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www.kevacho.com
©2002-2012
Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon
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When creating this spot for my web page I was trying to think of how I might best not come off as the biggest buffoon on the forehead of this great, big, planet. Then I realized something... I am human. For me this bespeaks volumes. It means that I am fallible, that I am not perfect. I have made mistakes, am making mistakes even as I write this, and will, inevitably, make mistakes in the future. When I wax romantically about myself and my role in this cosmic-shit tub we all dubiously call life I like to think of myself as the warrior- strong, loyal, full of discipline and honor. In reality, there are parts of me that follow those codes, but more to the point, I am a worker, and very proud of that. I finish what I start. I relish the journey. And I live... as well as any 38-year-old white male could hope to live in this world of skewed ideals and twisted attitudes (holy crap! I wrote this drivel five years ago. How time light speeds).
Suffice it to say, here within these "random thoughts" I will contradict myself, I will be wrong in some points and right in others, and I will make mistakes. However, as always, I hope in a small way that you, the reader, might garner a modicum of enjoyment.
Hell! I know I do. |
January 25, 2012
BLOODY FREAKIN' HELL!
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So I moved. Great- right? No more nights awakened by my meth-head, wanna-be gangster, white-trash neighbors. No more S.W.A.T. throwing stun grenades through bedroom windows, and battering open doors. No more nights spent wearing earplugs and running two fans.
WRONG!
At first, my new place was great. The attic of a big house re-modeled into a one bedroom. The kitchen is brand new, and so is the bathroom. I have already lived here for a month with no neighbors in the main floor of the house. It was beatific. Then the neighbors show up; two privileged little shit heads from California. The first time I complained they showed up at 10:00 p.m. made a crap ton of noise until I stormed down the stairs and told them to shut up, and they had not even taken occupancy! They were just idly moving shit around until midnight. The second time- well, sure they were finally moved in- but they come rolling in at midnight (again, making a crap ton of noise), and kept me up until 1:00 a.m.
So here I am. Stalwart writer, simply wanting to write, and mind my own business. But instead, I find myself, once again, in the unenviable position of having to explain to dubiously mature adults that they are acting like selfish, inconsiderate, and down-right rude, insufferable brats. Truly, all I wish to do is pay rent, be the private, considerate person I am, and come home to serene, livable apartment. However, it appears as if that might not exist, at least within the city limits of Portland proper.
If I were a religious man, I would pray and ask my god what I did wrong. As it stands, I wish my Dad was here to talk to. He always had a different outlook than anyone else, and he could always see the bright side to any dark cloud.
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January 22, 2012
Funny thing...
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Life is really strange for me right now. There have been some positive things (namely my job), but also a great many confusing and somewhat disjointed turn of events. My mother sold the house she had with my dad for well over ten years; bitter sweet that. She is living with my sister and feeling just as confused as I am, more so.
I miss my dad. I moved out of the rat-infested tenement apartment that had served me well for three years into what I thought would be a much better, more sane situation. I was wrong. Or rather, I was mislead. My situation is even worse that it was before. Difficult for me to work when I keep getting awakened at all hours of the night by another group of inconsiderate and rude neighbors. And me, always emotional, too much thought, too much introspection. The things that serve me so well in my writing do not protect me in the real world, this forlorn twenty-first century. Moreover, they seem to hinder me, and have always done so. However, I will die as I have lived -- with passion, and hopefully more than a little sense of self, of the binding agent which holds my heart and my mind so closely together.
Thank fate for my beloved friends and family. Without them I would truly be lost.
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January 07, 2012
Again... people
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So, this woman comes up to me the other day at work and asks me this meaningless and asinine question, and this is the question: do you know where stuff is? I actually laughed at her. Is that wrong? Am I being a pretentious ass hole? (Which is most definitely a possibility.) I wanted to tell her I remember where I buried a pile of Penthouse magazines outside my parents house in Missoula, MT when I was fifteen… maybe sixteen. Is that what you mean by stuff? Then she proceeds to ask me if I were a representative, or something or another. I turned to her, presenting my apron and name tag, both of which were clearly visible and said, I work here… whats your question? Turns out, she simply needed to know where the olive oil was.
But there it is – Portland, Oregon – in a bloody nutshell. Rather than be direct and ask a legitimate, intelligent question, Portlanders (and I don’t mean every single Portlander, just the general majority) would rather meander about the subject, be circuitous, indecisive, strangely passive and bizarrely mysterious. It is absolutely maddening. And this happens on a daily, dare I say, hourly basis. No wonder Portland, OR is ranked number one, as being the most unhappy city in America.
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July 21, 2011
Heart of a city
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People like to talk about the "heart" of a city, its' underlining pulse and rhythm and life. You hear the term thrown around a lot on cooking and traveling shows. The other day walking home with my mother and girlfriend, I was taken aback by something I find to be the "heart" of Portland, Oregon.
We were all walking down forty-seventh street in the "heart" of the Alameda neighborhood. Forty-seventh, has a myriad of streets crossing it, all of which have stop signs. A car past us, traveling merrily down the road, when suddenly a male bicyclist burst from one of the side streets, completely blowing through the stop sign. The car honked at the offensive bicyclist (as would any rational person, considering they very nearly ran the man over). He proceeded to "flip" the motorist off and berate them audibly, while the three of us stared in utter disgust.
Which brings me back to my original point; I believe this irreprehensible action on the part of the bicyclist is the "heart" of this foul, and congested city. So many times I have seen bicyclists (not to mention pedestrians) put themselves in mortal danger. And for what? To prove that, on some ignorant level they're right? To toy with danger, thwart death? To illicit a response -- any response at all? I just don't get it. What the bicyclist did in the above mentioned description was not just wrong it was illegal. If the car, regardless of how badly he was hurt, had hit him the driver of the car could have sued him; and would have, most definitely, won. The bicyclists in this city think they do indeed have special privileges and rights that supercede any law or agreed upon code of conduct. I have news for any and all bicyclists (and by the way, I have ridden a bicycle in Portland for well over three years) you will not win an argument with a 3,000 pound motor vehicle. I don't care if you're right (however, as far as my experience goes, you are more often than not in the wrong), I don't care if you're wrong -- if you get into an argument with a car, you will lose. So lose the attitude and wear a god damn helmet! You will look pretty fuckin' "cool" if you get into an accident, receive massive head trauma, and then drool and make animal noises for the rest of your life. (That last bit was sarcasm, if you couldn't tell.)
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