etc. Charlie also likes to be dominant, which can scare other pet owners. We are meeting with a trainer to help us teach Charlie not to push other pups around. And teach Jed and I a thing or two as well.

So what about the cat, you ask? He’s not coming. It has nothing to do with Charlie, since she came along after I made the choice to leave Jeremy where he is. Here’s the short version:

Since moving to the CyanPDX on May 9th we’ve been thinking hard about a pet, but Jeremy (see previous post) is too happy and comfortable with my parents to steal away. The day that I called Mom to make the final decision with regard to Jeremy was a tough one. I love that cat. He’s huge and grouchy and not affectionate, but that doesn’t really matter. What does matter, though, was the fact that he would be lonely in our apartment and cut off from the outdoors. With Mom and Dad he has a yard and someone to keep company (Mom’s a domestic goddess, you see) all day every day. The choice was a no-brainer.

Now we have ourselves a happy ending. Charlie gets a second chance and Jeremy gets to live out his life in small town Pennsylvania. We can’t always pick the easy choice. I think the tough ones are the most rewarding, though.

For about a month, I’ve been working with a team of folks on a super sekrit project. Tonight, we are having a coming out party on Strange Love Live. Tune in at 10:00pm PDT to find out more…

For those of you who read yesterday’s “famous” post, I hope you understand that I wasn’t downplaying others’ contributions to The Article. Tooting my own horn (and conversely making fun of myself) is a right I reserve on this here blog. But, let me take a moment to congratulate everyone who is making the CyanPDX a great example of the power of social media marketing (here’s lookin’ at you, Justin Kistner and Ian Johnson).

Let me state the obvious: Great article, huh? Laura Oppenheimer is an impressive note-taker and listener. I’m so happy with how she represented what Jed and I had to say. In years past I’ve been interviewed by the media, and the resulting write-ups were disheartening because my words had been bent. I’ll never forget when a paper in Anderson, South Carolina took my “female empowerment” statement and turned it into “Girl Power”. Thinking about that still makes me involuntarily roll my eyes.

Anyway, thanks, Laura. And thanks, Kiernan, for arranging the interview.

Keep an eye out for the Sunday edition of The Oregonian! Unless something crazy happens in the business world today, the front page of the Business section should feature a story about my and Jed’s soon-to-be-new abode, CyanPDX. We were interviewed for the story, so you know the article will be SO compelling. No photos of us though, which is good because I’m badly in need of root touch-up.

I won’t take up a whole lot of space with details about the building itself, the state of Portland’s housing market, or the importance of walking the eco-friendly talk. Laura Oppenheimer will do a better job of that in her article. BUT! I’ll show you what I’ve been up to in my free time since putting down a deposit on our new abode:

I used a downloaded PDF and GIMP to play with the new apartment’s floor plan. It was fun, but it wasn’t as easy as it could of been had I used Skitch. Sure, GIMP is a fantastic open source photo editing software, but what I did above wasn’t exactly heavyweight stuff. After you watch this video, you’ll see what I mean:

Sold? Maybe in the coming weeks we’ll have a Super Skitcher contest or something…

My friend, Ben Friedle (@fart4art), is having his first art show on Wednesday, March 4th.

It’s a big deal. Here’s why:

Ben has been painting for years. One of the first paintings he ever did, titled “Ugly Fish”, has hung above my and Jed’s bed ever since the very beginning of our relationship. When I first saw the little monstrosity I knew this guy had something. But, it’s taken like, A DECADE for someone to finally convince him to display his works publicly. Sidenote: When I told Ben that I liked his painting, he was flabbergasted and told me to throw it away. He’s that humble.

Also, Ben isn’t the kind of artist who sits around and waits for the ideas to come to him. He goes out and finds them. Ben and his wife, Christina, use the public library more than anyone I know. They check out all sorts of media: Music albums, movies nobody has ever heard of, books about textiles and books about art and books about places and books about about about… Then they gobble it all up and take it all back and bring home even MORE music and movies and books. These people are like ShamWows for knowledge. What I’m getting at here is that Ben Friedle’s paintings have meaning that has been sought, processed, planned, and painstakingly interwoven into every brush stroke.

