Making Sense of 'Common Sense'

It's been awhile since I've posted a blog, a long while. My writing it seems goes in spurts. I always have something to write about, it's finding the motivation to put into words what's on my mind is often the hurdle. As interesting as that may or may not be, let's move onto the subject of today's blog.

Earlier this year I was reading the late Christopher Hitchens book 'Hitch-22,' which was a fond look back at the life of the writer who was suffering from late stage esophageal cancer and later died from it.
In this book, the name of Thomas Paine was frequently mentioned. I have to admit I was unfamiliar with who Thomas Paine was. Not satisfied at not knowing who this man was I of course did a little Google sleuthing and discovered who and what Thomas Paine was; only one of the most important figures in the history of our country.

Paine wrote what he called the 'little pamphlet.' This 'pamphlet' became a rallying point for what became the Declaration of Independence. Published anonymously in January of 1776, 'Common Sense' was 'Written by an Englishman.' Common Sense presented to Americans during this time the most concise argument for freedom from British rule when many Americans were still undecided about which direction the country should proceed. What made Common Sense such a great book was that Paine wrote the book in such a way that the common person could read and understand it.

Common Sense was written in only four sections, outlining each argument for independence, noting the distinction between society and government,  and explained the origins of monarchies and heredity succession from both a historical and biblical perspective. Paine argued in such a way it was clear that monarchies were obsolete and were no way to govern a new country based on freedom and liberty.

More importantly, Paine laid out in precise detail the disagreement with British rule. He explained in simple terms how ridiculous it was for a small English island to rule a huge and unexplored continent. He also presented a big picture view of America as more than just a British colony; it was now a new country made up of people from all over Europe and beyond. The book allowed Americans to see how British rule and it's actions against America were not only immoral, but would see America as a British colony dragged unnecessarily into British wars.

Paine's 'pamphlet,' was the most popular book of the entire revolutionary era. Paine made political and moral ideas easy to understand for the common man. The book brought Americans together to debate political issues of the day. Disdaining large words and complex phrases, Paine wrote in a concise, simple way that helped make the book accessible to all Americans. Even Americans who were illiterate could be read the book in public gatherings and become part of the debated.

Despite this, man of the colonists were unsure about whether to declare independence or remain loyal to British rule. Many in fact were leaning towards reconciliation with the King. But the moving words of Thomas Paine eventually moved and inspired the colonists to get off the fence and into a fight for their independence and the future of their country.

Thomas Paine was a very passionate man about what he believed and was a true visionary. He and his 'little pamphlet' inspired the colonists to fight for their independence and those that eventually became the Founding Fathers to draw up what would become the Declaration of Independence.

The importance of Thomas Paine and 'Common Sense' to the founding of this Country cannot be overstated. Thank you Christopher Hitchens.

It's more than music

My wife and I were talking this morning about technology and our reliance on it.

Yesterday, many web sites closed down to protest an impending bill in congress called the Stop Online Privacy Act, or SOPA. This morning the paper had an article on the economic impact of such closures on commerce and basically how addicted we are to the technology we use.

Being a ‘junkie’ myself to todays wealth of gadgets and what they add to our everyday lives, I didn’t think too much of Katie’s comment about it being sad that we have withdrawals when we can’t access what we’ve become addicted to. Who doesn’t start a pot of coffee in the morning and then go over to the computer and go to Facebook, CNN, check their mail, or whatever else may interest them? I know I do, and when it doesn't work I start to get the wiggles in my knees and makes me want to jump and shout.

While I noted it is unfortunate we seem to need to text, or email, or chat, or any number of things that does not involve direct human communication. We also rely on our cars to get us to work, the gas that goes in the car, and the electricity that makes all of our technological fixes possible. We all rely on something that 50 years ago we didn’t have, or have much of.  So it appears that phone calls, letters, and face to face conversation is going the way of tube televisions, and our inability to live without the creature comforts of today, without some sort of symptom of withdrawal is now commonplace.

Along with the internet and the pantheon of other technological wonders is the MP3 player, and what it has done to the recording industry. This actually started about 30 years ago with the advent of the CD. All of your old, dusty, crackling albums were being replaced with digital equivalents that rendered your trusty LP’s obsolete. CD’s were great, they didn’t scratch, they didn’t have any hiss, and were virtually distortion free. You got a small case with album art, and all of the other information you got with a traditional long play record.

