Beyond Raffi: Kids' Music Doesn't Have to Suck

Written by Matt Schrunk
Edited by Kelley Dodd

I started to notice how frequently I was reaching for the volume knob in the family car, strategically muting the song that was playing in order to censor the occasional curse word that would pop up. It’s not as though I was listening to Cannibal Corpse with my kids in the car, mind you, but the music I played wasn’t exactly squeaky clean. My wife and I shared a lot of guilty looks. We knew something had to change.

We decided it was time to go through our CD collection and weed out the bands and albums that were inappropriate for our kids to hear. Our daughters were old enough to start to understand and (God forbid) repeat whatever they might hear on the stereo. We decided that the safest thing would be to remove the most objectionable material from our music library. I grudgingly said goodbye to a good many of the metal albums that had carried me through my own version of teenage angst, and I was convinced that my listening future would consist of, mainly, The Wiggles and Gwendolyn and the Good Time Gang. Why wasn’t there more cool music out there that I could listen to with my kids?

I’m twenty-eight now, but at twenty-three I already had two kids in the house. Maybe most parents out there have a little more time to separate themselves from the music of their younger, wilder days and to settle into a more grown-up, less obnoxious musical palate. Not so for me—I was just two years out of high school when my first kid was born and still had a fairly impressive collection of discs sporting the “Parental Advisory” sticker on the front cover. Bands like Korn, Pantera, Tool, and (I’m ashamed to say) Limp Bizkit took up a large part of my CD racks—not exactly the type of music to use as a lullaby for your little ones.

Of course, every parent with a passion for music wants to share their tastes with their kids. But many of the songs I was playing for my daughters contained lyrics that I hadn’t even realized were inappropriate until I listened to them through the parental filter. We tried listening to some of the music made just for kids, but most of it was simply too annoying to tolerate. So what happens when you run out of ideas for fun, family-friendly music? Portland deejays Belinda Miller and Hova Najarian have just the thing.

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Between 8:00 and 9:00 on Saturday mornings, Portland radio station 94.7 KNRK (www.947.fm) airs Miller and Najarian’s long-running show, Greasy Kid Stuff, playing music that’s fun, upbeat, very kid-friendly, and just plain cool. We’re not talking about Alvin and the Chipmunks—much of the music on the show is not specifically made for kids. But what you hear during their program is certainly a welcome respite from the often bland world of kids’ music.

In one hour, you can hear music from mainstream artists, like the B-52’s, Yo La Tengo, The Replacements, Beck, and They Might Be Giants, and more kid-centric bands, such as Lunch Money, Captain Bogg & Salty, and the Red Hot Chili Dogs. Greasy Kid Stuff first aired in the New York area in 1995 on freeform radio station WFMU. At the time of the show’s creation, Miller and Najarian (who are happily married) didn’t have kids, but they were inspired to bring better music to the children of the next generation.

I joined Miller and Najarian to sit in on a taping of the show, which is prerecorded on the second floor of their Southeast Portland house and sent in to the KNRK studio. I asked them about how it all began. Sitting behind a computer facing the couple’s modest recording equipment, Najarian said, “We were huge fans of WFMU, and started volunteering there. We had never deejayed before, and we were never even aspiring to deejay there; we just loved the station. We really didn’t think that we had anything to add—everyone was super knowledgeable and had huge record collections. Then we got the idea for a kids’ show. We pitched it to them, and they liked the idea.”

Najarian noted that at the time, many of the people who grew up with punk rock were becoming parents—their station manager at WFMU had just become a father when they pitched their show—and there just wasn’t a lot of good kids’ music out there. The mission of Greasy Kid Stuff, according to Miller, was essentially to “mine the history of music for kid-appropriate stuff, but not stuff that was necessarily made for kids.”

The first ten years of Greasy Kid Stuff were produced and aired in New York, but in 2004 Miller and Najarian decided to move back to the west coast, settling in Miller’s hometown of Portland, Oregon. They continued broadcasting the show to New York, running a live feed from their home to WFMU’s New Jersey studio through the phone line. Finally, in 2006 they decided to make the broadcast local, convincing program director Mark Hamilton to give them a slot on KNRK. They continued their remote broadcast to the New York area for a year, coinciding with the Portland show, until parting ways with WFMU in 2007.

Over the years Greasy Kid Stuff has received a good deal of attention from national media as a pioneer in the genre of kids’ music. Neal Pollack, author of Alternadad: The True Story of One Family’s Struggle to Raise a Cool Kid in America, has called it “the best kid’s radio program of all time.” In a 2007 blog on his Alternadad website, Pollack talked about visiting a Portland dance party for kids called Baby Loves Disco (hosted by Miller and Najarian). After taking in the scene and watching parents dance with their toddlers to the sound of classic disco music, he attempted to describe the current state of parenting and culture, saying, “I do know that the generic kid-centric culture of Barney, Mommy & Me, and Gymboree, while still part of the landscape, is fading and is being replaced by something that feels a little more authentic, a little more, well, fun.” The movement is growing. Greasy Kid Stuff is often the number one radio program in Portland during its time slot, and Baby Loves Disco parties, which started in Philadelphia, have spread to over twenty major cities around the country. But like any shift in the culture scales, this one started small.

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Back in 1995, Miller and Najarian were producing what may have been the only kids' radio show in the country. A few others have sprung up since then, including Spare the Rock, Spoil the Child produced in Massachusetts by Bill Childs and his daughter, Ella. Childs approached Miller and Najarian in 2005 looking for advice on starting an indie rock show for kids. Miller told him, “I don’t know! We aren’t experts.” Even with other kids’ shows being started around the country, Miller and Najarian don’t see the trend as a threat. “It’s cool that people are doing it. We get jealous sometimes that people get attention, and that people get paid,” Najarian said, laughing, “but we’re still doing what we like to do.”

In the past few years, Miller and Najarian have relaxed their position of avoiding music that’s made for kids because “it’s just a lot better.” They cite recent kids’ releases by mainstream artists—Barenaked Ladies, Lisa Loeb, and Chris Ballew (of the Presidents of the United States of America) a.k.a. Caspar Babypants—as evidence that kids’ music is getting more popular and much more readily available, making it easier to find material to play on the air. “We started with a one-hour show,” said Miller, “and we were like, ‘Oh my god, how are we going to fill it?’” But over time, Miller and Najarian discovered more and more songs to use for the show, getting suggestions from their listeners and from other deejays. Now they have no problem finding material for their Portland show. Najarian said, “We could do two hours. We only do one hour on KNRK, and it’s not enough time.”

Miller and Najarian have a lovely daughter, Georgia, now five years old. When I told them about my experience with my kids and the music I felt compelled to give up, they related their own story. Miller said, “We talked to [Georgia] about cursing. But we don’t play a lot of stuff that we used to listen to, because it’s all grimy, punk rock stuff. We played the Ramones for her when she was little, and we used to dance to it all the time. Now we have to explain it all, so we don’t play as much because she’s very curious, and she wants to know everything.”

With the arrival of my first little girl, I figured that my days of going to concerts every week and listening to music I wanted to hear were over. My wife and I suffered through our share of the big purple dinosaur, but now that our daughters are six and seven, we are starting to share some of our favorite music with them. Thankfully, we’ve discovered a new source of entertaining songs from both familiar artists and new ones. A message to other parents of young children out there: don’t worry—your days of sleeping late on weekends may have ended long ago, but there’s a new way to enjoy Saturday mornings with your kids that doesn’t involve the television. Check out Greasy Kid Stuff and see what you find there. You may end up enjoying the music as much as your kids do. As Miller and Najarian say, “Grease on Earth!”

Valentine's Day playlist
Curious about the kinds of songs that can be heard on Greasy Kid Stuff? Here’s a sample playlist from a show they recorded on Valentine’s Day, 2009.

1. The Dandy Lions, "Greasy Kid Stuff," Greasy Kid Stuff: Songs From Inside the Radio (Confidential, 2002)
2. Death by Chocolate, "If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out," Death by Chocolate (Jetset, 2001)
3. Jellyfish, "Sebrina, Paste and Plato," Spilt Milk (Charisma, 1993)
4. The Rutles, "Piggy in the Middle," The Rutles (Rhino, 1990)
5. Shonen Knife, "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," What the World Needs Now (Big Deal, 1998)
6. The Galactic Heroes, "George Washington," unreleased
7. They Might Be Giants, "James K. Polk," Dial-A-Song: 20 Years of They Might Be Giants (Elektra/Rhino, 2002)
8. The White Stripes, "We're Going To Be Friends," Red Blood Cells
   
9. They Might Be Giants, "Greasy Kid Stuff," The Else/Cast Your Pods to the Wind (Idlewild/Zöe, 2007)
10. Yo La Tengo, "My Little Corner of the World," Greasy Kid Stuff: Songs From Inside the Radio (Confidential, 2002)
11. Caspar Babypants, "Sleeping Baby, Here I Am!" (self-released, 2009)
12. Snow Patrol, "I Am an Astronaut," Colours Are Brighter (Rough Trade, 2006)
13. Blossom Dearie, "Unpack Your Adjectives," Schoolhouse Rock box set (Rhino, 1996)
14. Blossom Dearie, "Doop-Doo-De-Doop (A Doodlin' Song)," Jazz for Kids: Sing, Clap, Wiggle and, Shake (Verve, 2004)
15. Olivia Olson & Eban Schletter, "Mouser Mecha-Catbot," Greasy Kid Stuff 2: More Songs From Inside the Radio (Confidential, 2004)
16. Parry Gripp, "Do You Like Waffles?" Do You Like Waffles? (Oglio, 2008)
17. James Kochalka Superstar, "Monkey vs. Robot," Monkey vs. Robot (Tarquin, 1997)
18. FunkeyMonkeys, "Ribbit, Ribbit, Tastes Like Chicken" (self-released, 2007)

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Matt Schrunk is a native Portlander studying in the PSU graduate publishing program. He now lives in Scappoose with his wife and kids and hopes to be a book editor someday soon.

