Art/Fiction/Poetry Issue Online Now
Thanks to everyone that submitted. We can hardly keep the print copies around. Congratulations everyone. Issue 3 is on the way.
Rent-a-Pooch III
Wednesday, May 20th
Reservations begin at 10:30 a.m.
Pick-up starts at 11:00 a.m.
Heck yes!
Off the Waffle
Hopefully, we have all heard the buzz already about the dank-ass waffles down in the Whiteaker neighborhood. On 7th and Van Buren sits a delightfully charming new waffle house. They serve two waffles, the original or the special. They are amazing, and have little pockets of pure caramelized sugar gold. Secret recipe not included. Their weekly specials have included blueberries and feta and nib-tella, hazelnut spread made from Nib local chocolates. They also barter for payment and have a book exchange.
There’s another story just beyond the amazing waffles. The two sons are trying to start a movement for the spread of bartering. They want to create a social networking website, a hybrid of facebook and craigslist, for bartering where one person post what they are looking for and what they can offer. People can search databases and see what’s going on in their community.
So go to Off the Waffle and check the shit out!
(Love notes are harder to write than blog rants)
Nobody here blogged about the Dark Dark Dark show last week. I could pull something out of my grab-bag of missed deadline excuses (you know how hard it is to find the internet these days…?) but there was no good reason to neglect proper reverence for Nona Marie Invie and her sweet band of gypsies. A whole week has passed since I walked away from Stonehenge, and I still have that naggy feeling I get when I actually have something nice to say.
While curled up against the band’s ancient, monolithic amp at the front of the crowd, I developed two valuable quandaries.
First: you can pay more than Oregon’s generous min. wage at a fancy-pants Portland venue to hear music better suited for a dive bar with a 3-dollar cover (Dear Builders and the Butchers: I am bitter). The heeled patrons crowding your view will add to your irritability. Or you can be a stingy, wallet-forgetting college student and get all soppy and mesmerized for free. Your proximity to the artist, and your hands on the rug, will remind you of those lovely, pre-jaded days when you discovered Simon and Garfunkel while sitting in front of the speakers on your parent’s living room floor– but, this time, the music is live and your friends have whiskey!
Second: If you always love to folk, you will always be forced to endure the standing vs. sitting debate at seatless venues. I’ll never forget Joanna Newsom’s meek attempt to dissipate concert rage over this very topic during her ‘06-’07 tour. It might have been the first time a harp inspired riotous behavior. Invie gave a similarly timid reminder that her music wasn’t for dancers, and I was happy with my decision to sit. Her melancholy accordion and thoughtful lyrics expressed nostalgia that made my limbs useless. I’m never the wallflower with pocketed hands; I love to bust a move–but last Wednesday I was totally puddled. The isolated soul gyrating in the back of the crowd seemed rather out of place, especially when he waved his arms around and demanded that people join him (incidentally, I saw this same, enthusiastic fellow at a beer-hookah sort of party the next night, and he was still out of place, this time with a rogue bottle of raw goat-milk.)
Dark Dark Dark: You made the best of a rainy night. I’m sorry I forgot my wallet.
Blogosphere: Dark Dark Dark is in Salt Lake City right now. You probably missed them…
How Vin Diesel's critically acclaimed revival saved my innocence
The Fast and the Furious carved a testosterone-drunk early teen out of a soft-bodied child. It showed me a world of cars, girls, girls that drive cars, and Ja Rule, pretty much the picture I anticipated of my own early adulthood. Things that dramatically cooler than my at the time interests of Dragonball Z and Magic: The Gathering.
And through the years, it stuck. From late night family sedan races to my ambivalent relationship with Tokyo Drift. I was there for all of it, and the franchise had one more gift to give.
On Sunday night at Regal, Vin Diesel was back to influence my choices. I read the news: Biggest opening Car-themed movie ever, biggest opening of a Universal movie ever (take that Jurassic Park: The Lost World), blowing away the ridicule of many critics who just didn’t understand. My roommate and I had to go be a part of the magic.
And then there was Watchmen. At the box office we debated on what to see, Watchmen has its own story of dorm life and personal apocalypse. We weighed our options and went with Vin, middle school, cars, girls.
Hooray for not being scarred for life:
Thanks, Vin.
Up In Da Club: A Night of Bollywood in Portland
Usually, I’m Noah DeWitt, age 18. Last night, however, I was Max Neumeyer, age 22. The security guard at the Someday Lounge didn’t think twice. I paid him my five bucks, flashed him my dubious ID, exposed my wrist for him to stamp, and entered the crowded club event Filmistan, a set composed solely of songs featured in Bollywood movies. Filmistan is put on by DJ Anjali and the Incredible Kid, a Portland pair who have been DJing Indian and international parties for the past 8 years. On Friday, I met Anjali (aka Anju Hursch) and the Kid (aka Stephen Strausburg) for an interview, where they shared their thoughts on the interaction between the music of the African Diaspora (reggae, dancehall, hip-hop, house) and the Indian diaspora (bhangra, classical, filmi). Andaz (every last Saturday at the Fez) and Atlas (every 2nd Saturday at Holocene) are their monthly efforts to “resist sonic monoculture.”
At Filmistan, vintage clips of outlandish Bollywood dramas looped on the projection screen behind them. DJ Anjali and the Incredible Kid took turns spinning song after song of vibrant, hypnotic Bollywood techno. The crowd was diverse: whites, blacks, browns; hipsters, hippies, businessmen; old folks, twenty-somethings, minors. What did they have in common? They were looking to get down! An Indian mother wearing traditional attire displayed quirky steps and graceful hand movements. “Her” song came on. One bearded fellow had exemplary moves, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite emulate them. A circle formed and individuals grooved their ways into the center to show off their skills, one at a time. Thanks to DJ Anjali and the Incredible Kid, my first experience up in da club was completely insane.
They also do weddings.
The Roots Runaround
Apparently, while the venerable ?uestlove practices deadpan rim shots for Jimmy Fallon’s new late night show, he and the rest of the Roots surround themselves with a dense web of management bureaucrats to prevent the scheduling of interviews with cute student-run publications. I don’t know how many uninformed people with telephones they need. I’ve never been transferred so many times in my life. I couldn’t even finish sentences. ROOTS, CONCERT, EUGENE, STUDENT-RUN, STUDENT, RUN! I just may have talked Jimmy Fallon.
Eventually, someone gave me an email and of course it didn’t work. Got another one and it did. They’ll see this when they’re vetting us, but oh well. I bet it’s not this hard to talk to Max Weinberg.
Anyway, The Roots 4/11/2009 McDonald Theatre
In other news: bad poetry
Changing the subject.
I found a scrawled note sitting on top of a stack of OVs in the j-school:
“You said love is a temple, love the higher law. you asked me to enter then you made me crawl + I just can’t keep holding on to what you got when all you got is hurt.”
Voice secret admirer? Anonymous creative issue submission? Butt-hurt Emerald staffer?
Newsies
Let’s just all get along, seriously. Poor Grace getting the flack for whatever those crazy newsies are trying to get out of this “strike.”
Were all brothers and sisters here in the J-school and we all hear about things in those labs that we spend our days and hard nights in.
So read our magezine and be our friends, not enemies because here at the OV we just want to have fun!
And produce quality hard-hitting journalism.
Cake is the only language I speak
This is an apology:
From me (Grace), not from any organization.
To Hannah Hoffman and Lauren Fox, not to any organization.
The cakes are yours as soon as I can get them to you, whether you forgive me or not.
On a more positive note, I’m glad to hear that the OV blog is finally getting some traffic.