So finally it is happening: The Opening. I encourage you to come and see the gorgeous paintings and meet the person behind it all. And meet his amazing and vibrant wife, Christina. And his insane friends, who are too numerous to name. Fun will be had, songs will inevitably be sung, and you’ll be one of the first witnesses to an event that has been a long time in coming. Bring your wallet, too, because you’re going to want to take one of the pieces home with you.

Where:
La Merde Lounge – 301 SE Morrison St.
Portland, Oregon – Get Directions

When:
Wednesday, March 4th 2009  7pm – 10pm

More:
Fart4Art.com
MontagePortland.com
Upcoming.org

I was called “ye of little faith” for initially refusing to see Blondie in concert on Feb 22nd. From my perspective, Blondie’d had their heyday almost 30 years ago (I mean, this show was officially part of the “Parallel Lines 30th Anniversary Tour”) and even though something inside of me said “c’mon, they’re a living legend” I didn’t want to wreck the pristine-yet-dirty image I had in my mind. You know, of bleached hair and black eyeliner, spiky mullets and acid-washed stretch pants, sloppily laced tennis shoes and “I don’t give a shit what you think about me” glances. Blondie was my picture of cool 80’s style, with good music and a talented siren of a front woman to boot.

You’re probably saying “So what? It’s just a concert. Go for the spectacle and the ability to say ‘Yeah, I saw Blondie in concert’” and I hear you. You must know, though, that I’ve done it before and was sorely disappointed.

In 2001 Pat Benatar played the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach. I jumped. Pat was my IDOL. She was all I listened to. All I sang along to. Even though I was a naturally low alto I strained and trained myself to match her almost impossible register. So as I stood in the HoB, waiting almost an hour between the opening band’s end and the start of Pat’s set, the anticipation grew. They were making us wait so long in the impossible heat because they were going to knock our socks off. I just knew it! …Then she appeared. Almost every song she performed in a gravelly, strained mezzo alto–at times two octaves lower than the original recording. Halfway through the set Pat took a break and let her daughter’s “girl group” entertain the crowd for 15 minutes. The kicker was her performance of my favorite song of all time: “We Live For Love” She turned what used to be a showcase of her agile, piercing voice into an excuse to let her husband rock out on his guitar, and her background singers sang the high notes while she caught her breath. I. Was. Devastated. Even though I was too proud to admit it, Pat changed for me.

And people, Debbie Harry is 64 years old now. YES. Pat Benatar was only 48 when I saw her eight years ago. As women age, their singing voices wear out. They get saggy and baggy. Edges get smoothed out and fires smolder. There’s nothing wrong with that, unless you’re trying to behave like you’re still in your 20’s. It takes a pretty talented actress to recapture and project the energy and intensity she had so many years ago. I had doubts. I’d already lost Pat and I wasn’t interested in letting my second-most admired 80’s rock icon fall off her pedestal.

Then the ever-attentive Jed presented me with Blondie tickets as a V-Day gift. He knew I secretly wanted to go but was unable to bring myself to make the purchase on my own. Okay. Deep breath. I was going to the Blondie show. But this time I wouldn’t make the mistake of winding myself up so tightly over it. No expectations. None.

I avoided the temptation to wear my Halloween costume to the show. Instead, Jed and I had a leisurely dinner and hopped in line at the Roseland Theater about 45 minutes before Dahlia was scheduled to open the evening. We took our place in the crowd, center stage with only two bodies between me and the monitors. And those bodies belonged to some interesting characters. One of them was a tall skinny boy who gave me a fist pound after negotiating a “you’re going to bump into me and I’m going to bump into you and we’re both cool with it” agreement. We’ll call him Skinny. Another was a spitting image of Larry the Cable Guy, attire and all, with black shades and hairy arms. We’ll call him Larry. Both men were there with other men, and Larry’s partner was easily seven feet tall. Remember that, as it will be important later on.

So Dahlia took the stage at 8 o’clock sharp and got us all warmed up. Unfortunately Dahlia is defunct and only reunited for this one occasion, or else I’d recommend checking them out if you feel like a good, sweaty, dance-fest. Two DJs provided the electronica while the singer, a petite Bjork look-alike, writhed and wailed from one end of the stage to the other. She was overly theatrical and hypersexual at times, but otherwise a great entertainer. Honestly, I was just happy that Blondie enlisted local talent to open their show. As 8:30 tolled the end of Dahlia’s set, I was thusfar pleased.