Bombs Away: It’s All Downhill from Here

Written by Dave McAlinden
Edited by Josh Stohl

Caught by an oncoming wind, my tie flipped up and hit me in the face, flapping hard over my right shoulder. My knuckles were corpse-white from the cold. My hands were clamped to the handlebar grips of what I think used to be a Barbie bike. My back, arched over like an arbor increasing with ache and strain. The icy wind pulled tears from my eyes. My testicles had retreated up into my stomach as an instinctual reaction to danger. The rest of my body was locked with the thrill of minimal control as I descended faster in the near pitch dark. At this speed curiosity overrides common sense. Suffice to say the first time I tried to keep up with a pack of hollering bike junkies called Zoobombers was tantamount to nothing I had ever experienced.

First off, the word Zoobomb is a portmanteau of “Zoo,” as in pertaining to the Oregon Zoo, and “Bomb,” as in bombing down hills. With that said, Zoobombing is the act of bombing hills from the zoo into downtown, now a Sunday ritual for many Portlanders.

When I called veteran Zoobomber and bicycle enthusiast Chuck Bridge about a month ago, I had a vague idea of what was in store that Sunday, having heard tales of the Zoobomb in the past. However, I didn’t expect it to be so dense in capacity, rich in history, and perversely dignifying in its enjoyment.

Though it is not a race or competition, there is some prestige to be gained among the Zoobomb crowd for whoever makes it down the hill first. Thus, the majority of Zoobombers like to go fast, really fast. And what’s more thrilling, these feats of speed are done on children’s bikes. “Anyone can come Zoobomb, mini-bike or not,” says Bridge. Given that statement my first bomb might have been a bit more comfortable on a ten-speed or a beach cruiser.

Since its inception nearly seven years ago, Zoobombing has taken place every Sunday. When asked how such a small subculture has managed to sustain its life span, Bridge replied, “It continues itself because there is always at least one person up on the hill. Every weekend, rain, shine, snow. Every weekend, for nearly seven years.” So, it’s somewhat of a laissez faire institution, but with some serious followers. And because it's such an amorphous group of people, “there are connections to nearly every group in the Portland bike culture as a whole.” Nonetheless, I’ve found that those who have achieved the title of Zoobomber, are much more motley than your average cyclist. This is a unusual group keen on body modifications, brandings, and bizarre hair. Take Bridge for example, he has brand marks down his left shoulder in the midst of countless tattoos, two large plugs just beneath his bottom lip flanking each side of his labret, mutton chops, and a Mohawk ending in a nasty rat’s tail.

In the past there has been a stigma surrounding Zoobombers. I’ve been told that among the attempts to curb it, homeowners in the area took a stab at getting the Washington Park MAX station closed on Sunday nights. “The Portland Police have even impounded our pile once,” says a local Zoobomber, referring to the feral stack of children’s bikes known as the “People’s Bike Library of Greater Portland”. The pile is chained up across from Powell’s Books on West Burnside. This is where everyone willing to ride meets up around 8:30 p.m. Then kids take the MAX up to the Zoo and congregate before a count-down to take off.

Things do get a bit dangerous with the Zoobomb crew, but as far as injuries are concerned, there aren’t many beyond the usual scrapes and bruises that are seen as badges of honor among riders. However, one Zoobomber, Reverend Phil, suffered a spiral fracture of two bones in his leg. Keep in mind that this accident happened only because a couple of guys with a strange hate for Zoobombers threw ice in front of his bike during a fast run.

Despite some dislike and undeserved bad press, Zoobombers are a positive and community-conscious crew. At times, they’ve even been crime-stoppers. In 2004, during the century ride (one hundred miles of Zoobomb in a day) a guy in a rubber salmon costume and a man in drag chased down a purse snatcher, and then contained him until the police finally caught up. Because of incidents like this one along with Portland’s mass bike culture and the Zoobombers’ tendency to keep things clean over the years, the city has actually come to accept Zoobombing. It’s viewed as an integral part of Portland’s ever-growing, eccentric veneer and the city has even decided to help fund a sculpture that will give the current pile of “loaner bikes” a permanent place to be secured. According to Bridge, the structure will be an art rack, hopefully taking the shape of a giant bicycle wheel doubling as a cartoon bomb (think Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons). With a large, metal Z at the hub, bikes will be locked in around the rim. They hope to have it located on the curb island of West 12th and Burnside, across from American Apparel. The proposal is under current review by the Portland Department of Transportation.

When asked of the movement’s genesis, most riders are hazy about who exactly started the group. Some of the pioneers are still around, “like Handsome Dave and Solid Gold. Others have kind of faded into the wind, destined to become legends,” says Bridge. Nonetheless, the crew has always had a revolving roster of new people and old school riders. The most important aspect, “is that you did it, not when you started doing it,” says a green-haired bomber whose name I didn’t catch. A sentiment that shows the outlook of the group as being less pretentious than other sub-cultures in Portland, and a lot more likable.

Even though the there is a free spirit behind this scene, there are a few dos and don’ts to the activity. The biggest one is leave no trace. “We always pick up after ourselves, and usually after others as well. If you leave shit behind, you'll be openly chastised, and quite possibly tackled and wrestled,” says Bridge with a smile. I guess the all encompassing rule would be to remain respectful to everyone on the hill. The idea is to have fun.

Just coming from a job interview, clad in shirt, tie, and slacks, I felt like a sore thumb on the MAX car packed with enthused Zoobombers. I can’t say I wasn’t skeptical about the whole thing. I mean, it’s hard not to be a skeptic when you feel so out of place. But everyone was really nice and most were excited to see such an obviously new person participating.

Once we deboarded and got to the top of the hill, I remember staring in awe at the nocturnal view from the corner of Fairview and Kingston. The lights from the city looked warm and welcoming below, and as I stared down on them with a certain fascination, I realized why these folks gather here and ride every Sunday—Portland is the goal. It’s as if the mini bike is a synecdoche for the city itself; small, simple, flamboyant, original, and a hell of a lot of fun.

Now, amid a group of forty amped-up cyclists, rocking back and forth in anticipation, ready to jet down a hill with Hermes-like speed, it suddenly dawned on me that I was one of them. If only for the four-minute flash in the dark, I was part of this.

During Zoobomb’s seven-year lifespan, the size of the crowd has increased. The record number of people to bomb at one given time is one hundred and twenty. Imagine a flood of a hundred and twenty people deep, rolling down a hill in the dark. I went with a group of around forty. I’ve been told that’s average. “It's a lot more than just riding little bikes down hills. There's a whole community behind it now,” exclaims Bridge. True, the movement has expanded, but the number participating is not the only thing that has changed in recent years, the bikes have changed too. From what I’ve gathered, riding began with the basic, tattered kid’s bikes you might find at a garage sale for a couple bucks. These days, Bridge explains how the standard mini set-up for speed will have, “high pressure tires, alloy rims, a free-wheel in the back instead of the standard coaster brake, and if you're feeling crazy, a set of drop bars from a road bike.” A good tuck will greatly help with your speed.

Speaking of speed, Bridge and fellow Zoobomber Gabe Tiller managed to nab the bronze and silver medals in the Gravity Sports World Championships held in Maryhill, Washington, last year. This puts them in the top three fastest downhill bike riders in the world. If it wasn’t for the Zoobomb, this accomplishment might not have been possible for them.

As I raced down the hill at speeds unheard of on a child’s bike, I lost sight of speed-demon Bridge and was soon among no one familiar. Gripped by the strobe of street lights, the cold snap of the wind teased snot from my nose, and my muscles locked with a constipated expression on my face. I squinted through the dark as I leaned into curves, struggling not to give in to the urge to squeeze the brake, shoulders positioned like I was drilling the road. The air smelled of leafy burn piles and hours-old rain. As I accelerated, all sound meshed together in one long buzz. Occasionally the tinnitus silence would halt, and a few whoo-hoos and yee-has echoed in all directions while a late starter would zip past me at forty miles per hour as his distant yell climaxed and faded with the wind.

The experience was much like the time I lost my virginity. It only took about four minutes and I had no idea what I was doing. It was difficult to place the way it made me feel, or perhaps the way it left me feeling. I was overcome by a profound disorientation, as if I had been hypnotized by a ray of light and willingly boarded a UFO. Without time passing, I was wandering the streets, punch-drunk, and vaguely remembering the events that led me there. Much like my first real encounter with a woman, the memory will last a lifetime and has thus inspired further investigation. I’m proud to say I popped my Zoobomb cherry.

Shortly after I had arrived home, I began researching bike parts online. Zoobombing, despite how ridiculous it sounds, possesses a surprisingly addictive, liberating quality. I suggest you try if you have a free Sunday night. See you on the hill.

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Dave McAlinden is a senior attending Portland State University. Dave enjoys a cup of Tetley's Tea every morning. His favorite animal is the Otter. He is twenty-five years old.