Now we’re looking at the obsolescence of the CD and CD player as a viable way to listen to our favorite music. Today, the MP3 rules. With just a couple of mouse clicks you can to to iTunes, or Amazon and download a complete album, or just a track or two. What you no longer receive anything tangible that you can hold onto.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to go to the record store and pick up the latest Springsteen or Stones album, put it on the turntable, and listen to the record while reading the liner notes. I wanted to know who wrote the songs, who played on the album, who produced it. In the case of older albums, I wanted to know what year it came out. I of course, wanted to listen to the music, but the music wasn’t complete without a history of what went in to making that record.

The discussion this morning, and my bemoaning the state of todays music, made me think of a favorite movie, and one of the best scenes regarding music ever filmed. The 1982 movie, “Diner” starred a cast of young actors including Mickey Rourke, Kevin Bacon, Steve Guttenburg, Daniel Stern, and Ellen Barkin. Stern, and Barkin were a young married couple going through what young married couples do. They were drifting somewhat, trying to figure it out. Sterns character, “Shrevie,” was a serious music fan. He alphabetized and categorized his record collection and knew all there was to know about the music he loved. Barkin “ didn’t give a shit,” she just wanted to listen to the music.

Shrevie's wife Beth was listening to some music one evening, going through his collection Shrevie noticed some of his albums in the wrong section, or not alphabetized correctly. When he asked Beth, about this,  she exclaimed, ‘Shrevie, it’s just music!” That was the wrong thing to say. I’ve had very heated exchanges with people about this very statement, and no, it’s not just music. It’s a part of your life, it takes you back to when you were a child, or when you met your first girlfriend, or your first kiss. Music is magical. It can make you laugh, or it can make you cry. Music is truly a history of your life, and in some ways a peek into your future.

I think if Shrevie were around, (and maybe he is) I don’t think he’d like the way music has evolved, or at least the way you listen to it. Something always seems to get left behind as we move on to bigger and better. I’m not so sure that is always a good thing. No longer, is there any records to touch.

For the love of Dado

A couple of Christmas’ ago, my daughter gave me a small framed picture of our beloved little mini poodle, Rachel. When I opened the present that morning and saw the picture I cried like a baby. Rachel had passed several years ago having lived a full and wonderful life. She touched us all, but in particular me, in ways I hadn’t expected.

Rachel, or ‘Rachie’ as we often called her was adopted by my ex wife and I not long after we bought our first house. Cheryl just had to have a dog, and like everything else, I reluctantly agreed. We had registered with the local dog pound, the kind of dog we were looking for. We both had had little black poodles in our past,  and thought that if we were going to have a dog, a small black poodle would be preferred.

After a trip back from Black Butte one weekend, there was a message on the answering machine from the pound about a dog they had. This was on a Sunday and Cheryl just had to drive all the way to north Portland from Aloha to go check out this dog. I sure as hell wasn’t going so I hung out waiting to see what was going to happen.

What happened was that she brought a dog home. A scrappy, mangy, scared, little mini poodle named Rachel. Cheryl decided to go to the store and get supplies for this little bundle of joy and left me with the pooch. After a few stand-offish moments, I finally got her to come up on the couch. Soon after I got her to come over and let me pet her. By the time Cheryl got home the dog was in my lap and I had a new best friend.

Asleep with Dad

In the next few weeks we got her groomed, fixed, and she became a part of the family. Well, not really a part of the family, she became like our child. We took her everywhere. Much to the chagrin of my wife, Rachy and I became best buds. I mean, I didn’t even want a damn dog, but how I could I resist this cute little dog who had became my first ‘little girl?’ For whatever reason she seemed to mind me and pretty much ignore the commands of my wife. All I had to do was in a stern voice say ‘Rachel!’ and whatever she was doing she’d stop and come running. Unless of course all six pounds of here were running across the street to challenge a dog four times her size for neighborhood supremacy, in which case trying to get her to mind was futile.

