Sunday shorts...in reverse

Remember the 2000 movie "Memento," where director Christopher Nolan told the story backwards? Then you'll understand the chronology of this entry.

Sunday matinee: Lori and I went to the Laurelhurst Theater, one of those neighborhood indie places that shows second-run movies on the cheap and serves food, beer and wine you can take to your seat. Saw "Moneyball" with Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill and absolutely loved it. Best performance of Pitt's career as a former major league league ballplayer who's become a driven and resourceful general manager, using unconventional computer-assisted analysis, in a small market trying to compete with richer franchises like the Yankees and Red Sox. Very cool to see real and simulated game action at the Oakland Coliseum, where I attended so many games as an A's fan, including the 1989 World Series that was interrupted by the Loma Prieta earthquake. For just $10 total -- two admission tickets and a large bag of popcorn -- we got our money's worth and then some.

Nathan and girlfriend Sara, Xmas 2011

Sunday brunch: After a morning swim, I met Nathan around 10 a.m. at ¿Por Que No? on Southeast Hawthorne for a father-son brunch at one of the city's best taquerias. Or so we thought. Restaurant doesn't open till 11, so we tried Screen Door, possibly the most popular brunch in Portland, and decided a 45-minute wait was more than we were willing to indulge. Wound up at City-State Diner on Northeast 28th Avenue, coincidentally just a couple blocks from the aforementioned Laurelhurst Theater. I always enjoy one-on-one time with each of my kids. Hadn't had the opportunity to do so with Nathan since before Thanksgiving.

Marjon Rostami

Saturday: Took a break during my regularly scheduled work day to meet a former summer intern for lunch at Nel Centro, a stone's throw from The Oregonian. Marjon Rostami was a reporter for us in the summer of 2007 in our Washington County bureau. She was always a favorite of mine because, as the newspaper's internship coordinator back then, I always looked for students who had demonstrated their drive and adaptability by doing a previous internship in tough circumstances or out-of-the-way places. Bingo! As a young Iranian-American woman who grew up in Dallas and attended the ginormous University of Texas at Austin, I could only try to imagine what it was like for her working in San Angelo, a conservative town in west central Texas, in summer 2006. Marjon is now a city hall reporter at the well-respected Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk, Va., and retains all the charm and ambition that characterized her short time here in Oregon. Hope it won't be long before she pays another visit to Portland.

Chalupas all around

Friday: Guys'  night out began with dinner at Pastini Pastaria, an Italian bistro in our neighborhood. Four poker buddies and I went from there to the Rose Garden to see the Trail Blazers take on the Phoenix Suns, the same team that embarrassed them on national television three weeks earlier. This time, it was the Blazers who laid it on, avenging a 25-point loss in Phoenix with a dominating 109-71 victory that earned every fan a coupon for a free chalupa. (Taco Bell sponsors the giveaway every time the Blazers score 100 or more points.) We had seats in the nosebleed section -- the very top row of the arena -- but it didn't detract at all from the multisensory experience of an NBA game. Was totally fun hanging out with Dave, Brian, Tom and Bob. And in case you wonder if grown men ever lose touch with their junior high selves, well, here's what you would have heard if you were in the car, right after dinner, as we headed to the game:

"Are we there yet?"
"I gotta pee."
"Pee? I gotta fart."

Moneyball image: IMDb.com

Learning about grief, honoring my son

Today's meeting of The Dougy Center board of directors comes with a new dose of commitment and insight from yours truly.

This past weekend, I was one of 10 volunteers -- and the only guy -- who went through facilitator training at the center's building in Northeast Portland. We're bound by confidentiality rules so I won't reveal any names or details. But I can say the weekend was intended to educate us about the basic skills we'll need and introduce us to the format, values and larger purpose of the peer support groups we'll soon be helping to lead.

In a nutshell, it's about how to simply "be there" for the children and teenagers who've suffered the loss of a parent or sibling to death, whether by disease, accident or suicide. We're not counselors, so we're not trying to "fix" anything or anyone, but rather a supportive presence as the kids work through their own issues. The center also has peer support groups for the parents of children grieving a death and I'm tentatively assigned to work with one group, once the criminal background check is done and reference letters are received and processed.