From Tokyo With Love: Designing Connections Across the Pacific

Written by Patrick McDonald
Edited by Eric Gold

It’s the first Thursday in March and Portland’s Compound Gallery is hosting a Japanese wake. The smell of incense emanating from the shrine built in the center of the gallery is thick, but the traditional offerings of sake and rice have been replaced by spray-paint can caps and what appears to be trucker speed tablets. Black and white, the traditional colors of a Japanese wake, or otsuya, dominate the art on display. Mounds of salt, a traditional symbol of purification and good luck, are heaped on the floor of the room’s four corners, tea is being served, and attendance is good. The three artists, who arrived from Japan only four days ago, couldn’t look happier.

Tenga, Shohei, and Imaone, a trio of graffiti and graphic artists from Tokyo, devised the theme of a wake as a way to explore ideas they couldn’t at home. Shohei’s drawings depict sharp, realistic images of people being shot, captured right after the moment of impact. He says that he has always found Japanese funeral rituals to be beautiful, but too dark and sad. He wanted to exhibit his work, which is exclusively in black, white, and red, in the clean, ceremonial environment of an otsuya, but without the usual somber connotations. He says Portland allowed him the freedom to present his art in a way that he couldn’t in Japan.

Located in Old Town, Compound Gallery has become ground zero for Japanese artists to show their work in Portland. Curated by Matt Wagner, Compound has hosted numerous openings, often giving artists their first show in the states. “There’s still a big buzz in Japan about showing your work in America,” says Wagner. “It’s become more of a prestigious thing to show your work here. America is still viewed by many Japanese people as being the source of all things cool.”

But for the Portlanders visiting the otsuya show on First Thursday, it was the Tokyo designers that had everyone talking. The biggest buzz was about a piece that wasn’t even for sale: a four-panel, collaborative, floor-to-ceiling mural the artists created in the gallery space in honor of the show. It integrated the work and styles of all three artists and took them three fourteen-hour days to complete—they put the finishing touches on it just before the opening.

There’s evidence that Portland’s fascination with Japan is a two-way street. On the last Thursday of every month, in the Aoyama and Omotesando neighborhoods of Tokyo, art galleries, restaurants, and bars feature the work of local artists and designers. The event is called “Last Thursday”—in English—just like the Alberta Street event here in Portland. Last September, in the middle of an annual citywide five-day international design showcase called Design Week, there was an evening dubbed “Portland Night.” In attendance were Portland artists and musicians such as DJ Gregarious, as well as representatives of some of Portland’s more iconic local businesses, such as the Ace Hotel and Stumptown Coffee Roasters. There are plans for another Portland Night during Design Week this year and a similar event is in the works for Portland called “Tokyo Night.”

Much of the synergy between the two cities can be attributed to the efforts of Tokyo design guru Teruo Kurosaki. Neither a designer nor an artists himself, Kurosaki has been at the forefront of establishing trends and tastes for Tokyo design for several decades. He owns two design retail chains, Idee and Sputnik, which introduced many Japanese people to Western designers such as Philippe Starck and Jasper Morrison. He also launched the career of international designer extraordinaire Marc Newson when he hired the Australian to design chairs for Idee. In 2000 Kurosaki created Tokyo Designers Block, modeled on London’s designersblock, which is now an event that has incarnations in Milan, Frankfurt, and Stockholm. The idea, in each case, is to take streetwise designers and allow them to show their work in a non-corporate environment. The result was something reminiscent of a street festival, with mini-events happening in over two hundred bars, restaurants, and galleries in the Aoyama and Omotesando districts. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Kurosaki sits atop a design empire—an empire that is currently promoting Portland Night and Last Thursday events in Tokyo.

It might be tempting to think of this as simply a marketing ploy, a way to boost tourism, a way to draw attention to the nonstop flights to Tokyo that now leave PDX daily—in short, a rather convenient way of promoting the Portland and Tokyo brands to each city and making a little money in the process. And that might not be entirely wrong. Travel Portland, an independent public relations firm the city hired to boost tourism and press coverage of the city, has signed on to be a sponsor of the next Portland Night in Tokyo, and several other local businesses will also be sponsors. However, people in the design community might not be so cynical. They have been forging these connections for years.

High-profile Portland companies, such as Nike, have opened up offices in Tokyo. The internationally renowned Portland-based design firm Ziba has offices in Tokyo as well. Advertising juggernaut Wieden+Kennedy opened their Tokyo office in 1998, and five years later launched W+K Tokyo Lab, a music label whose purpose, according to the company web site, is “all about being in Tokyo now and using the power of the city to attract the most creative collaborators from around the world.”

John Jay, Wieden+Kennedy’s executive creative director, splits his time between Portland, Tokyo, and Beijing and shares Kurosaki’s desire to build a bridge between Portland and Tokyo. His latest venture is Ping, a Japanese-style izakaya restaurant in Chinatown, right across the street from Compound. Jay urged mayor Sam Adams to take a peek at 798 Art Factory during the mayor’s trip to Beijing in September. Blogging about his impressions, the mayor noted, “John Jay thinks that Old Town/Chinatown can be a hot spot for Asian contemporary culture and art.... I see why John Jay sees a fit for modern Asian art and culture in Portland: quirky, weird, and wonderful. And no other U.S. city has a ‘lock’ on it.”

In 2005, Jay and Kurosaki held a public discussion about the need for greater creative interchange between the two cities. The next year, the Pacific Northwest College of Art hosted a day-long symposium called Tokyo Flow, in which Jay and Kurosaki were joined by representatives of the fields of product design, graphic design, architecture, publishing, advertising, and art from both sides of the Pacific. The purpose of the meeting was to examine the way Japanese culture flowed eastward to America and the impact that it had on Portland’s design community. For those in the field, the connection was already clear. Paola Antonelli, Senior Curator of Architecture and Design at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, who attended the 2006 symposium, said that “Portland has become the direct bridge with Japan.”

Kurosaki is a frequent visitor to Portland and sees the independent culture of the city as a source of inspiration. One of his many projects in Japan is the Ikijiri Institute of Design, where he encourages his students, many of whom are already successful professionals in another field, to pursue their dream of living a creative life. In a culture in which the image of the salary man looms large as a role model, Kurosaki offers his students something entirely different—freedom and independence. To show his students what this can look like on a large scale, he brings his graduating class to Portland every year. This past year he brought over thirty of his students, who sampled First Thursday events and attended backyard bar-b-cues at the homes of Portland artists.

Writing for a New York Times Style Magazine column last year, Kurosaki said that the implosion of the Japanese economy “cleared the way for a new generation of influencers who shunned the business card uniformity of Japan Inc. and instead proudly wore the badge of independence.” That independent spirit seems to be what draws Tokyo artists to Portland.

Matt Wagner hosted one of these backyard parties. “I think he wants them to snap themselves out of the typical Japanese mold,” Wagner says of Kurosaki and his students. “One of the reasons that he likes Portland is because of its independent spirit. I think he wants to show them that it’s okay to go do this back in Japan.”

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Patrick McDonald is a writer and high school English teacher. His is a contributing author and editor of Classroom Publishing: A Practical Guide for Teachers, which will be published by Ooligan Press in Spring, 2010. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

Breaker, Breaker 503: Unearthing the Portland Breakdance Scene

Written by Anvi Bui
Edited by Max Kramer

From aspiring rappers to hopeful painters, Portland has solidified itself as grounds for nascent artists who are pursuing their path towards prominence and glory. Among this melting pot of creativity lies an underground culture that was seemingly lost into the recesses of the early nineties: breakdancing.

When first introduced to the word “breakdancing,” one’s mind cannot help but evoke the images of high-top sneakers, track suits, cassette player boom boxes, and, of course, cardboard. But in the wake of recent pop culture media that highlights and heavily promotes dancers to display their talents as entertainers, a new level of appreciation for the seemingly lost art of breakdancing has been renewed. In discovering that breakdancing still exists in the new, fast-paced contemporary world, I became entranced by the notion of breakdancing in Portland. Did it exist here? Was there an underground culture of individuals who still had an appreciation for dancing in one of its rawest forms? Or had it faded out in the nineties, along with bomber jackets and Pez dispensers?

Moon Patrol, and Beyond
Having known Hieu Pham for the last seven years, I knew that my friend would be the perfect source to elaborate on the current state of breakdancing. He is a breakdancer and has devoted himself to the craft for over nine years ago. Sitting in the back of the Metropolitan Instructional Support Lab at Portland State University, sheathed under a heavy jacket and woolen cap, Hieu Pham looks more like a college student than anything else. One would never imagine that only weeks before he was immersed in a mob of his brethren, breakdancing in front of hundreds of cheering fans.

Pham is a member of Moon Patrol, one of Portland’s more prominent breakdance groups (or “crews,” as they’re colloquially known among the breakdancing community). Moon Patrol ‘s founder is Pham’s older brother, Duy Pham. What started out as a group of high school students learning and teaching breakdancing in the restricted section of the Benson High School auditorium soon flourished into a resurrection of the lost art of breakdancing. Moon Patrol has traveled to Arizona and California to battle in prominent nation-wide breakdancing competitions, like the Vegas Shakedown, and at one point Pham was even offered a trip to France to breakdance in competitions there. “It’s crazy. I guess we have kids in Portland who look up to us now,” says Pham, who is known within the dance community by his B-Boy name, Impulse. “They also know us in Washington pretty well, too.”

The kids that Pham is referring to are what he considers a new wave of breakdancers within the city, created from the newfound acceptance and glorification of breakdancing in the media. With shows like America’s Best Dance Crew, Pham has seen what he says are, “a lot of new faces at the battles.”