Over the next half of an hour the room became noticeably more packed. The balcony filled up, and the temperature rose rapidly. People started chanting “Blondie! Blondie! Blondie!” as the roadies egged the crowd on. Skinny started jumping up and down. Larry, who had been cool as a cucumber up to this point, began wiping his brow with his wrist guards and roaring with excitement in all directions. Then at exactly 9pm the lights dimmed and out walked the band, with Debbie Harry last to take the stage.

Flash point.

Larry Lost. His. Mind.

Meanwhile, I was caught up in a moment of Whoa. Debbie Harry, old enough to be my grandmother, was beautiful. She still had that same cool, dismissive look on her face and that petite silhouette. Her skin was alabaster without so much as a freckle. I had no illusions, as Madame Harry has been very open about having plastic surgery, but science can only do so much…

I didn’t let myself think about it for too long, as I had to be proactive about not falling victim to Larry’s flailing. Remember what I said about that huge partner of his? It all made sense in that moment.

Song after song, the crowd sang along with hands waving in the air and feet leaving the floor in keeping with the beat. Skinny, Jed and I became part of a hot wet conglomerate of rockin’ and stompin’. The lights were scorching, and Debbie Harry did not disappoint with her performance. After so many years, she’s still got the notes, folks. The only time she opted for a lower octave was my personal RockBand favorite, “Call Me”. But she was just saving up for the finale, as soon thereafter she ripped into an extended version of “Rapture” that sounded just as haunting as it did back in the 80’s. And the rap was so well executed that the crowd almost turned themselves inside out with applause.

You get the point. Blondie was awesome. But why? When you take off the heart-shaped glasses and LOOK at them, they’re a buncha old people playing music that they wrote decades ago. Pat tried it on me and I was sorely disappointed. What’s Blondie got that Pat doesn’t have? Here’s the thing… After so many years, Blondie hasn’t taken their fans for granted. They feed us. They present exactly what we want to see. From the “Parallel Lines” stage decor to the cleavage and drum solos, Blondie identified what made them so successful and is now milking that cow for all it’s worth. Hell, at one point Debbie Harry jokingly dabbed her armpits with a towel and then threw it at Larry, and he was so elated that he again had to be wrestled into submission by his titanic handler. Blondie works because they’ve got a mix of history, good material, and attitude. Pat Benatar failed because she’d all but used up her voice, fell out of touch with her fanbase, and didn’t take good care of us when we came to see her in concert.

In short, Blondie found the magic formula for aging gracefully. And profitably, I’m sure.

I’m feeling very encouraged health-wise. After wearing the same loose-fitting cowskin boots and driving/bussing everywhere for three weeks, the inflammation in my right heel has subsided significantly and I’m planning to begin walking to work on Monday. Which means I’ll be getting the exercise I’d been counting on for the Shiny New You 1/3 Year Challenge. Watch out! The Nyco train is a-rollin’ once again!

You would think that the “convenience” of having a car would mean less stress than planning ahead to make a walk somewhere, but I beg to differ. The key word is planning. When I’m not relying on Nitrobob to take me to the office by 9am each morning, I wake up earlier and am more conscious of using my time wisely. I don’t push the clock either. In other words, there is no option to get behind the wheel and speed across the river at 8:50am.

In fairness, there probably isn’t any way these past two weeks could have happened without the car. There was Lunch 2.0 to shop for, which involved buying 25 two-liter sodas and returning the heavy catering equipment. Jed and I had the pleasure of spending evenings with Kim, Jason, and Rachel Vinson this past week, and because of the chill it made sense to drive for our dinners out. With Nitrobob around, our visitors didn’t have to pay for a rental to take them out to the Gorge. Doctor’s appointments, equipment shopping, picking up food for office meals… The car did it all. It’s breaktime, though.

Even if there is a bit of a surge to get out the door, the ~45min walk is plenty of time to de-stress and think about the day ahead. I miss that time. I need that time. Tomorrow I will get it back, thank goodness.