Along the way we did have our difficulties. We had to work so of course we would leave Rachel home to fend for herself. I was the first one home from work, and more often than not Rachel would have a couple of greeting cards waiting for me in the form of a wet carpet and a pile of dog poop. At first I’d just pick it up, yell ‘No, Rachel!!’ and call it good. As she continued to leave her messes for me to find I grew continually agitated. One day after arriving home there was poop and pee everywhere. I rolled up a paper dragged her over to her messes, rubbed her nose in them and proceeded to whip her little but. When I was done she ran to her little bed and I proceeded to whack her a few more times. As I was doing this, this precious little dog was cowering and looking at me with her sweet, innocent eyes, asking me the question “Daddy, why are you hitting me?” I just stopped. I looked at her and thought “Why am I hitting this little dog who doesn’t really understand what she did wrong?” I immediately picked her up and held her and apologized to her and told her I’d never strike her again, which I never did. As I held her and apologized she enthusiastically licked my face and gave the look “It’s ok daddy, I still love you!” Oh, and did I fail to mention that she liked to get into the garbage too?

Rachel loved to run and chase birds. We noticed early on that she had a bit of a gimp and would drag her left hind leg. We contacted the pound and got some x-rays they had and discovered she had hip displacia, a genetic defect from over breeding. For the most part she just dealt with it and ran freely when she was young, but as she got older she would  favor it more and more.

Things seemed to go along this way for quite awhile. A small, but happy little family. But one thing was missing from this family, and that was a baby. We eventually had a baby, our precious little Angela. Rachel took to Angela immediately and was very protective of her. After Angela was born, we brought home her ‘blanky’ and let Rachel sniff it and become acclimated with Angela’s scent. When we brought Angela home, Rachy was ready and she too fell in love with our new addition.

Rachel was great. She never seemed to feel threatened by Angela, or feel like she wasn’t getting enough attention, even though Angela demanded much our time and energy. There wasn’t as much time for Rachel, but she was still a very happy little dog.

As Angela got a little older and was starting to put words together she came up with what would be Rachel’s new nickname, Dado. Not sure how you get Dado from Rachel, but that’s the way it happened. I’ll never forget the time Rachel had done something bad and I had to scold her. Angela came around the corner, pointed her finger at Rachel and said, ‘deeba gabba, gabba, dooba, deeba, daaba DADO!!!’ Being duly scolded, I think Dado licked Angela on the face.

My favorite picture of Dado

Eventually, Cheryl and I got divorced, and Dado went to live with her and Angela. I got Angela every other weekend, but I didn’t get Dado. I don’t know why looking back,  think it was probably the apartments I lived in didn’t take dogs. It was a difficult time, and I could have used the companionship, I missed her. Later, as she got older, I did have her over with Angela, but I could sense time was short.

Dado started to get cataracts, and became hard of hearing. Her airway we surmise started to either close or get less pliable, so she coughed a lot. Sometimes she’d be fine, other times it was pretty bad. Cheryl finally called one day and thought maybe it was time to think about putting her down. I knew it was about time, but I didn’t want to think about it. Later, we agreed that it was time. She just couldn’t see well, the coughing was getting worse, and her quality of life wasn’t very good.

She spent one last weekend with Angela and I, and it was very sad. She had a good couple of days. She ate pretty well, and seemed pretty happy. But I knew this was going to be ‘it’ as it were and it was very difficult. When the weekend was over I think I took Angela to school, and Dado back to Cheryl for the last time.

I went to work that morning dreading getting the phone call. I don’t remember what time it was, but it was morning. It was Cheryl, bawling, wondering if she had done the right thing. She did, and our little Dado was gone. She went very peacefully, just drifted off and went to sleep, her journey with us over.

People will ask, ‘why write about your dead dog?’ Well why not? She was a very important part of my life. She was my ‘little girl’ before I had one. I can’t put into words how special she was to all of us, and how she should not, and will not be forgotten. I believe a merciful God has a place for all of us in Heaven, especially for our beloved little dogs. I look forward to the day when I see Dado again, running free, chasing the birds.

Oh Wow. Oh Wow. Oh Wow.

So there you have it, Steve Jobs’ last words.

Since Steve Jobs’ death several weeks ago, there has been a plethora of blogs, articles, what have you, about his life and death. There is a biography already published, that chronicles his entire life and all too untimely death, so I’m not going to pile on and do the same thing here. Well, maybe a little.

What intrigues me today, is after reading his sisters eulogy of Steve, his final words. I don’t know how anybody couldn’t be. We all live our lives with the specter of death hanging over our heads. Most of us deal with this by not thinking about it too much. When you’re younger, it’s something that is a total abstraction. It’s a reality for sure, but so far away that there is so much to do that it’s not worth thinking about too much.