Breakers in the Rose City
Though labeled by different names in the community (Breakdancers, B-Boys/B-Girls, or Breakers), every one of these gifted individuals has always done the same thing: dance. In the 1980’s, early breakdancers would dance to soul tracks. As styles of music have progressed over the years, disc jockeys continually advance into different genres of music for breakers to dance to. Pham typically practices breakdancing while listening to funk and soul, and recently he has begun breaking to old salsa tracks. He says that he enjoys the way it provides a good break (beat) that allows him to dance. Today, breakdancers tend to dance to songs in which the hip-hop producer takes samples of original hip-hop songs and incorporate it into their own. “People ask me why I don’t break to new hip hop songs. The short answer is I do… but just to the original songs,” says Pham.

Moon Patrol normally goes to their local 24 Hour Fitness to practice their breakdancing craft. The days and hours that each member attends vary, but there are typically other breakdancers there to practice with. 24 Hour Fitness is also a popular practice location for other local breakdancers, along with Parkrose High School and various dance studios around downtown Portland. However, Portland State University campus remains the most popular grounds for Portland dancers to practice. Pham recommends that people interested in breakdancing (or those attempting to meet other breakdancers) should convene here, as it is always full of breakersof every skill level.

Ready, Set … Break!
Countless hours and days of practice get put into action for the B-Boy’s ultimate gathering: a breakdance battle. These battles vary in terms of location and mood. Although many formal battles occur in gymnasiums, warehouses, or dance floors, they can also occur wherever two breakdancers want to showcase their moves to one another. “Portland B-Boys know most of the other Portland B-Boys, that’s usually how they start or join a battle,” says Pham. “You won’t just see it in some corner shop.”

As the city’s premier location to practice breakdancing, PSU also plays a role as a regular spot for breakdance competitions. At PSU, these competitions are hosted by a local breakdancing crew named Def Con 5. In Gresham and Hood river, a prominent breakdancer dubbed Oskar regularly holds competitions, breakdancer Rob from the dance crew Hardwood Heroes hosts competitions at Parkrose High School; and even Pham’s older brother Duy is known for hosting breakdancing competitions at Reed College in Portland.

Although his older brother is his greatest inspiration, Pham listed off a few dancers who he has been watching. Jeromski and Remine are great local breakdancers, and Massive Monkeys are very prominent in the Seattle breakdance community, as well as internationally known. A new local crew that he’s currently observing is the Rhythm Bandits. “These kids, I can see the passion in their performance. They work really hard, but [to them] they’re just dancing, you know?”

Breakdancing Defined
The most difficult thing about being a breakdancer is the time and dedication it demands, says Pham. “You really need to keep that fire going.” That fire, he says, is the feeling that is given to him during one of his dance battles. Practicing forces him to sacrifice a lot of his leisure time, but it all pays off when the dancing begins. “The music, the lights, and all of those people with their eyes on me, watching me dance, cheering, that moment makes all of my practicing pay off. It gives me an adrenaline rush. It’s like being on a high,” says Pham.

To explain what breakdancing means to Portland, Pham describes the breakdancing environments experienced in different cities. Northwest trained breakdancers chiefly concentrate on free breakdancing, in which the breaker essentially listens to whatever music is playing and dances to it as he/she sees fit. He says that California breakdancers focus on being explosive and entertaining to their audience. And, when asked how he felt about the East Coast breakdancer style, he says, “they’re all about being cocky and getting in your face.” But Portland B-boys, “We just listen to the music and dance.”

***

Anvi Bui was born and raised in Portland. She is a communications major/writing minor at Portland State University and hopes to pursue a career in journalism. When she's not in school or working at Vibra Specialty Hospital in Northeast Portland, she is usually spending time with my Doberman, Malachi.

Bringing Back Nine to Fashion’s Front Line: Local Designer Unveils Menswear Collection

Written by Rosario Rieger
Edited by Jeni Stembridge

The music is bumping, and hundreds of bright lights land on a bamboo runway. A hunky model struts by the photographers—he’s wearing grey corduroy pants and a fitted navy blue knit sweater, detailed with white polka-dotted shoulder patches. The audience cheers while cameras flash, capturing Daniela Tarasut’s sexy menswear collection.

Four years ago, if you had asked Portland native Daniela Tarasut if she thought she would ever show at Portland Fashion Week, she would have laughed. Tarasut enrolled at the Art Institute of Portland with little idea of what she wanted to focus on within apparel design. Now, at age twenty three, she has created Back Nine—an edgy, hip men’s collection that debuted at Portland Fashion Week last year.

Last year, when several independent eco-labels from around the world launched their collections on the eco-friendly bamboo runway of the Pearl District’s 14 Square building, Tarasut was lucky to be one of the thirty five designers to show at this prestigious venue.

Usually, in order to show at Fashion Week designers need to apply, but one of Tarasut’s teachers at the Institute asked her to show her menswear collection in October 2008. “She had faith in me,” says Tarasut.

Portland Fashion Week is the second longest-running fashion week on the west coast. It arrived in 2003 and proved that Portland’s fashion scene was something to notice. Exposing independent designers to consumers, buyers, and national press, it is a fabulous way for newcomers like Tarasut to be introduced to the public.

Portland’s fashion scene tends to be fairly eclectic. Plaid shirts, running shoes, leather boots, and vintage jeans all go hand-in-hand here. It can range from hipster to bohemian, eighties glam to Ralph Lauren. People have a lot of freedom to wear whatever they please - mixing, matching, and layering are common among Portlanders, all of which Tarasut embodies in her collection.

During the beginning stages of creating a menswear collection, she took to the streets of Portland to find inspiration. While she was searching for a theme, she noticed a mannequin in a downtown golf shop. “I liked the idea of toying with golf-inspired clothing,” she says.

The menswear collection Tarasut created is 1920s golf-inspired, with a splash of modern sensibility and a bit of Portland’s eclectic style thrown in. “I wanted the clothes to be sleek and hip, with different mismatched patterns and prints,” she says. “I think it reflects Portland’s diverse fashion sense.”

Tarasut also drew inspiration from her childhood. When she was young, she spent much of her time with her grandfather, who was a Romanian tailor. He would often tailor her clothing as she grew older, and she found that she became fond of his style. “My line came from my admiration of my grandfather and his clothing,” she says.

The Back Nine fall collection features thirteen pieces, many of which are made from corduroy, various knits, and wild prints. There is much attention to detail, particularly in the pocketing. “My clothes are casual weekend wear,” she says. “They are for any young man who likes tailored, chic clothing with a lot of quirkiness.”

However, she is just starting the long and challenging road of making a living off of her passion. “Competition is always an issue,” says Tarasut. She has faced many challenges in creating her collection, especially making a living. “It’s so challenging,” she says of trying to sell her clothing to local Portland retailers. She has been mainly targeting shops in southeast Portland, particularly on Hawthorne and Belmont streets. “I’ve learned that you have to have a mind for business, not just for design.”

The life of an up and coming fashion designer is not always an easy one. Tarasut has spent the past year designing, sewing, showing, and promoting Back Nine. But, despite the hardships involved with pursuing an artistic passion, she remains optimistic. “I’ve never worked so hard in my life,” she says. “But it’s worth it.”

***

Rosario Rieger was born in Recife, Brazil, and grew up in Gresham, Oregon. She has a passion for film, psychology, fiction writing, and her friends and family. She is currently attending Portland State University and majoring in Psychology. She plans to attend graduate school and become either an social psychologist or a therapist.

Minor Disappointments: Being Underage in Portland

Written by Jennifer Nelson
Edited by Angie Frank

A year and a half ago I made the journey many Americans make at some point in their lives. I gave my family a hug goodbye and moved away from home. I spent the whole morning crying at home so that I wouldn’t look like a two-year-old in front of my parents at the airport. I packed up my life in two huge duffel bags and flew from Minneapolis to Portland.

I only knew a few people out of the 575,930 in this new city, but my goal was to go out often and meet a vast variety of punks, hippies, and homeless people. However, the image of Portland I had created in my mind was extremely different from reality. I was nineteen years old and ready to party, but I quickly learned that going anywhere that serves alcohol in this town when you are under the age of twenty-one was going to be a problem.

In Minneapolis, if you are under twenty-one and at a pub, music venue, or dance club that serves alcohol, they just put a mark on your hand and don’t allow you to obtain a wristband. I thought that all cities would be the same. I wanted to go out and see what kind of nightlife Portland had to offer.

The other students who lived on my floor at our PSU dorm would constantly ask me if I wanted to go out to the bars with them. A new pal I made invited me to see his friend play a live show, but it was in a bar in Southeast. I figured out that the best way to decide whether or not I should go was to ask if it was a twenty-one-plus show.

The answer was always yes.

This past summer I was invited by a friend, who I had met through school, to go to Jimmy Mak’s. I wanted to meet a group of new people and listen to some really good jazz music. Again my immediate response was, “Is it all-ages?” My friend had to call a bunch of people only to find out that it was twenty-one plus and I was devastated. It’s hard to meet people in a new city when they all go do things you’re legally not allowed to do. I would end up going to a coffee shop or watching a movie at home, which is nice, every once in a while, but can get boring fast. I quickly learned that this was going to be much more difficult than expected. No, not just difficult, completely unachievable.

Due to my frustration with the limitations put on my social life, I decided to do some research on the Oregon Liquor Control Commission (OLCC). I went to their website and found the mission statement which says, “OLCC’s policy will focus on public safety and community livability considerations when guiding alcohol beverage system growth. OLCC will meet potential customer demand for alcoholic beverages and outlets in a socially responsible manner.” This is a great mission and seems reasonable. I just wish it were a little less ambiguous.

