Here we go out of the sleep of mild people

Four years ago, I drove up to Portland, Oregon to make a new life and I fell entirely in love with every detail of the city. I loved exploring Portland and I found something new each time I looked.

I have a sense that the puritans never made it as far as Portland. In San Jose, the mayor is proud that they haven’t handed out a new liquor license in years. They just recycle the old ones. They make-believe it’s a virtue. In Portland, the mayor is named after a beer. In San Jose, bars are either dingy and shallow or new, shiny and shallow and when they die, they are replaced by another just the same. In Portland, bars spring up on every corner and reach for the sky as a tree in the rainforest reaches for the canopy and the sunlight beyond.  Undaunted by the diversity of what came before, new bars are excited and eager to become part of the diverse ecosystem where everyone feeds off everyone else’s success.

I loved the little details of the city. I loved finding the kind of place that has 27 beers on a blackboard, ranked by IBU and scribbled out as new beers are put on tap and old ones run dry. I loved that Portland has more strip clubs per resident than anywhere in the United States and I loved finding myself in the middle of a World Naked Bike Ride and seeing co-workers cycle by with a delighted wave. I loved going to the movies and being brought my dinner on a tray. I loved seeing the realtime display above the bar announcing who had just checked in on FourSquare and I loved that every new bar had three new beers that I had never previously tried.

My favourite bit of Portland was the New Old Lompoc on 23rd. It was the kind of crappy, divey, dingy bar that is always filled with real people and even when it wasn’t made you feel real. The Lompoc brewed their own beer and I began with the Condor because I had been warned that the hoppier IPAs would shrivel my labia. Condor gave me cramps in my calfs just like Courage Sparkling Bitter did all those years ago and like no other beer since. By the time I was done with Portland, I always looked for the hoppiest beer or the strongest beer on the blackboard, genitalia be damned. In Portland, I found barley wines and even, for the first time in 25 years, a prize old ale at Steve’s wonderful Cheese Shop that took me back to that tiny pub in Horndean.

On my first visit to the Lompoc, four long years ago, the waitress brought me my Portland Dip and a pint of Condor and smiled the brightest, widest smile I have ever seen outside of a Hollywood movie. Last Monday, the same waitress smiled the same bright smile as she delivered my labia-shrivelling Kick Axe at my last farewell to Portland before I departed for my new life back in San Jose. The Lompoc is closing down next week to make way for some nice new condominiums. They tell me that it will reopen in a couple of years, but it won’t be the same. It feels oddly fitting that the Lompoc will close down just as my love affair with Portland ends and my new life begins.

This week, I started a new job with a brand new startup. The kind of startup where everyone looks at each other and decides whether we should use Python or Ruby or, perhaps, Perl because no one has really thought about trivial details like which technology to use yet. The kind of startup where the furniture is scavenged from a previous tenant and where, if you want to talk to the CEO, you swing your chair around and talk to him. WebMD wasn’t an especially big company but, in many ways, it felt like the biggest company I had ever worked for and by the end it felt very safe and comfortable. It’s time for something a little more dangerous and exciting.

The title quote, by the way, is stolen from the book I am reading.

Here we go out of the sleep of mild people, into the wild rippling water.


I have seen the movie, Deliverance, three or four times already but no one ever told me I should read the book too until now. The writing sears my senses.

In many ways it reminds me of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.  There too, I had seen the movie so many times that I could almost recite the lines but the quality of the writing in the book just took my breath away. I was totally unprepared for how it would move me. I remember reading a paragraph of Cuckoo’s Nest and putting the book down gasping for breath at the audacity of the words and then rereading the paragraph to check that it was as good a second time. It almost didn’t matter whether the plot was good. He could’ve been writing about turnip farming and I’d still read it with joy for every root vegetable and planting.

Deliverance has that same quality. The movie catches a little of the delight of creating a scene where nothing happens but the nothingness is burned into your consciousness as when the albino kid joins Drew in Duelling Banjos. Who has ever seen the movie and forgotten that scene? It has nothing to do with the plot. The plot almost does not matter and those scenes keep coming and coming.

I am just at the point in the book where they put their canoes in the river, a little afraid of what’s around the next bend. For now, they know nothing of squealing like a pig or of what they will have to do to survive as their adventure turns dangerous but they have a sense that something important is going to happen.

I like to think that even if they knew all the things that might happen downstream, they’d still get in those canoes and paddle down that river and enjoy the thrill of the whitewater along with the calm certainty of future success. Anyone who has ever joined a startup knows the feeling of pregnant possibility and the quickening as the ideas swell and kick the new company into life.

It feels great to dip my paddle in new waters and to bend my bow knowing that the shot I fire will change the world. The rednecks hardly scare me at all.

Photo Credit: Naked Bike Ride by Stefan

Second and Ash

I had a late game last night and, as usual after a late game – especially when my goal was so spectacular – I didn’t get to sleep until very very late.

Before I went to sleep though, I googled for Portland English Premiership soccer tv. Among the hits was a forum post entitled “Where can I watch English Premier League football in Portland?” and the most popular answer was Kells Irish Pub at Second and Ash right next to the Burnside Bridge.

I set my alarm for 6:30 AM, went to sleep, woke up four hours later, put on my Red Devils shirt and set off to watch the thrilling climax to ManU’s season.

Central Portland has this neat feature where all the East/West streets are numbered from 1 to N (1 is next to the river) and all the North/South streets are in alphabetical order. I was headed for some Irish pub at 2nd and something beginning with A which, in my blurry mind, was just over the bridge.

I arrived at 2nd/Ash at 7:03 just after the kick off in a very inhospitable looking area. Not at all the kind of place where I would put a pub. In fact, not at all where anyone would put a pub. I had already missed the kick off so drove around frantically looking for an Irish pub and eventually got out of the car to search frantically on foot.

I found two very, very drunk guys getting out of a pickup and heading for a bar. I asked them if there was an Irish Pub in the area and the put their arms around me and said no but, although they liked Irish music, I should join them in this pub because the beer was better. I thanked them for the offer and got back in my car and drove around frantically some more.

I gave up and headed for The Pearl in search of any pub that might be showing it. No luck there either so I went home. By now, I was incredibly sleepy and planned to just get back in bed but my laptop was still open and I took one last look at the map that I had left open the night before. It was the other Second and Ash and I could still catch the second half of the game!

And what a second half it was!

The Kells is an excellent pub for watching sports and was absolutely packed. One half was a sea of red watching the ManU v Wigan game, the other half a sea of blue watching the Chelsea v Bolton game with everyone drinking Guinness (including me).

Giggs’s goal was sublime – what a way to celebrate equaling Bobby Charlton’s record of 758 appearances for ManU – and the whole red end of the pub was up on its feet.

I am sooooo glad, I didn’t get back in bed.

Where’s Kevin?

Went to Powell’s today. After 10 years of appreciating the fact that Barnes and Noble had two whole shelves full of books about science, it was a shock to find a whole store – about the size of my previously local Barnes and Noble – full of books about science.

The first 8 books I picked up were OMG-I-could-read-this-all-day books. I had to get outta there before I became lost in the singularity.

If you ever find yourself wondering “Where’s Kevin?” the answer, to a first approximation, will be “he’s at Powell’s”.