As you get older though, you know it’s out there, and it’s getting closer. You start to  lose family, friends, you might even deal with  an illness and  come face to face with your own mortality. For me, it’s always been a question of how I will handle the news of my own, and how brave I will be as I march, or in my case lurch towards the inevitable.

My mom died from Cancer four years ago. I witnessed the stages of her passing. From the initial denial to the overwhelming sadness that there was nothing more that medical science could do for her. Gradually came acceptance and a readiness. In the grand scheme her illness took her quickly, but the reality is, the last month of her life was very painful, and for us, her family, her passing couldn’t come quick enough. All along though, she was brave. My mom was a woman of faith and knew she would go to Heaven, but still, there’s that great unknown of what’s ‘really’ going to happen.

Unless you die suddenly, this is what we all must face. Call it what you will, but as Jim Morrison so aptly put it, ‘no one here, get’s out alive.’ I guess I get some solace from the fact that we all are in the same boat. Time marches on, and our time here is but a blink of the eye in terms of time. Long after we’re gone, newer generations will fill the void, and on and on it will go.

So, ‘Oh Wow. Oh Wow, Oh Wow,’ what the hell? Jobs was in and out of consciousness when he uttered those soon to be famous last words. Did he see a new product in those last moments? Something he’d forgotten to do? Or did he see where he was about to go, and comment in amazement at what was waiting for him?

Steve’s sister said in her eulogy that ‘What he was, was how he died.’ I think that is true for all of us. I think that is what scares me so much. I question everything, I have to know, I need an answer. I’ve read books on what Heaven will be like. I’ve read bible passages looking for clues. I believe, but I fear the unknown. Hard as I try, I can’t get over that.

I’ve been ill several times. At certain moments you feel so bad that you don’t worry, or fear death, you just want the sickness to end. The thought of missing a birthday, or Christmas no longer matters. You just want it over with. I respect the circle of life. I can’t see wanting to live after all of your friends are gone, your spouse, your family. I don’t want to die first, but I also don’t want to be the last, but still, there’s the fear.

Jesus says in the Bible that he’s preparing a place for us and that he’ll be waiting for our arrival. I have to trust this to be true. I have to trust that my mom will be waiting there for me. As well as others I’ve loved that have passed. It’s that, and the hope that who I am and what I’ve accomplished won’t just vanish when I’ve left this earth. That Jesus really does have a place for me, and is waiting.

I hope that when it is my time, that I get a glimpse of that before I go. That when I get to see what awaits, that I have time to tell others what’s there, how beautiful it is, and that I’ll be waiting as well. Maybe then, we can all say ‘Oh Wow. Oh Wow. Oh Wow!’

I heard the news today oh boy.......

I received the phone call today, the kind of call you dread getting in the middle of the night. When I looked at the caller ID, I saw that the call was from an old friend of mine, Tony Kozar. We hadn't talked in awhile so I thought he'd finally called to catch up, not exactly.

I answered the call with my usual greeting when he calls "Hey man, what's going on?" After a short pause he cleared his throat and just said "We lost Pat Galvin yesterday." As my hearing isn't what it used to be and I didn't want to hear what I thought I just heard, I asked 'Excuse me, what did you say?" "We lost Pat Galvin."

For most of you, you're going "OK, who's Pat Galvin?" Well, Pat Galvin was a good friend of mine. I hadn't seen much of Pat the last 15 years or so, but he was and is a friend. I met him over 30 years ago while attending Portland Community College. Tony Kozar was also attending at that time and him and I got to be pretty tight friends. Through "Kozar" I met a litany of people from Pat, who was lovingly referred to as "Fats," why, I don't quite know, he was never very fat to me, but maybe when they were kids. Kozar gave him this moniker. Most of Kozars friends had nicknames, mostly just their last name, but some guys were called "Goofy" and a myriad of names that I can no longer recall. Me? I was just Jimmy.

Anyway, over the better part of 30 years there were Raider games at Kozars, Rolling Stones concerts in Seattle, and trips to Seattle to see the Yankees play the Mariners. In addition to the Oakland Raiders, the Yankees were one of our favorite professional teams to root for. None of us liked teams from Seattle, so it was great fun to go up there, drink way too much and boo the Mariners. Kozar and the boys went up there yearly. I went a couple of times and it was always a great time.