The OLCC wants to help “guide alcohol beverage system growth”? Does the system not include clubs and bars that are also music venues? If they want the system to grow, they would gain more money by allowing minors to attend events at these venues. According to the Federation of Tax Administrators, Oregon is one of eighteen states where the government directly controls the sales of distilled spirits, while a state like Missouri pays $2 per gallon in taxes on their liquor. Even a large city like Chicago only charges an extra tax of $1.85 per gallon.

First of all, venues would be making more money due to the increase of attendees. By allowing people of all ages into these kinds of establishments, there would be a boost in revenue and one could find a more diversified gathering. Venues, bars, and pubs could easily use “x” marks, wristbands, or other means to identify who is or is not allowed to be drinking. This would create an efficient way to distinguish between the different crowds and make more money for the establishments.

Second, it is possible to have an all-ages or an eighteen-plus show whose focus on public safety is high. That’s why venues have bouncers. Like any other venue, the people working there are trained in keeping the environment safe and friendly, and are able to distinguish when something might get out of hand. One’s safety is always in jeopardy when out at night in the city. A person who is twenty-seven could be incredibly drunk at a concert and start fights with people, endangering the lives of others just as easily as a drunken nineteen year old.

Minors know it’s illegal for them to be drinking, but they’ll do it anyway, whether it’s in public or not.

So the OLCC is kind of a drag. People who legally cannot buy liquor are also kept out of the wonderful music scene Portland has to offer. I just turned twenty-one after living in Portland for over a year and I feel a sense of freedom. I can finally go places and do whatever I want without being turned away for being a minor. All the cool jazz clubs I couldn’t go to and cheap movie theaters are available to me now at any time of my choosing.

Seriously, a three-dollar movie, and you have to be twenty-one to see it at the McMenamins Mission Theatre in Northwest Portland! Let’s say you want to see Twilight (rated PG) or Quantum of Solace (rated PG-13) for three bucks, but can only go during the evening due to school or work. Well, too bad, because the only movie you’re getting into is the one at 5 pm on Thursday, which is Yes Man, starring Jim Carrey, and it’s awful.

When I first found out about the Mission and their three-dollar movies, I told a friend of mine about it and we decided we had to go. We’re both from Minnesota, and in my hometown there is a theater that charges two dollars to view second-run movies. It’s an actual movie theater, and anyone can get in. My friend and I were planning to go see a movie at the Mission, just assuming we could get in as well. Neither of us had a lot of money and were running out of ideas for things to do during the summer.

The day we wanted to go see a movie I went to the Mission’s website to make sure what time it was playing, and discovered most of their movies were twenty-one plus. With our plans now crushed, my friend and I ended up sitting around watching a horrible movie about vampires starring Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, and Antonio Banderas. It could be one of the worst movies I’ve seen to date.

Oh, did I mention that if you’re a minor and can’t attend the twenty-one-plus shows, but want to go to the movies shown earlier in the day, you have to be attending with a parent? How do you suppose I, a nineteen-year-old, get a parent to go with me when they live across the country? This is just asking for more minors to break the rules, especially rules that don’t make sense.

So, the OLCC needs to change a few things, such as getting rid of the “no minors allowed on these premises” rule. In hard economic times like these, venues should be looking for ways to get more people in their doors. Kids in Portland have a strong passion for the music scene and not a lot of money. If they can scrounge enough up to get to the concert it is unlikely that they’ll have enough money to buy themselves drinks, seeing as how expensive liquor is in Oregon. If the OLCC actually went in and changed some laws allowing minors to be in venues that serve alcohol and the venues agreed to abide the law, everyone would win in the end.

While I may not be affected by these regulations anymore, it still concerns me because everyone should have the ability to experience all of the social aspects throughout the different districts in Portland. I love the nightlife and scenery this amazing city has to offer. The only issue I have is with the OLCC because it is extremely dated. The committee was created after the appeal of prohibition in 1933, and the old-fashioned sets of rules are simply asking minors to revolt. While I believe the rules prohibiting minors to drink alcohol are valid, I think those regulations can still be applied at all-age shows.

Ever since I turned twenty-one, half of the restaurants I go to don’t even card me. I sit down with my two bearded friends, order a beer, and don’t even have to pull out my beautifully colored and metallic Minnesota driver’s license (which I love to show off). Now that I am twenty-one, I walk around like the city like I own it because I am no longer in a position to ask whether or not I am old enough to go somewhere. And it only took 252 months.

***

Jenny Nelson is a junior at Portland State University, majoring in communications and minoring in writing. She is working incredibly hard on graduating within the next year in order to explore the world and have new cultural experiences to share with everyone.

Parsley and Plunder: Tales of an Urban Garden

Written by Kelley Dodd
Edited by Matt Schrunk

I rounded the corner of my building to find a father and his young daughter picking flowers in my garden. As he reached for my one and only lily, I hollered, “Wait! Please don’t take that one.” Someone steals that lily every year without fail.

A flash of guilt and embarrassment crossed his face. “I’m so sorry,” he said as he offered my flowers back to me. “I didn’t think anyone lived here.”

“That’s okay,” I said unconvincingly. “It happens all the time.”

My dream is a two-acre cottage garden—or maybe a potager since I’m more attracted to the French countryside than dreary England—with a stone house and some chickens.

My reality is a concrete warehouse in downtown Portland.

It is difficult to say exactly how I got here. My dog, Ollie, and I were living a perfectly happy life in my Northeast Portland home. We had a big, private backyard with room for raised beds, perennial borders, a grape arbor, and enough lawn for the big dog to romp.

Then my man, Andy, bought a warehouse in Goose Hollow—a hidden neighborhood close to downtown that is populated with old Victorians, college housing for Portland State students, and small rental houses. I went to check out his new purchase, took a look around, and said, “Good luck with this, doll. Come visit when you want to return to civilization.” Less than two months later, I rented out my house and moved in.

For the first six months in the warehouse, we were under construction. I was so busy putting up sheetrock and painting that I barely noticed we had soil along the south side of the building. But by June, my gardening jones kicked in, and I went outside to size up my plot.

Andy helped me clear the weeds and trash from the parking strip and the adjacent two-and-a-half-foot swath of land between the sidewalk and the building. The soil was rock-hard, but we kept digging. During the excavation phase, we unearthed buckets of glass—mostly broken beer bottles—but we also found a little treasure. We filled a bowl with all the marbles that were buried in the dirt, and I uncovered an unusual looking coin. After a little investigation, I was happy to discover that we were in possession of an 1891 Seated Liberty dime worth about four bucks on eBay. Our efforts were already paying off.

I’d never created a garden from scratch—only molded an existing garden to suit my taste. I was in the unique position of executing a vision. Except that my vision didn’t include thin ribbons of soil and a monstrous, pea green wall for a backdrop.

I first made two raised beds for vegetable starts and planted some herbs. I took my best friend’s advice and added roses—a cottage garden classic. I built rebar trellises to support the climbing roses and clematis, and incorporated spring bulbs, lavender, iris, peonies, and delphinium into my garden plan. That first year, there was plenty of space for annuals—cosmos, zinnias, snapdragons, pansies, and I left a few holes for tomato cages among the flowers and herbs.

I paid particular attention to plant varieties and sizes. It had never been much of a concern before, but now I looked for vertical, arching growth. Nothing could mature at more than three feet wide, maybe four if I kept it pruned back or allowed it to overflow onto the sidewalk.

Who knew the site would be ideal for a garden? Even in that first year, we had loads of flowers and vegetables—lettuce, tomatoes, dahlias, huge sunflowers, cucumbers—and best of all, we didn’t have to mow the lawn.

My favorite part of the day was getting home from work and taking a garden stroll—usually with a glass of rosé in one hand, the hose in the other. I’d walk up and down the sidewalk checking out new growth and taking note of vegetables that were almost ready for harvest.

As the season progressed, I met several people who told me they went out of their way to walk by the garden. Our neighbors were grateful that we’d “transformed the garbage dump on the corner,” and I was thanked for my beautiful flowers and hard work. I would find myself in lengthy discussions with passersby about plant varieties and aphid deterrents as I was watering or weeding. From inside the warehouse, we’d see people slow down to smell a flower or examine a bloom.

Then my first ripe tomato was swiped. We had poachers, but it didn’t stop at the tomatoes. My shrubs were trodden, flowers ripped at the stem, pots smashed. Poor parallel parkers, crashing skateboarders, and car doors have all taken their toll.

One afternoon, I looked out the office window and saw a woman bent over my herbs—too close to just be admiring my mint. This time I was going to catch someone stealing from my garden red-handed. I ran out the front door and rounded the corner. There she was holding a huge bouquet of parsley in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other. I stood there dumbfounded—she’d whacked the whole plant down to the ground. She just smiled, waved the bunch of parsley at me in a gesture of thanks, and continued up the sidewalk. I looked down at the damage—yet another casualty in my urban garden.

I came to dread the weekends—Saturday nights especially—as the destruction rate increased with the alcohol consumption of the students who lived in the high-rise across from us. One morning I spotted an eight-foot sunflower that had been uprooted and discarded halfway up the street.

I felt betrayed and violated. The garden was beloved by many, but just one careless or selfish person could do so much damage.

Still, the garden has survived the onslaught year after year, and despite everything, it’s thriving. The roses and clematis spill from their trellises. The perennials have mingled and woven together to form a long line of color up the sidewalk. There’s less room for annuals, but I always save space for the tomatoes.

The vandalism has continued. The building was tagged a couple of times. Dogs poop in my lettuce and pee on my parsley. We learned to anchor the potted plants or weight them with rocks so they’re too heavy to cart off.