All of the volunteers brought a dish to share so we had two days of potluck lunches to bond over.

During one exercise, when we discussed the concept of grief, we each made a collage that represented a loss.  I have yet to lose anyone in my immediate family to death -- and I know I'm not only fortunate to say that, but also in the minority of volunteers. So I cut out images from several magazines that represent the loss of my relationship with my youngest son, Jordan. That loss is temporary and is due to last only for the duration of his one-year deployment to Afghanistan, which began in December with the U.S. Army.

In the image above, there are:
-- Mountains, boots and binoculars to remind me of where he is stationed, somewhere in southern Afghanistan..
-- A cell phone, representing the occasional communication we now have.
-- A fireplace with stockings that speaks to the family Christmas we didn't have.
-- A bacon cheeseburger, one of his favorite foods.
-- An evening grosbeak, representing the wildlife we can expect to see when visiting our cabin on Orcas Island.
-- The word "Alaska," reminding me of a father-son trip we took up north the summer after he finished sixth grade, prompted by a classroom report he did on the 49th state.
-- And, finally, the words "Find Yourself," a reference to what I hope he is experiencing as a soldier and husband.

I've been on the Dougy board for three-plus years now and have been privileged to be part of a group of people working with a small but talented staff to provide a vital service in our community. It's been one thing to attend fund-raising dinners and lunches, to recruit friends to the cause; and to help set policies and budgets for executive director Donna Schuurman and her staff. 

It's another thing entirely to join the hundreds of compassionate people from all walks of life -- including my wife Lori -- who have stepped forward over the years to facilitate these peer support groups. To say I have a greater emotional investment in Dougy's programs is to state the obvious. I can only image the commitment will deepen once I begin working with the adults in their peer support group.

Ellis Weiner in the house!

Remember that blog entry just a few days ago, where I expressed my delight at receiving a loaned copy of "Yiddish with Dick and Jane"?

Well, guess who visited Rough and Rede and dropped a comment on that post?

None other than Mr. Ellis Weiner himself, co-author of the book with his wife, Barbara Davilman. Go look it up on the original post: "Oh, vey! A primer like no other!"

Better yet .... fuhgeddaboudit!  Don't lift a finger. Here's the proof:

Ellis Weiner  Jan 19, 2012 09:04 AM

George! Boobie!

Many thanks for this. Our fantasy is to get Little, Brown to issue a tenth birthday edition (in 2014) with an updated Glossary. It would be a mitzvah.

Now go read The Big Jewish Book for Jews, by the same authors. It couldn hoit!

Ellis Weiner

Book covers: www.ellisweiner.com

Weekend rerun: City by The Bay

A place to leave your heart

A week ago today, we rolled out of bed at 3:30 a.m., bleary-eyed yet excited for an early-morning flight and a four-day weekend in San Francisco and its environs.

We planned the trip with the intention of attending a cousins' reunion with Lori's side of the family but when that failed to materialize, we found ourselves with even more time to spend as we wished. What follows is a quick synopsis of our Friday-to-Monday adventures, presented by the letter F.

What I mean to say is, when I think about the themes that framed our visit, I think of: friends, family, food and football. So let's begin:

Friends: We flew into San Jose, and spent two days and two nights with Lori's lifelong best friend, Terry, and her husband Mike in San Francisco. Lori and Terry grew up on the same block and went through school together, from kindergarten through high school, including an all-girls Catholic high school. Terry moved into her parents' house after their deaths and has fixed it up beautifully -- a two-story rowhouse in the Sunset district near Lake Merced and San Francisco State University.

Mercy High School, Class of 1970: Lori, Lin & Terry

Terry and Mike introduced us to the Filbert Street Stairs (See? Another "F.") on Saturday morning. I had no idea you could walk from the Embarcadero up the hillside to Coit Tower, the famous landmark on Telegraph Hill, by following a series of staircases through well-maintained natural areas featuring all sorts of leafy plants, trees, flowers and well-hidden apartments. Inside Coit Tower, we viewed Depression-era murals in the lobby of the building, all done in fresco style. An amazing achievement that has stood the test of nearly 80 years.

