Long ago (1998), in a land far, far away (Portland). There was a bus that went to Vancouver on Interstate Avenue. It was the number 5.
Before gentifrication (the MAX), this was a really rough neighborhood. A lot of crackheads, gangs, pushers and prostitutes. (Actually, it was my kind of neighborhood.)
Kicking yourself for missing the kick ass Humanity on Wheels event (co-sponsored by TriMet Diaries and the enthusiastic historians behind Kick Ass Oregon History) in March? Were you there, but wish, for one small moment (or maybe for 2 hours and 32 seconds) you could relive the glory? Well now you can!
Kick Ass Oregon History podcast volume 4 #7 just dropped: Humanity on Wheels.
In which we learn never to give alcohol to a bus.
Live at the Jack London Bar.
OrHistory’s Doug Kenck-Crispin emceed and regaled the packed house with gruesome tales of Mad MAX, Portland’s death trolley. TriMet Diaries’ very own Doctor Jeff, Bill Reagan, Heather G. and others courageously, and hilariously, shared their stories. Portland Afoot‘s Michael Anderson brought the house down with a story of his own, and many other brave bus riders, activists, and even a TriMet bus driver took advantage of the open-mic. Do listen to the podcast, and do check out the photos from this unforgettable night at the Jack London Bar.
The brains behind the Kick Ass Oregon History project are the crack hustlers of Oregon History Doug Kenck-Crispin and Andy Lindberg. Doug is a graduate student studying Public History and Pacific Northwest History at PSU, and Andy, though a Portland native, is currently working as an actor in New York City. Doug does most of the research and writing for the podcasts with input from Andy, who voices the broadcasts with a thespian’s flair.
Visit ORHistory.com and stay tuned to @Oregon_History on Twitter for further details on specific episodes and the series. Catch up on missed episodes at the Kick Ass Oregon History archives.
Waiting at Pioneer Square in the morning for the MAX to the boonies, a guy is approaching each of us waiting there, holding up a book or booklet. A Bible? Asking for directions to a landmark in his travel guide? He gets a couple of “No”s, shuffles towards me. Homeless, obviously. Every physical attribute that would suit a person for TV – regular features, gleaming smile, relaxed good humor, eye contact, tailored clothes, voice of friendly authority, warm, charm, physical grace – this man was missing.
Somebody tell me if you’ve been played like this.
It happened to me on the MAX riding eastbound during the evening commute. Coming through downtown, the car was getting full. I was reading a book called “The Anatomy of Peace.” The book tells how to get along with others, which I’d like to do better.
A woman sat down next to me. I glanced over and we exchanged weak hellos. This should have been my first clue that I was in the crosshairs but I was off guard. It’s because people have been more friendly to me lately. Maybe it’s the charisma of my new cap — it’s a nice wool poorboy, which gives the illusion that the wearer has a personality. In any case, I was a little too relaxed, so when she spoke to me I joined the conversation, instead of treating her like an obnoxious drunk.
She asked, “Are you getting off work?” Showing definite interest.
Author’s Note: The first thing that happens during each morning’s commute is a walk of about a mile. I’ve come to love these walks, rain or shine or inky black, for the reflective time with which they bless me.
Between me and the Gateway Transit Center each morning are obstacles large and small – the last few deep warm hypnagogic breaths of slumber, the sum of human motivation and desire coupled with the American Work Ethic, the reluctance to leave her side, a steadfast tree in my front yard. Obstacles, yes, to be overcome on the first leg of the long journey to work each day via foot and train and bus.
The tree is ripe with the promising buds of spring, and its top branches are losing their grip on a fat full yellow moon slung low in the early morning sky. The moon must be a pretty desirable prize, as the tree seems to really be trying, clawing at the last buttery edge, fighting a losing battle but resolute in its desire to not let go. I descend the two slick steps from the front stoop and stride across the unmown grass of my front lawn, on a path to intersect the moon should it fall low enough to touch the horizon. Like the tree, I’m destined to fail. Like the tree, I’m resolute, and I shall make the attempt no matter how predestined the outcome. This is what I do.
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