We also learned how to share. Last fall I was cleaning up the garden—removing the spent annuals and dried up foliage—when one of the transient guys who frequents the neighborhood came by. He was sorry to see that I’d pulled out the tomato plants—he admitted that he’d been taking them all summer and was looking forward to those last green ones still on the vine. At least he was honest. Most people weren’t so considerate.

After six years, I’d finally become resigned to expecting a certain amount of loss. Then last year, we experienced a new twist in our garden saga. People started leaving “gifts.”

The first thing to show up was a perfectly spaced row of tiny sand dollars lining the edge of the lettuce bed. Then larger sand dollars dotted the soil. Clearly, someone in the neighborhood had gone to the beach.

The anonymous gifting escalated through the summer. Someone, perhaps new to glass blowing, left broken glass sculptures—colorful, swirling pieces that fit beautifully among the flowers. A kitschy figurine of cooing owls appeared, carefully placed between the strawberry pot and the yellow columbine. I imagined one of the college kids shopping for dorm furniture at Goodwill and buying it as a joke. I found it endearing but also a little creepy, and I was relieved when the owls were swallowed up by the maturing foliage.

We got candles, a fairy-princess wand, a broken drumstick, a plastic turtle, a ceramic sake flask, dozens of cocktail mermaids hanging from stems and vines, and doll-sized china dishes, set up for a tea party.

I don’t know why the garden was being decorated, but I prefer to think of it as a token of appreciation. Nor am I sure which was the bigger test of my inner control freak—the theft or the gifting. But I decided the little additions beat the hell out of having my stuff stolen.

I’d like to think that as the years have passed, I’ve matured along with the garden. When I started this project, it didn’t occur to me that I was sharing a public space. But I’ve come to accept the inevitable annoyances of having an urban garden. I remind myself every spring when the irresistible red tulips surface that flowers will go missing and footprints will stray through the beds. I’ve also learned a lesson about supply and demand and increased my tomato crop. I should definitely plant more lilies.

It has been a long—and often painful—journey learning how to forgive flower thieves, squatting dogs, tomato snatchers, and pot smashers. But as the gardening season approaches, I’m eager to start digging, and I look forward to the surprises that await.

***

Kelley Dodd is a designer and sometimes writer living in Goose Hollow with her husband, Andy, and their dog, Ollie. Her garden isn't much to brag about at the moment, but just wait until June. She can be contacted at krdoddpdx@gmail.com.

Getting Thrifty With It: Cheap Is Chic in Tough Times

By Lauren Saxton
Edited by Michelle Blair

It’s a lazy Portland Sunday. My roommate and I are headed to Hawthorne Street toting a pair of her gold flats and a few other unwanted items. We are in the mood to revitalize our wardrobes, but we, along with most of our generation, along with most everyone, are broke. Broke, but resourceful. We have spent the morning emptying our closets of unwanted items. Clothes that have been taking up valuable room, that have run their course with us, but could find a new home in the closet of another. We pile these into bags and haul them up Hawthorne. The plan–turn our clothes into cash.

I am surprised to see the flats in my roommate’s resale bag. Gold metallic Dolce Vita flats with a square toe and a simple feminine bow. I was with her when she first saw them glimmering on the mannequin in the Nordstrom window. I watched her eyes light up as she coveted them. Only a week later I accompanied her downtown where the time she took from try to buy was almost instantaneous. I can’t say I was the devil’s advocate as she reasoned with herself that they weren’t too out of her price range (they were) and that she would wear them all the time (she didn’t). In fact, I believe I fawned over them as well, gushing that they were adorable and perfect on her and agreed that since she had made extra tips at her waitressing gig that week, they weren’t unreasonable at all. That was then.

After narrowly missing two rounds of terminations at work due to cutbacks and riding out the rise in everything from gas prices to food costs, my roommate has changed her idea of reasonable. So have I. The Nordstrom windows are far from our reality today, and we find ourselves happily crossing the threshold of thrift store doors more often.

Thrift, or second hand, is a tried and tested form of shopping. More than sixty vintage, thrift, consignment, and resale stores are listed on www.shopvintageportland.com in the Portland-metro area, not including such donation mainstays as Goodwill and Salvation Army. Google lists the number of Portland resale shops in the hundreds. The range of these stores is wide and not only dedicated to clothing. Shops like Lounge Lizard and Deco to Disco, both located on Hawthorne Street, deal in vintage midcentury to modern furniture. Antique jewelry and art can be found at a variety of Portland shops such as Avante Guard Vintage and ReRun, while Smut on Southeast 28th Avenue is the place to find all kinds of used trinkets, like a collection of Garbage Pail Kids or a lightly worn Choose Your Own Adventure book. Vinyl is also sold there, as well as in a dozen or more shops dedicated solely to record resale.

On this day, we walk into Buffalo Exchange on Southeast 37th Avenue and Hawthorne and realize we are not alone. The line to resell clothing is ten people deep. Some people have garbage bags full of items. This bright, recession woe beating idea has occurred to many more than just us. According to Sarah Sherman, a manager at the southeast branch who has worked at a variety of Buffalo Exchange shops, this surge is not uncommon. “This store has been around for a long time,” she says, “I feel like particularly in this town, everybody knows about it.”

With a southeast and a downtown branch, the shop is no secret. Buffalo Exchange is now popular nationwide, having originated in Tuscon, Arizona, in 1974 and just recently expanded to the east coast and New York City. According to Sherman, the Hawthorne shop has been in business for more than twenty years. The success of Buffalo Exchange has led to the opening of other resale chains like Red Light, which opened its doors in Portland in 1999 after a successful start in Seattle.

“We have a really diverse clientele,” Sherman says of the shop’s patrons. “We are shopping for moms, teenagers, punk kids, skaters, jocks—a little bit of everything.” She notes that they look for fashions that are in line with trends in retail. “Within any of those little subgroups we are trying to stay current.” A burgeoning culture of dedicated vintage shoppers thrives in Portland and adds to the diverse resale clientele. These patrons are usually looking for fashions that resemble a certain period or older trend. “There are a lot of people who are really into vintage thrift store stuff,” Sherman says. “People who don’t necessarily want to go to a Goodwill and dig. It is almost like we shop for them.”

Resale shopping is a popular trend in part because it can benefit the environment. Sherman hears people say they feel like they’re making a positive difference. “People feel good shopping here,” she says, “We are pretty involved in the community.” Buffalo Exchange offers bins to donate any items they don’t buy to charity. If you opt not to take a bag for your purchase they will donate five cents to a charity. Local causes such as Animal Aid and Oregon State Parks Trust routinely benefit from these proceeds.

The Red Light, just across the street from Buffalo Exchange on Hawthorne is also aware of the positive environmental effect resale shopping can have. On their website they quote the Environmental Protection Agency in saying, “An estimated 11.8 million tons of textiles were generated in 2006, or five percent of total municipal solid waste generation.” The Red Light adds that “buying and selling used clothing keeps it out of landfills!”

While the positive effect on the environment is a definite benefit of the resale scene, the positive effect on the wallet is the driving force behind the shopping trend. Once buyers determine how much your item might sell for, you can get 35 percent in cash or 50 percent in trade for your item at the Buffalo Exchange. At Red Light, the trade value is emphasized at 55 percent. “We have seen a lot more people selling recently,” Sherman says of the economic climate. “Since the economy took a dive people are really interested in getting money, but people are still interested in getting recycled fashions at a good price.” Regarding whether to choose cash or in-store trade, Sherman adds, “It is still pretty even, but I think a lot of people are looking for the money.”

According to a U.S. Census Bureau report, retail sales for January 2009 are estimated to be 11 percent below those reported in January 2008. This trend is evident in the number of empty store fronts appearing in neighborhoods all over Portland, as well as cities and towns across the nation. Adele Meyer, executive director of the National Association of Resale and Thrift Shops and author of A Guide to Opening A Resale Shop, describes the resale industry as one of the few recession-proof segments of retailing. She notes that the resale industry often does better, even thrives during an economic downturn. “People always love a bargain,” Meyer said in a USA Today interview, “Nowadays, it’s just more necessary.”

Although this necessity is apparent in the crowd of shoppers at Buffalo Exchange this Sunday, Sherman says this recession has been different, worse than others. “We didn’t think we would be [negatively] affected by it,” Sherman says of the recent economic woes. “We typically do really well through recessions. We have taken a small up and down, but it has been sporadic.”

The line winds down to us, and I watch as the buyer picks through my items with a discerning eye. She prices a few items and pitches them into a basket behind the counter. The rest is packed into my bags and handed back to me—it is my choice to donate the remainders to charity or to try my luck at another resale shop. Figuring that in this economy someone out there certainly has it worse off than I, I drop my remaining items in the donation bins. At the checkout counter I get in line to obtain my newly earned cash, listening as the seller ahead of me also opts for cold, hard cash over the 50 percent trade incentive. She has a baby in a stroller and a toddler gripping her pants. Beside the stroller sits an overstuffed garbage bag. It looks as though most of her items didn’t make the resale cut. There are rents to be paid and mouths to feed. I glance back into the shop and see my roommate in the shoe section looking at a pair of flats oddly similar to those she just traded in. Those unwanted gold flats were scooped up, priced, and tossed into the bin to be distributed on the selling floor. My roommate’s scrap is sure to be another’s score.

***

Lauren Saxton manages a medical publication at Oregon Health and Science University, but likes to moonlight in the literary world during her time off. When not at Portland State University scraping together a master's degree in publishing, Lauren might be found at a Portland coffee shop with her head in a book or skimming the racks at a thrift shop looking for clothing to reconstruct.