We had dinner out Friday night at the legendary Cliff House, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and ate in Saturday night as Lin, another longtime friend of Lori and Terry, joined us after attending the 49ers' playoff game. Pull out an old yearbook and that's a surefire way of laughing your way through the evening.

On Sunday morning, we met one of my high school friends, Diane, and her husband Steve for breakfast at a nearly century-old cafe near the world-famous intersection of Haight and Ashbury. It was the Pork Store Cafe, which began life in 1916 as a butcher shop founded by an immigrant couple from Czechoslovakia. We had delicious food in an unpretentious atmosphere and enjoyed great conversation with Diane and Steve, who live in Berkeley.

Steve & Diane on Haight Street

The Haight has changed in some ways. It's been cleaned up considerably and lots of upscale businesses have moved in alongside the head shops, thrift stores and record shops that still survive. A few blocks west of the restaurant there was a Whole Foods store on one corner and a McDonald's on the opposite corner.Talk about economic transition.

Yet there were reminders of the old Haight: A sketchy customer fired up a fragrant doobie while he and friends waited for a table at the Pork Store Cafe. Another character came ambling by on the sidewalk, playing the banjo and seemingly in no hurry to get anywhere. And just as we were getting into our car to leave, a disheveled woman came up to the passenger-side window and started screaming at Lori for no particular reason.

Family: The visit actually began in Fremont, (Yep. Another "F.") the East Bay community where I lived from fifth grade through my first two years of college. We visited my mom, who lives alone in a ranch-style tract home; took her out to see a resale shop where she hopes to sell many of her vintage clothing items on consignment; and brought home fast-food for a lunch in her kitchen. She uses a walker, tires easily and doesn't go out much, so I think we made the most of our time with her. There's no room for guests, so we said goodbye in the late afternoon and headed to Terry and Mike's.

Leaving San Francisco at mid-day Sunday, we paid a visit to the cemetery where Lori's parents are buried. We left fresh flowers and cleaned up the gravestone. A small gesture, yes, but one that I know meant a lot to Lori. Her parents were always very good to me. I'm fortunate to still have both my mom and dad, though they divorced long ago and live in different states.

Lori, Bob & Darlene

We arrived in the San Jose/South Bay area about mid-afternoon and settled in for two days and two nights with Lori's older brother, Bob, and his wife Darlene. Their daughter, our niece Joanna, a lawyer who lives in San Francisco, was there to greet us along with her rescue dog, Francine. Bob and Darlene live in the mountains between Los Gatos and Santa Cruz, just off the notoriously winding road known as Highway 17. They have solitude like you wouldn't believe and a spectacular view of the tree-topped hillside that rolls toward the ocean.

Played Trivial Pursuit Sunday night, made a quick trip to Santa Cruz Monday afternoon (in some ways a smaller version of the Haight, with its mix of hippies, yuppies and tourists), then went into Los Gatos for happy hour before, finally, heading to the airport in San Jose. All in all, a very relaxing time.

Food: What can I say? We ate well everywhere we went. From the simplest meal (my mom fixed us homemade pinto beans, fried eggs and tortillas for a late breakfast) to the fanciest (an impressive seafood with pasta dish at the Cliff Houae), there was ample opportunity to get our fill and then some.

Terri fixed a killer rack of lamb. Bob and Darlene served us barbecued pork chops with great side dishes for dinner and a platter full of linguica and sausage for breakfast the following day. And the chorizo scramble with hash browns was just the right dish (for me, anyway) at the Pork Store Cafe.

Football: It was a stroke of luck that we were in The City the same weekend that the 49ers (or, to get another "F" reference in here, the Forty-Niners) had their first playoff game since 2002. The 10-year absence from the playoffs had fans in a fever pitch, with 49er garb, flags and banners everywhere. Fans of the franchise that has won 5 Super Bowls in 5 tries weren't accustomed to such a long dry spell. It's been 17 years since the Niners' last Super Bowl appearance.

