Perhaps Mom's ears are going.
She and my little sister, Chelsea, are visiting for a few days. Last night we wanted to take them out for a nice dinner. We were headed down to Northeast, around 28th, thinking about Navarre.
While driving, I say, "I haven't been there before, but I think it's a tapas bar."
Mom, from the backseat, replies: "A topless bar?"
And to think that she says Dad's the one going deaf.
There's a review up at OregonLive (can't get a direct link to the story working), which raves about the 2-hour-35-minute set I was lucky enough to see last night. Here's the heart of it:
The essentials...
7.20.06, Pearl Jam @ the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall in Portland, playing a benefit show for the Northwest Chapter of the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America. David Cross and Sleater Kinney opened.
Thanks to Mike for the set list. And thanks again to Micah for turning up tickets to what is one of the best concerts I've ever seen.
Pre-set, Eddie Vedder solo: You've Got to Hide Your Love Away (The Beatles)
1st set: World Wide Suicide, Severed Hand, Corduroy, Brain Of J., Do The Evolution, Even Flow, Love Boat Captain, Low Light, Sad, Not For You/(Modern Girl by Sleater Kinney), Wishlist, Parachutes, Satan's Bed, Why Go, Blood/(Atomic Dog by George Clinton)
2nd set: Inside Job, Soon Forget, Happy Birthday To You Stone Gossard, Don't Gimme No Lip, Harvest Moon with guest Sleater Kinney (by Neil Young), Wasted Reprise, Life Wasted
Encore: All Along The Watchtower with guest guitarist Johnny Marr (by Bob Dylan), Rockin' in the Free World with guest musicians Sleater Kinney/Johnny Marr/ David Cross (by Neil Young)
2nd encore: Yellow Ledbetter/(Star Spangled Banner)
We were about 20 rows back, but I struggled to get super-sharp pics.
"There's my church, I sing in the choirFinally.
I passed up free tickets to see Pearl Jam in December of 1991 in Norman. I think I had a lot of homework that night or something. Maybe a math test the next day. What a dumb kid I was.
Sean Pruitt, Heather McKinney and I used to listen to the Ten album -- via a Discman plugged into the cassette deck -- as he gave us lifts home after school in his hand-me-down burgandy minivan. We'd stop at Sonic on the way home for slushes, giving us more time to listen to the album and to dissect the hell that is high school. Ken Griffey Jr. was becoming a star in Seattle for my favorite baseball team, grunge was cool and I was just starting to think there might be life beyond Oklahoma.
In my warped little head, the Northwest was a great escape. Every teenager has one. This became mine. It was almost a mythical place that seemed unreachable, beyond my grasp, never to be seen or experienced but always there, on the horizon.
Now, nearly 15 years later, my flannel shirts are gone (OK, I might still have one or two in the back of the closet) but here I am living in the Northwest. I know it is, in many ways, the mythical place I made it out to be. After six years up here, there are still moments when I have to pinch myself. I've been to Seattle enough to know Portland suits me much better. And on Thursday night, if things hold together, it looks like I'll be seeing Eddie Vedder and his mates take the stage a few blocks from my office.
Seeing them in 1991, in Norman, at 14 would've been great. But seeing them in 2006, in Portland, at 29 will mean a lot more.
We're having a garage sale today. Right now, in fact. Been going since a little before 9, will keep going until 3 or so.
It's an exercise in a dozen little reminders of why I love this place. There's a great community spirit bubbling up in our neighborhood, getting stronger all the time. At least 24 other households called Amy to say they wanted to be part of the neighborhood gig that she organized. And it appears that some other families who didn't call are having sales, too. So there's all sorts of foot traffic on our street, on every street it seems, today. We were up early and posting sale signs all over the neighborhood. People were out. Full of energy. Making things happen. Even on four hours of sleep after a bar-hopping sendoff for Speed, my co-worker who is moving to San Jose, I could feel it. Another of those little turning points in the rejuvenation of a neighorhood.
A couple down the street brought their stuff down so that together we'd have a good size sale. They're probably about our parents' age. Great fun. Very Northwest. Back when Amy and I would have been toddling around, they sold all their stuff, built a boat and sailed south from Seattle, down to Mexico, across to Australia and up into Asia before running out of money, selling the vessel and coming back to the States. I mean, really, how can you not like folks who do something like that?
So the neighborhood is hopping. And the diversity of people coming up just excites me. We've had everything from the sketchy BMX-riding 40-something dude who had customized his hat with paint so it says, loud and proud, "FUCK YOU". He was buying Dale and Kathy's bag o' flashlights. He even gave us a polite, "Thank you." Our BMW-driving neighbor down the street, who is saving another house around the corner, bought our jute rug and some other stuff. The neighborhood co-president and his wife dropped by to say hi, then came back with a giant sideboard piece for us to sell, with all the proceeds going to the neighborhood association. (We're thinking the next neighborhood picnic could become a kegger.) I just carried an old TV and DVD player to the car for a pregnant woman who spoke only Spanish. And a Russian couple swung by, interested in a fax machine but wanting to know whether it doubled as a printer. (Nope. No sale.) We met a woman about our age who moved back to Washington from Alaska. It just goes on and on. Old hard-core yard sale junkies. Hipster types. Trendy chicks. Cars. Bikes. Walking. Kids. Dogs. Canes. Some dude bought a Zeppelin box set and a collection of classical music.
And Amy's channeling her dad's salesmanship, wheelin' and dealin' left and right. And having fun all the while.
We're not making a ton on it, but we're meeting neighbors, having fun and contributing a little something to part of what makes this place special. Good Saturday.
Not once, but twice did the guy get busted for this: Naked car repairs prompt charges. I know it's hot in Oklahoma in the summer, but it's not that hot.
Seen from the MAX while riding downtown to work today:
A truck passed with a big double gun rack in the back window. You know, like the ones that decorated every other pickup in Amy's high school parking lot.
But here -- in July, in the city once known as Little Beirut -- resting in one rung was not a gun, but a large umbrella.
We had a full happy house last night for the Fourth. All the hard work we've put in on the backyard overhaul really feels worth it when we have 13 adults, two babies and two dogs all comfortably hanging out.
It turned out to be a beautiful evening. The late-afternoon sun got things warmed up for the start of the barbecue. And then when the sun slid behind the trees I lit a fire to keep things comfy. (And just because I like to play with the fire.)
In typical fashion, I forgot to get the camera out while the crowd was here. But I remembered after the gang left. Rather than tromp down with the rest of town to the fireworks show, Amy and I decided to throw another log on the fire and enjoy the sunset. Of course, since fireworks are legal in town, we got a show of our own from the comfort of our backyard.
After the fire burned down, we headed upstairs to find out whether we could see the riverfront show from our bedroom window. Trees across the street block that view, but Amy noticed our neighbor was sitting on her front stoop watching with a clear shot down Columbia. So we headed over and joined her. No long walk. No traffic. And bring your own beer. Pretty good deal.
Here's how it looked from there -- my firework photography skills are doubly lame.
Well, well. We must be on to something.
In today's New York Times there's a great piece on our favorite restaurant anywhere, so far at least. We've rambled and raved enough about it here previously, so check out what Sara Dickerman has to say about the illustrious Vij's and a few other restaurants at the heart of Vancouver, B.C.'s thriving east Indian scene: "Cooking as if Punjab Were Part of Canada"
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