It’s Green at the Top: A Small Ecoroof Makes a Big Impact

Written by Michelle Blair
Edited by Lauren Saxton

I stood in the pouring rain as it turned to snow remembering what a co-worker told me when I first moved to Portland fifteen years ago, “You’re not a real Oregonian until you don’t carry an umbrella.” Arianne Newton and I inspected the green sedum and dormant grasses that covered the garden shed roof. “Forty children worked on making this roof a reality,” she told me, brushing the accumulating snow from her hair and jacket. The ecoroof tops a circular shed made by students at Trillium Charter School on Portland’s east side. The shed is used for storing supplies for the school’s vigorous gardening program and is a tool in itself; a permanent example of alternative and sustainable building practices.

Newton, a longtime teacher at Trillium, led the charge for the planning and building of the structure. “The shed on the school’s garden plot is constructed nearly entirely of natural, organic and reclaimed materials,” Newton explained. The structure is cob–an ancient building technique using a combination of earth, straw, sand and water–built from materials Newton scavenged from construction sites around town. The roof edge and frame are reclaimed sawed timber. The only new materials are the waterproof membrane and metal edging.

What started as an educational endeavor, soon turned into a community project and a neighborhood asset. To Newton the structure is, first and foremost, a teaching opportunity for the students, “The lessons are so encompassing because there’s so much to talk about. We use the shed to talk about sustainable choices and sustainable models.” The children learn about culture and history, seed propagation and soil chemistry, space planning, wildlife, stormwater runoff, streams and sewage systems. Those who participated in building the shed experienced first-hand what it means to be part of a community when local Marylhurst University architecture students helped plan the structure, neighborhood businesses donated time and materials, and friends, family, and neighbors stopped by to help see the project to fruition. This tiny garden shed teaches a much bigger lesson to both students and adults and sends a clear message to the community that small projects can have substantial impact.

As Portlanders, we are accustomed to looking up and seeing gray, but green? According to the Bureau of Environmental Services, rooftops account for about 20 percent of the surface area in the City of Portland. An ecoroof replaces a traditional roof with two to five inches of special soil planted with hardy, drought-tolerant plants and is not generally intended to be accessed for public use. Both the Hawthorne Hostel and People’s Food Co-op in the southeast neighborhoods are sheltered under partially green rooftops that are visible from the street. Other ecoroofs are positioned on office buildings, government buildings, apartments and academic buildings around town, but are hidden from pedestrian view. Currently six acres of Portland rooftops are ecoroofs, making it the leading city in the North American pack in green roof initiatives. From a regulatory perspective, the city makes it easy and attractive for builders to consider ecoroofs as an environmentally friendly alternative to traditional roofs (which reflect heat and produce storm-water runoff). Portland even provides grant money for individual residential homeowners to help offset the cost of a new ecoroof.

The positive environmental impact of ecoroofs means that the current buzz around the alternative structures is more than just a passing fancy. An ecoroof can retain 10 to 35 percent of rainfall during the wet season and 65 to 100 percent during the dry season, significantly reducing stormwater runoff. Additionally, ecoroofs filter air, insulate buildings, reduce the impact of urban heat islands, replace green space lost to building footprint, provide habitat for insects and birds, buffer noise, eliminate glare, and last up to two times longer than traditional roof systems. Even small areas dedicated to vegetation are important. “I have seen green roof mailboxes, it can be done,” says Laura Bauer of the Peggy Notebaert Nature Museum in Chicago whose building won a Green Roof Award for Excellence back in 2003. “It’s those little spots of manmade surfaces, you cover them with green, you add them all together, cumulatively that can make a difference.”

If you don’t have a roof to support vegetation, or you can’t summon the time and energy to make it happen, you can still make a positive environmental impact by starting small. Here are a few ideas to get you started:
1. Green-up your patio or balcony by creating a container garden. Herbs, grasses and succulents can be grown on any surface or in pots on a small balcony. Your potted garden can still catch rain, filter the air and even help reduce the surface temperature.
2. Replace manmade surfaces around your home. Consider dirt paths or use materials that allow rain to filter through while not reflecting heat back into the environment.
3. Create a rainwater collection system to harness the runoff from your roof. Use that water to irrigate your yard, garden and container plants.
4. Replace your downspouts with rain chains. These allow rain to drip down the chain and percolate into the soil, rather than rushing out into the storm drain pipe in the street.
5. Grow a garden. Start with a small plot of vegetables and grow outward. While you are at it, start a compost pile from the food you consume daily and use it to fertilize your plants.
6. Make it a party. Invite some of your best buds over and get a little dirty greening up your yard or outdoor spaces.

As for that little structure in the garden at Trillium Charter School, it certainly is the little shed that could. While I stood in their garden, sans umbrella, peering out from underneath my dripping hood and pondering the impact a small roof might make, I noticed the steel and concrete building next door. Rain water poured through a downspout, onto the parking lot, streaming past my muddy boots and onto the street. The little garden shed roof didn’t leak a drop.

Layer by Layer
As the children at Trillium Charter School proved, an ecoroof can be an achievable do-it-yourself project. First, be sure your structure can safely handle the extra weight (20-30 lbs/sf) by having it evaluated by a professional engineer, architect or roofing specialist. With proven structural integrity and a building permit from Portland’s office of Planning and Development Review in hand, you’re ready to begin. Here is a breakdown by layer:
Layer 1: Waterproof membrane. Many material options are available, even a pond liner will suffice.
Layer 2: Is actually an edging. Sloped roofs especially require a border to keep the soil in place. 1”x6” cut lumber works for this purpose, or metal edging as used by the Trillium School.
Layer 3: Depending on your choice of material for the waterproof layer, a drainage layer may be necessary (though not usually required for sloped roofs or small flat roofs). This can be manufactured, such as Amerdrain filter material, or even a layer of gravel.
Layer 4: The next layer is growth medium–an engineered blend of soil, pumice and nutrients, depending on the plants being used.
Layer 5: The soil is topped with vegetation, usually drought tolerant succulents such as sedum, herbs and grasses. Note that some weeding may be necessary in the first year or two until the plants are established and completely cover the surface.
Cost: Ecoroof costs can vary widely depending on the structural integrity of the roof, the slope of the roof, the types of plants and materials used. Generally, to replace an existing roof with an ecoroof system, the price can range from six to forty dollars per square foot. According to the City of Portland Bureau of Environmental Services the saving are noticeable on a long term scale. “Although ecoroofs initially cost more than conventional roofs, they are competitive on a life-cycle basis because of reduced maintenance and replacement costs.”

***

Michelle Blair is a freelance writer and graduate student in Portland State University’s Writing/Book Publishing program. She and her eight-year-old son enjoyed tromping through the snow and mud, without umbrellas, to examine Trillium’s grass-roots green roof project and are already planning ways to green-up their brick patio come springtime.

Big Kid Fun: One City’s Trash is a Skateboarder’s Treasure

Written by Joshua Stohl
Edited by Dave McAlinden

In giant letters spreading across a concrete slab, a welcoming mat to this hidden gem in north Portland, are the words "Big Kid Fun." Throughout this dismal, blemished, burn-marked factory, over two dozen people have scattered about. Teenagers smoke cigarettes along the massive piece of concrete while a dozen skateboarders dominate the handmade skate park within the condemned factory. This place is not your average commissioned skate park. In fact, the seven various ramps were hand-constructed using buckets of cement, dirty Willamette River water, and mounds of garbage used as solid backing between the walls and the ramps. There are microwaves, toaster ovens, railroad spikes, and pieces of chain-link fence which protrude from behind the ramps, giving this spot a charm unlike any other.

Clad in black, youth tightly grasp Pabst and Miller High Life cans while Iron Maiden blares from a cheap boom box. The sounds of hard wheels echo through every room of the warehouse. Vacant doorways lead to various graffiti-cloaked rooms. Above the skaters, a tiny ledge no more than a foot wide stretches along the wall where three murals dominate from end to end. The smell of aerosol floods the place as graffiti writers paint upon a concrete canvas among onlookers.

Near the skate session sits a giant room that looks out over the railroad tracks and upon the river. The floor is littered with beer cans, garbage, and dozens of paint cans while the wall is saturated with graffiti nearly reaching the forty-foot ceiling. One wall displays the anxiety of rock climbers who’ve attached climbing grips, belay hooks, and chains in order to climb to a circular opening below the ceiling. Within the opening is a board allowing people into the bleak smokestack that towers through the abandoned factory. Parts of its exterior are pierced with cracks that run side to side and top to bottom, portraying decay and destruction. Stains of black smoke run along the outside window frames where only rusty steel plates hang in solitude.

The other evening I was able to go down to the warehouse with one of the skate park founders, Jeremy Wilkerson. It was freezing in the darkness so the two of us shook with cold spasms. As we approached, Wilkerson pointed out the giant gate that blocks vehicles from driving down to the factory; how he and his friends had previously clipped the security gate’s lock with a pair of bolt cutters replacing it with a combo lock allowing them the only access to drive down. “Now they snapped our lock and put their own lock back on,” Wilkerson said as he laughed at the sight of a new lock.

Just weeks earlier Wilkerson and friends were able to drive down a generator to power spot lights and a home stereo so they could skate in the dark with music. “That’s why we put our own lock on,” he says.

At age twenty, Wilkerson has been coming down to this seedy, lead-infested area for the past ten years. Even though he knows the area like the back of his hand, Wilkerson looks uneasy as he talks. It’s just the two of us in the condemned warehouse, tape recorder in my one hand, flashlight in the other. With only one flashlight I can’t seem to keep my sights focused on him because of the ceaseless paranoia. He points to the roof above the ramps to show me sunroofs that his brother sealed with greenhouse tarp. “My brother climbed up to the roof to cover the gaps,” he said. They serve as ample rain protection so skaters can skate when it’s raining.