We watched Saturday's game with Mike and Terry in the comfort of their living room. As the tension rose with four lead changes in the final four minutes, we joined countless others on the edge of their seats, their hearts pounding and fingers crossed for an improbable ending. When the victory came, -- a 36-32 classic against the favored New Orleans Saints -- we screamed as if we were at Candlestick Park.

A few hours later, we re-lived the drama through Lin, a season ticket holder, who was still jacked up when she arrived at Terry and Mike's for dinner. She came decked out in a bright red jacket adorned with various sports pins, wearing a pair of 49er earrings, a football charm bracelet and a satisfied smile.

Lin will be there again on Sunday, when the Niners take on the dangerous New York Giants for a berth in this year's Super Bowl. Let's hope she -- and we -- have reason to keep smiling.

Photograph of Golden Gate Bridge: http://mcmanuslab.ucsf.edu/SF

Portland's homeless -- and one very rich young man

Resident T. Anderson-Hewitt holds up a "dream box" she made during a crafts workshop as staff member Heather Weitman takes her picture at the Bud Clark Commons.

I was on the No. 9 bus one day last week, headed in to work, when we crossed over the Broadway Bridge. I was skimming an article in the Portland Tribune about the Bud Clark Commons when I happened to look out the window and, by sheer coincidence, spotted the very building I was reading about.

The $47 million building was named after a former Portland mayor. The city-owned structure opened last year and is already at capacity, housing 130 formerly homeless people who are receiving treatment for substance abuse, chronic diseases and mental illness, the Tribune reported.

I've always had a lot of respect for people who work on the front lines with the homeless, be they social workers, psychiatric counselors, nurses, doctors or housing managers. I know I couldn't walk in their shoes. The article by Peter Korn generally painted a positive picture of progress being made at the commons. Yet, a short passage drove home for me what it must really be like inside those walls.

[Resident Audrey Lane] has noticed a lot in her five months at the commons. One resident, safe inside at night, still pushes a grocery cart full of belongings through city streets during the day, unable to adjust to apartment living.

Some of the commons residents, Lane says, haven’t yet adjusted to sleeping in beds. They leave their belongings in their apartments but spend the nights sleeping in the streets.

One woman resident has had an awful time moving in because she’s afraid to take the elevator to her floor, and unwilling to leave her belongings unattended for two hours in the commons’ warming room before taking them upstairs. The warming room is heated to 194 degrees to kill bed bugs and other critters.

I shuddered and flipped to the sports section. And there I found a piece about Greg Oden, the oft-injured 7-foot center for the Portland Trail Blazers who is still adhering to a recovery program following microfracture surgery to his left knee in November 2010.

Greg Oden hasn’t played since Dec. 5, 2009.

Once viewed as the missing piece who would help deliver an NBA championship, the former No. 1 draft pick out of Ohio State is now seen by many, if not most, as an expensive bust.

Reporter Kerry Eggers catalogued Oden's history of injuries:

• Missed his rookie 2007-08 season after microfracture surgery on right knee

• Missed 21 games in his redshirt rookie season (2008-09) with a left knee chip and a right ankle sprain

• Missed most of 2009-10 season after fracturing his left kneecap in a December game

• Missed the entire 2010-11 season after microfracture surgery on left knee

In December, Eggers reported, the Blazers and Oden agreed to a one-year contract at $1.5 million, far below the team’s $8.9 million qualifying offer to retain his rights as a restricted free agent. On July 1, he added, Oden becomes an unrestricted free agent, meaning he might never again wear a Blazers uniform if he signs with another team.

I shuddered again.

Reading those two articles back to back left me with a sour taste in my mouth. Normally, I don't begrudge professional athletes their ridiculous salaries because: a) they are entertainers, just as Hollywood actors are; and b) it's they who compete, who fill the stands with fans and who risk serious injury in many sports.

But in this case, unfairly or not, I wondered where the justice was in an economic and social structure that relegates many of the city's most fragile residents to a single building in Old Town while a pampered athlete, not yet 24 years old, receives the best of medical care while earning millions of dollars -- even as he is unable to play a single game.