Fats it always seemed was the only one who could say anything to Kozar that he would listen too. Me? I was too young and never felt like I could say anything that he would listen to, but when Fats spoke, Kozar listened. On one trip, after the game, we were driving around some portion of Seattle when we came across an A-Frame ad outside of some restaurant or something. Well we just had to have it of course, so into the back of 'Dalby's' van it went. Later, Kozar wanted to do something else reasonably stupid and Fats, said "no." Kozar insisted on whatever it was and Pat in a stern voice said something to the effect of "Fuck Kozar we already got a sign, fucking knock it off." Kozar got this hurt puppy look on his face, looked at me and said, "Fats yelled at me." I thought he was going to cry. I about shit myself trying not to laugh.

That's the way it kind of went for a long time. Pool party's at the Dalby's, concerts in town; blues parties at my house, we always all had a great time. But alas, things change, we get older, get married, have kids, drift apart, it happens. I moved to Central Oregon and I didn't see anybody as much. I'd always go to Portland to visit and we'd hook up, and it was always fun to see everyone again. But none of us could believe though how the time had flown. We all had met as 20 something’s and now we were 50 somethings.

Fats and his wife Nancy came to my first wedding and came to Central Oregon for my second, (and last) about four years ago. He had mentioned not feeling great that weekend, but nobody thought much of it. During a trip to Portland some time after that he mentioned some pain in his kidneys but didn't think much of that either. I talked to him last year and he informed me that he'd had Kidney Cancer and had one of them removed. He said it was an early stage and that he didn't follow-up with chemo or radiation, which I thought a bit odd at the time, but it was his cancer and not mine this time. That was the last time I talked too him.

It's brutally ironic I guess, that Al Davis, owner and general managing partner of the Raiders passed away on Saturday. The Raiders dedicated their game yesterday to Al. In a close game that will go down in Raider lore, the Raiders held on to win the game with a last play interception in the end zone, at about the same time that Pat Galvin drew his last, how fitting.

Pat had been feeling poorly the last year and got checked about six months ago. The doctors had found that the cancer had spread and that there was nothing they could do. He spent the last few weeks of his life in hospice and was comfortable at the end. I wish I had been able to talk to him. I wish I had picked up the phone the many times I wanted to, to see how things were going. I don't understand why friends can't put away differences and pick up the phone and let somebody know before somebody dies, that someone you care about is dying, fuck!

So Pat is gone. Gone like the others before him, and like the ones that are to follow. No one on this planet gets out of this predicament called life, without dying, it's just the way it is. That being said, I don't have to like it. I don't have to like that Pat suffered the fate of many other cancer sufferers in that he withered away before leaving us. I don't like that he's gone. I have faith that I will see him again someday, but I don't like the process we go through to see each other again. It's kind of funny that most of us want to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die to get there. Anybody find another way, I'm all ears.

Even though I hadn't seen Pat in a very long time, I will miss him. He was a good man, husband, father, and friend. Pat may be gone, but his impact on my life and the lives of his friends and family will live forever.

Free is a very good price

When I was a kid, there was this retailer in town named Tom Peterson. Early in his career, Tom would run late night commercials on Portland Wrestling. These were really poorly produced commercials, starring non other than Tom himself hawking his low priced merchandise.

He used to sell the cheapest brands on the planet, most I can't even remember except Xonix. They were an electronics manufacturer from nation unknown. You could get a stereo with everything for like $100 and a free gift. Tom's motto on those late nights was "free, is a very good price." Yeah it is, if you don't mind a free piece of shit. Hey, sign me up for some of that free shit, I'm on board.

The reason I mention this, and why this is the title of my blog, which will actually, kinda be, a photography post, is that it seems that most folks like my work, but they want it for, yeah, you guessed it, for free. Now when I was first starting out, I didn't mind giving up some of my work for free. When you first start any endeavor, especially one like photography, giving away your work at least gets your name out there. People who like your work will theoretically tell other people and therefor you may get some paying work.

Well, two years into this I'm getting paid gigs. Not frequently, but I'm starting to get some work. Unfortunately, for every one person or place that's willing to pay me, there is another who doesn't. Now I can appreciate not wanting to pay for something you place no value on, or something that is so ridiculously priced that you balk. Hey, I liked Napster too. But I'm trying to make a fucking living.

You don't need to sell me on the economy and how bad things are, I'm a byproduct of the thieves who ruined this country and should be in jail, but that's another blog and I don't have an answer anyway. And all the while I do my due diligence and send out three resumes a week so I can freeload off the government teat for $392 a week. Tell ya what, go make 60k a year, go on unemployment, and then tell me I'm on vacation.