“Me, my brother, and my friend Thomas came up here the first night and started pulling railroad ties in here to back the ramps with,” says Wilkerson. They simply wanted their own place without city rules, and not even the junkies, the security, or the large amount of garbage stood in the way of making that happen.

Wilkerson and his friends began construction nine months ago. “We spent a good five or six hours laying down cement. We spent so much time down here getting in the works of a ramp,” he says.

Before the locked gate was in place, Wilkerson and others would drive down with cement and put in work almost every day to complete the skate park. “People have been coming down here for ten, fifteen years, and it’s been nothing. It’s been exactly the way it is right now without ramps. We’ve always talked about building ramps here.”

“The first time we tried, we got half of the ramp done and some kids came and knocked it down. Our second attempt we got twenty bags of cement, slapped it all up there. We had shovels and stuff to smooth it out. We got a bunch of our other buddies to come down and they put up some money for some concrete and we all just mixed it together. We had like five or six guys getting water from the river in buckets.”

Wilkerson is clearly adamant about this place. “We built it. It’s so cool to know that we’re the ones that started this.” The skate park really came about as a strong desire to have their own personal spot without the nuisance of young kids, spectators, and police. “We wanted a place of our own to call our own. We have our own scene here. Best buddies type of thing,” says Wilkerson.

Within the last couple of months, skaters have been showing up in large numbers every day. “It turned into this legendary skate spot. Everybody knows about it,” Wilkerson explains how there was even an article in the St. John’s Sentinel about the spot.

According to Wilkerson, the warehouse was a foundry used to build boats for World War II. As we walked through the factory, I swear I saw figures lurking in the dark. This place is the “Number one sketch spot in north Portland,” Wilkerson said. The statement felt genuine as we walked to a frightening staircase that led underground beneath the factory. “Do you want to go down there?” He amusingly asked. The truth is neither one of us has any desire to explore the underground dwelling.

The public safety of the University of Portland and the Portland police don’t seem to have a problem with Wilkerson and his friends. Every time they come down they simply ask the crew to leave. “It’s always been respectable between us and them,” he says.

No one has ever gone to jail or been cited a ticket as far as Wilkerson knows, making this place an exception to the rule. Even though it’s private property and was purchased by the university two months ago, countless people still come down to drink, paint, and skate. “If the university didn’t buy this place, we would still be putting ramps in here. It’s our spot,” Wilkerson said.
I was able to speak with John Furey, associate director for media relations at the University of Portland, who told me they planned to “demolish the existing structures and secure the property until they further developed it.” Despite these plans, a new lock, and a new chain link fence with razor wire, Wilkerson and others have no intention on fleeing the area. In fact, even though the “big kid” lot will eventually be leveled, Wilkerson smiles with contentment. He knows that the skate park could not have existed without his work and the work of close friends. “We put over a thousand dollars into this place,” he says.

As we wandered about the staircase, my flashlight only allowed fifteen feet of visible light. Murals and darkness surrounded us. The cold air stabbed our hands like daggers while paranoia punished our senses. Out of nowhere a bright flash of light struck our eyes and disappeared. Gripped by silence, we tried to find the source but failed. It was all too obvious we were not alone.

“I told you this place was sketchy,” Wilkerson said.

Despite the University of Portland buying the area to expand their campus with possible athletic fields, buildings, parking, and playing spaces, Wilkerson and friends continue their big kid fun while making sure it remains legendary, allowing the youth a place to momentarily prevail among the adult world. “People from British Columbia and California know about this spot,” he says. With a smirk of satisfaction, Wilkerson hints at an idea of another secluded area that he and friends plan on transforming once again with sweat, grime, and the DIY fashion.

***

Josh Stohl likes to explore the grit and grime life has to offer. This journey has enabled him to write for a variety of publications including newspapers and online magazines for the past five years. He writes about subcultures not necessarily known by the public. When he finds one, he likes to immerse himself within them. If it wasn’t for his English teacher in junior college, he would have never fallen in love with writing. He doesn’t ever want to be anybody else in life. You can read more about Josh at his blog, Stay Gold.

Hat Fancy: A Southeast Portland Museum Dedicated to Headwear

Written by Angie Frank
Edited by Jennifer Nelson

Upon entering the Hat Museum, you can’t help but feel slightly anxious at what is about to be seen. Will you be entering some haunted house filled with old hats, or will you be viewing a prim and proper historical museum where hats are encased in glass boxes? Well, thankfully, the scene is a little bit of both worlds. Kitschy, yet historical, the Hat Museum is an experience unlike any other. The museum, which is nestled in the historic Ladd’s Addition of Southeast Portland, houses a collection of over nine hundred hats, the largest collection of hats in North America (the only other museum that contains a comparable number of hats is located in the United Kingdom).

Tiaras, fedoras, berets, homburgs, caps, and any other hat you can think of in every imaginable shape, color, and design are placed on mannequins, in glass cases, and on various antique tables and other furniture through out the house. The tour is a ninety-minute long adventure where guests are trotted through various rooms of the house to see hats from movies such as Chicago and Gangs of New York. What makes it special from other museums’ in the Portland area is its extensive collection of rare hats and its founder, Alyce Cornyn-Selby.

Cornyn-Selby, the curator and founder, is an integral part of how the museum came to fruition. Cornyn-Selby greets guests and gives the tour dressed in a long, black velvet skirt and jacket, with a ruffled shirt peeking out. She, of course, wears a big flowered hat on top of her head, positioning herself as the official mascot of the museum. Cornyn-Selby, a motivational speaker and author of eight books, including Hit the Road, Procrastinator’s Success Kit, and Why Winner’s Win, lived in the house for more than thirty years, beginning in the mid-1970s. She spent extensive time renovating and trying to keep the original house intact.

She also began filling the house with collectibles she loved, including most notably hats, along with mermaid figurines, antique furniture, shoes, and purses. Cornyn-Selby began collecting hats, she says, because she felt that they were the ultimate fashion accessory and a necessity to her everyday life. “I love hats,” she states affectionately, adding that a hat is a perfect accessory to any outfit. Her core belief in the power and greatness of hats even extends to her motto on the Hat Museum’s website, which says that one can find love with the help of a hat: “Wear a hat that you love and love will find you. Wearing the right hat will get more attention than a personal ad.”

The love of hats and the love of the home is a predominant theme that is echoed throughout the museum. Cornyn-Selby maneuvers guests through a web of rooms filled with hats, antique furniture, and other treasures beginning in the would-be living room which houses hats from as early as 1860. Classic pictures of Diane Keaton, Queen Elizabeth, and Jackie Kennedy wearing hats are scattered throughout the museum, along with adages such as clothing designer Christian Dior’s famous comment, “Without hats, we would have no civilization.” Cornyn-Selby struts through the museum pointing out the beauty and necessity of all the hats, even as you silently question the practical need for an automated Thanksgiving table hat (with music and all). Zebra, flowered, leopard, velvet, manly, and dainty hats fill the rooms and hallways of the three-story residence where picture-taking isn’t allowed (the flash can bleach out the hats) but questions are welcomed.

Cornyn-Selby’s affection has even extended to keeping the original structure of the house intact. The historic Ladd-Reingold house was originally owned by William Reingold, a local businessman, and his wife, Rebecca. The lavender colored house surrounded by trees and bushes sits near the edge of the historic Ladd’s Addition roundabout that is the centerpiece of the area. The Reingolds first built the house in 1910, where Rebecca Reingold, a trained milliner, made hats and raised their children. Rebecca’s milliner training is an integral part of what the house has become today. Pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Reingold still inhabit the house, and Cornyn-Selby has worked hard to keep the family’s history and the original construction a part of the museum.

The former home-now-museum, Cornyn-Selby points out, still has its embedded quirks, like the doors that are hung backwards and the secret hiding places. The rickety floorboards and staircase are kept to remind guests that this place was once a home. The house and the tour is set up like a hall of mirrors, but instead of seeing yourself, you’re seeing a home stuffed with amazing and colorful hats. It is clear during the tour of the museum that Cornyn-Selby takes pleasure in what the house has become. The eclectic atmosphere of the museum is as much of a testament to her as it is to hats.

In addition to seeing the nine hundred-plus hats, visitors are also given an array of interesting facts by Cornyn-Selby. People initially wore hats to keep their hair clean because shampoo had not yet been invented. The Edwardians believed that if they went to bed with wet hair, they would die. Hats, however, have more recently developed into more than a necessity, but a fashion accessory as well. The hat industry continues to thrive today, with hats still being used by top fashion designers as well as the masses, which is emphasized in the museum tour. So next time you put on your crocheted beret or your worn baseball cap, remember that seemingly useless fashion accessory could save you from the elements while simultaneously making you look stunning. One way to really learn this is to visit the only place in the U.S. that actually shows it.

The museum is a literal celebration (and bombardment) of all the things that can be situated atop one’s head. The odd, automated hat with a rabbit popping out of its top is just as cherished as the vintage, Victorian era hat encased in a glass box. The tour, which needs to be arranged in advance and costs ten dollars, gives its guests not only a chance to view the extensive assortment of hats but also teaches the necessity and history of hats in general. Its oddball premise and its fervent cheerleader, Cornyn-Selby, make it a must-see, not only for visitors to the area but also for residents of Portland.

-Address: 1928 SE Ladd Ave. Portland, OR 97214; for reservations call (503) 232-0433

Angie Frank is a self-proclaimed genius on all things cinematic and carbonated. She hopes to use this knowledge to pursue a career in journalism.