Top photograph by Christopher Onstott, Portland Tribune

Photograph of Greg Oden: L.E. Baskow, Portland Tribune

Note to self: Patience

The day after Christmas, I wrote a blog entry ("The post-Christmas challenge") prompted by the good manners and kind gestures I was seeing all around me.

"(I)s it possible to be civil to each other when we aren't on our best holiday behavior? Can we be more patient with the driver who changes lanes without signaling or the bicyclist who blows through a stop sign? Can we be more forgiving when a sales clerk is less than efficient with the cash register? Or when a restaurant meal is less than perfect?"

I vowed to be tolerant of little things that might annoy me. And what did I do the very next day?

Went into a Starbucks intending to buy a holiday-themed treat for the stylist who was going to cut my hair that afternoon, but left in a huff when the service wasn't to my liking. Walked right out the door without paying, leaving the pastries I ordered at the counter.

A few days later, I read a friend's blog in which she referenced the "My One Word" challenge and asked two questions: What kind of person do you want to be by 2012's end? How would implementing one word change your relationships?


I immediately thought of my shameful behavior. Patience. Yes, patience. That is what I preached but not what I practiced at the coffee shop. I vowed to make things right and went back a couple days after the incident to apologize to the cashier who rang me up. I returned the following week to apologize to his co-worker, the young woman who had bagged the pastries I ordered.

Both were surprised to see me and both tried to downplay my apology. I wouldn't have it. I told each of them I was embarrassed by my behavior, that I had let pettiness get the best of me and promised them it wouldn't happen again -- to them or any other service worker I deal with in the future.

Since then, I've tried to be more self-aware. I've tried to be cognizant of when I'm feeling irritated and stop myself before I say or do something I'll later regret. I like to think I'm pretty easygoing but I also know I can have a short fuse. I don't like losing my temper. It's ugly to see it in other people and I'm certain I'm no different.

I'm not saying that bottling things up is always the right course -- that would be unrealistic. But given my penchant for challenging myself -- in terms of blogging, exercising, work or whatever -- it would be far more meaningful if I challenged myself to have more patience on a daily basis. That would benefit everyone around me, I'm sure, and no doubt would help my self-image and overall well being.

Patience. A great virtue, but an elusive one. So help me, I'm going to try.

Photograph: http://discomaulvi.wordpress.com

Oy vey! A primer like no other!

The book opens to a pastel drawing of a young housewife in the doorway of a neat brick home, as her bespectacled husband wheels a big green garbage can to the curbside. The text?

See Jane.
Jane is married to Bob.
Jane loves Bob very much.
Bob is a real mensch.

This is no ordinary "Dick and Jane" primer. No, it's "Yiddish with Dick and Jane" and it'll make you laugh your tuchas off.

After I posted a photo of my car's new bumper sticker, "Keep Portland Meshugenah," Lori brought home a yellow hard-cover book with two familiar-looking, cherubic children spinning a dreidel while their spaniel watches. The book, co-authored by the husband-and-wife team of Ellis Weiner and Barbara Davilman, was a loaner from our friend, Karen, who was also the one who gave me the bumper sticker, never expecting she'd see it online.

"I about plotzed when I saw the photo of your car with the 'meshuganah' bumper sticker on it posted on your blog," she wrote in a note tucked inside the book. "Like a shtimmer, I was at a loss of words. What can I tell you, nu? This dear shaifeleh could have been knocked over with a feather!"

Well, after publicly expressing my fondness for learning handy phrases in foreign languages, this was the perfect gift -- even if it really wasn't a gift. Feh!

I inhaled the book in about a half-hour, breezing through 80 pages of text and drawings and a 24-page glossary and pronunciation guide. I'm already familiar with schlep, schlock and schnoz. With a little practice, I'll be able to slip plotz, pupik and shtunk into everyday conversation and either impress my Jewish friends or befuddle my gentile homies.

Need a little help with these words? Don't be a shlemiel!  Better check out "The Yiddish Handbook: 40 Words You Should Know."

Book cover: www.ellisweiner.com