Anyway, I know people are struggling, I know people are looking for a good deal. But I have to tell you all something. I will work for trade. If the trade interests me, and I can use it to feed my family, or put me up in a hotel, I'm down with that. But I'm not working for free. Let me type it slower, I'M NOT WORKING FOR FREE. I don't mind helping a struggling band, or sharing some shots on facebook for their use. But if anybody wants some shots to use professionally, than I would like to get paid.

I'm sure there are some hard working bands willing to work for free. I know photographers who will work for free. Well after awhile, all you end up doing is hurting the people who take this seriously, are trying to pay a mortgage or feed their kids. You working for free brings the price down for everybody. Whoever you are, do it for awhile, then put your foot down. This is your work, you own it. It's only fair that if somebody wants to use it, they should pay for it  in some way.

Look, I'm never going to get rich doing this. Everyone with a digital camera thinks they're a professional photographer. The appreciation for the art is at an all time low. People with iPhones take nice pictures, they don't take great pictures, sorry. Try one in a dark club sometime and get back to me if you think that's the case. All I'm trying to do, is provide something that I think I'm pretty good at, that you might find valuable. I'll never say I'm the greatest this, or the greatest that. Photography, writing, whatever, is a lifelong learning process and I  still have a long way to go.

There used to be a saying and maybe it's still used today, "cash, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free."
Please keep that in mind next time you ask me to just give you something I worked hard to produce.

Bikes, Cars, Bars, Guitars, and Cigars

What do they have in common? I don't know. It just sounded like a good title for a blog since I haven't written one since my birthday last month. I guess if I really had to think about it, the title of today's blog would have to do with things I've either done, ridden in or on, listened too, listened in, or smoked, in no particular order.

I ride my bike when the spirit moves me to do so. I got in good enough shape that when Katie and I went to Portland to do our yearly ride in the Providence Bridge Pedal, that I could do the 37 miles relatively easily and handle all the climbs. While the course is closed for the most part you do have to deal with cars on occasion. The worst part of the ride is the other 17,999 cyclists that are vying for the same piece of blacktop that you are. The Bridge Walk could be another name for this event as in places there is just no room to ride. When there is room you have to be careful for the liesurely riders who are out for a Sunday spin and are completely oblivious to you and could care less when they abruptly move in one direction or another messing up your line, and in turn the lines of the riders behind you. I'm surprised there aren't more 'domino' type crashes in this thing.

For a brief moment while riding across the Hawthorne Bridge I did for a moment think I was going down. They place 4 x 8 sheets of plywood across one lane of the brides to cover the metal grate that is the surface of the bridge. The stagger the panels and there is always a seam somewhere. I found one and my front tire went right into it. Fighting it get out the bike and I lurched to the right. I could feel it coming, and all I could think of is 'fuck this is going to hurt.' Not only did I think I was going down, I thought for sure I'd get run over by about seven bikes. For whatever reason, I pulled out of it and kept on going. Man, was I lucky.

The ride was on Sunday. Before that we had managed to see our friend Lloyd Jones play at a small bar in Northeast Portland called The Old Halibut. Small little place that had replicas of Dean, Frank, and Sammy, in the corner of the bar where the band plays. I thought they might break out into 'You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You,' but alas, they just sat there.

Lloyd is a longtime Portland bluesman whose history goes back to when I was just a kid and I heard his band 'Brown Sugar,' play at my grade school gym when I was 12 years old. This band had Lloyd, Jim Mesi, the late Paul DeLay, and a guy to be traded later. Sorry dude, to lazy to look up your name. Anyway, these guys were great. Lloyd I think played drums. A friend of mine challenged him to play 'Wipeout' which I think he declined.

No stop to Portland is complete until I've stopped in at Rich's Cigar shop on 8th and Alder in downtown. Best cigar shop in the city. Picked up a couple of Padron 5000's and I was good to go. Only problem is you can't smoke anywhere in communist Portland except Kell's Iris pub, also in downtown. Kell's has a smoking area downstairs which is part bar, part dungeon, but it works. Great place Kell's. Went there for an Irish breakfast after the Sunday ride.

So there you have it. I rode a bike. Drove in and negotiated not getting hit by a car, went to a bar and listened to some guitars, and later went to another bar and smoked a cigar. In between, we went and had sushi for dinner, but it didn't rhyme so it wasn't part of the title.