Egg-static Saturday

The sun made a cameo appearance today in the PMA.  Hip-hop-hooray!  Last year, we struggled to find an appropriate Easter egg hunt for the boy.  It ended up with him only getting one (real, hard-boiled) egg, which he promptly threw and later curb-stomped to show his disapproval.  That experience kind of soured me on doing the Easter egg thing.  Parents elbowing you and scooping up all the eggs for their 3 month old napping in their Baby Bjorns.  All the while, the kids who are actually trying to grab some egg are left with nearly empty baskets and equally empty tear ducts.  If I'd known the parents were going to have at it, I'd check your fanny pack into the bushes.

This year, the wife spent a few days trying to get me hyped for an even more local egg hunt in my old stomping grounds.  The second she said, "Brentwood Park" I kind of internally groaned.  I spent three years of my youth at the adjacent Lane Middle School.  They were good years but I vividly remember the surrounding neighborhood and the less than savory folks that live in the immediate area.  "But there's going to be a helicopter that drops eggs!"  Ok, honey, you've piqued my interest. 

A beautiful day it was in the ol' 'hood.  The smell of fresh-cut grass was in the air.  After we found parking (place was stuffed) we walked to one of the orange tents to register our kid.  Everything seemed pretty great.  The registration line was semi-long, but moved pretty rapidly.  We got squared away with the registration people and had 45 minutes to burn.  Face-painting?  He'd freak out and rub it off.  Easter bunny?  The line was re-donk.  Let's just wait for the helicopter to arrive. 

Putting on his best mommy cheeser face

They relegated the 0-2 year-old kids to the tennis courts for safety.  Good idea, except the wind blew the eggs to the large crack in between the two tennis courts and to the fences.  The organizers fixed this by picking up the eggs and dropping them as they let the kids loose.  Now this group of kids was allowed one parent to help them grab eggs.  I wasn't sure if my boy, who is pretty bright when it comes to getting what he wants, would get the whole, "when I grab the eggs they go in my basket and they are mine now" concept.  Turns out, he had absolutely no problem figuring it out after a few pre-hunt freak outs.

Turns out the whole thing was being put on by Hopecity Church.  Apparently they meet on Sundays at the middle school.  I don't know if I could go to church in the same place I used to kiss girls and beat up foreigners.

Examining the loot

He scooped up about 20 eggs.  It was super cute.  We all had a good time.  We turned over our egg loot for candy loot and were on our way. 

We then went for a little after-hunt brunch at McCrae's cafe.  I then proceeded to eat a 12-egg omelet, hashbrowns, toast, and 3/4 of a giant pancake the kid would finish.  I'm still full and it's 10PM.

We Were Marshall

June 14th marks the final day in the 51-year history for the Minutemen and Minutemaids of John Marshall High School. The Class of 2011 will be the final class that graduates from MHS. It's amazing that my high school won't exist anymore. That makes me feel really old. Sometimes, I'll run across people who say they went to Washington High School (another Portland high school that closed in 1981) and they're old as shit. Now I've been inducted into the "old ass dude who's high school doesn't exist anymore Hall of Fame."

Of course they couldn't close Jefferson High School because the students there are predominantly black and it would be another case of "white-ass Portland" hating on anybody who isn't white. You can't close Roosevelt for one reason or another (they're building is prettier). You can throw the book at Marshall, whose reputation as a school for gang bangers has only worsened since I left the halls for good in 2002. Also, who cares if we close a school down whose attendance numbers have dwindled every year for the past two decades?

Turns out that some people DO care about what happens to Marshall. But by the time they organized enough to do something about it, the school board had already put its plan in motion. We didn't have enough supporters to change the mind of the powers that be. It's really sad that I won't be able to take my kids there and tell them that this is where Dad went to school. This is where I used to play basketball at lunch. This is where that guy got shot in the cafeteria when your Aunt went here. This is where that guy got stabbed and ran to the health clinic that used to be right there. Isn't that what happens at every school?

The students don't really seem to give two shits about school now. They aren't going to class because what's the point? They're going to have all new teachers next year who won't know if they went to class or not. Brand new beginnings for these kids. Many kids have transferred out to the school they would attend next year to get a head start on making friends and learning the lay of the land. It's gotten so pathetic at Marshall that the teachers are rewarding students for coming to class on time for three weeks in a row.

So now what to do with the building? Probably nothing. Although my sister has other ideas (harassing McMenamins) and nearly no capital to do it herself. Maybe she'll write a blog post on it someday. It just seems like a waste to just let the building sit there behind a movie theater and shopping centers and let it waste away just like Washington High School. Although WHS was used to house people who left New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. So we'll wait for the next terrible natural disaster and open MHS to the stranded masses.

There will be a Tribute to Marshall on June 4th at noon. I can't go because it's my wife's birthday and I'll be working half of the day. Maybe Victory Lane will go and report. Probably not.

I'd leave you with the fight song, but to be honest, I don't know it and I'm not sure anybody else does either.

It's Not Mr. Roger's Neighborhood

Have you ever felt unsafe in your own neighborhood? Like someone could just shank you at any point for no reason and steal your Bananarama mix-tape? I grew up feeling that way in the inner-Southeast of Portland. Then, when I finally moved out to a small one-bedroom in the city center, and found myself walking home after midnight, it seemed a little more real.

Now that I live in East Portland, damn near Gresham, I don't really get that feeling. It's still scary, but for totally different reasons. It's weird how I encounter more homeless people now than when I lived downtown. Sure the concentration of gangs is a little heavier, but I never feel like I'm in immediate danger.

The early morning of the eighth, I was really thirsty, so I persuaded Nikki to come with me to the nearest convenience store. 7-eleven is about a half-mile away from our house. Being that we are sans auto, we hoofed it at about 12:30AM. Along the way, we saw a man yelling across an intersection at a woman about cigarettes or money or something to that effect. To this, the woman responded, "If you don't want me out here hustlin', then use your own god-damn money." It was comedy in its purest form and all I wanted to do was capture their argument in a glass or Rubbermaid container so I might open it every once in a while to listen and giggle uncontrollably. She unleashed a few more profanities as Nikki stared in amazement and I tried to pull her closer to the store. At this point, I think I asked Nikki if I should go over to her and ask her how much she would charge for a foot rub (my feet were pretty sore as I had just gotten off of work).

We did end up making it to 7-eleven where I purchased some Wild Cherry Pepsi. I was soon home and sleeping, dreaming of Pepsi drinking prostitutes giving a Rubbermaid container a foot rub. (Added for dramatic effect)