Willamette Week, December 16, 2020 - Volume 47, Issue 8 - In The Surge by Willamette Week Newspaper

"It used to be horrible, helping people find that Paul McCartney Christmas song." P. 19 WWEEK.COM

VOL 47/08 12.16.2020

NEWS: Armed Campout at Red House. P. 7 FOOD: The Grind Line. P. 21 PERFORMANCE: Scrooge McDrunk. P. 28

SURGE

WILLAMETTE WEEK PORTLANDâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NEWSWEEKLY

Three nurses describe life and death during the worst week yet of the pandemic. By Rachel Monahan Page 12

IN THE

HEATHER ROSE

ICU NURSE

What do Oregonians do when their neighbor needs a little help? They help. If you or anyone you know, needs help with their energy bill, just call PGE at 503-228-6322 or visit portlandgeneral.com/covid19.

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FINDINGS MICK HANGLAND SKILL

MAD HANNA, AKA HANNEX GENERAL STORE, PAGE 22

WHAT WE LEARNED FROM READING THIS WEEK’S PAPER VOL. 47, ISSUE 8 Even if you’ve had COVID, now is not the time for a naked Twister party. 4 Portland’s annual traffic deaths reached a 24-year high. 7 A detective investigating police use of force is himself under investigation for his use of force. 8

Ursula K. Le Guin received an

offer to model leggings for a clothing company two years after her death. 18

A Portland artist made tiny cloth masks for each of his 400 vintage Santa figurines. 19 Hipcamp is like Airbnb for privately owned farmland. 20

The owners of Hua Li House were billed $350 in property taxes for a food cart they couldn’t operate. 9

“Grind” is Hawaiian slang for “eat.” 21

Activists scattered Czech hedgehogs on North Mississippi Avenue to defend the “red house.” 10

A Cully dive bar pandemic-proofed itself by turning into a part-time general store. 22

In early December, 45% of people tested for COVID-19 at the Mid-County Health Center in Gresham were positive. 13

Someone in Yamhill called the sheriff on journalists Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn and accused them of being “antifa

People with severe cases of COVID suffer from “agitated delirium.” 14

ON THE COVER:

arsonists.” 24

Actors in an online performance of A Christmas Carol will be forced to take shots of booze at the audience’s request. 28

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For decades, Willamette Cove, a 3,000-foot stretch of beach in North Portland, has been closed to the public due to toxic waste contamination. Now, the Metro-owned beach is due for a cleanup. The Oregon Department of Environmental Quality has recommended burying most of the hazardous waste onsite and fencing off portions of the area. That conflicts with the hopes of North Portlanders who want the waste hauled away and the beach turned into a public park. WW profiled neighborhood advocates pushing Metro to invest in a full cleanup, which would cost $1.9 million more than the DEQ’s $8.8 million recommendation. Here’s what our readers had to say: Just doing the Math via wweek.com: “Difficult to believe this was an issue. Then again, I guess it takes a united and publicized outcry to ultimately shame Metro into doing what is right for the environment and the neighborhood.” Jack Weber via Facebook: “Living downstream of Portland sucks. I can catch a delicious bass, I just can’t eat it if I do, thanks to the PCB level in fish in the Multnomah Channel. Burying this filth does no good, as evidenced by the pollution levels in our native wildlife!” Thedeadtext via wweek.com: “How the eff is $2 million the hill they want to die on to have a chunk of useless land vs. a waterfront park? Christ, I hate Metro.” Tomescu Mohr via Facebook: “This is absurd. When you make a mess, you clean it up.”

Dr. Know

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Adam Marshall Moore via Facebook: “An important aspect to keep in mind when it comes to ‘cleanup’ is that the contaminated soils have to be stored somewhere. Portland received all the economic benefits from the dirty businesses and practices that polluted the property. Do we now send those polluted soils somewhere else for other people to deal with in the future? Both building a cap around the pollution or transporting it to a sanitary landfill still have risks, though who is at risk changes.” Sally Bone via Facebook: “Gosh, Portland, how many years has the Willamette been waiting for that industrial cleanup? The Environmental Protection Agency released a report in 2017 after the plans were put on hold for years.” Blind Ivan via wweek.com: “If that beautiful beach looking across at the hills had a wealthy neighborhood above it on the bluffs, this wouldn’t be an open question. It would be cleaned up. Do it and do it right. Give a resource to the people of North Portland.” LETTERS TO THE EDITOR must include the author's street address and phone number for verification. Letters must be 250 or fewer words. Submit to: 2220 NW Quimby St., Portland, OR 97210. Email: mzusman@wweek.com

BY MART Y SMITH @martysmithxxx

My partner and I are recovering from COVID. When we’re all better, is there any reason we can’t host a maskless makeout party for everyone we know who’s also had the virus and recovered? The damage is done, right? —Cabin Feverish I imagine one of the toughest things about being a public health official—aside from being expected to listen politely while sixth-grade dropouts tell you smallpox was a hoax—is constantly having to inform people that stuff they like is bad for them. Whether it’s smoking, staying drunk for a week, or having unprotected sex in the back of a cop car, for every joy in life it seems there’s a concerned expert ready to take away the meth bowl—for our own good—just when the party is getting started. Unfortunately, staging a naked Twister tournament for 200 of your closest friends right now falls in that category. Probably. It’s not entirely clear, because right now no one really knows how long naturally acquired immunity (the kind you get from having the disease) will last. “This virus has only been with us for about a year,” says Multnomah County health officer Dr. Jennifer Vines, “and we’re still learning about questions like what happens when you are infected again [and] how long you are protected after infection.” 4

Denise J. Poole via Facebook: “The government should haul the contaminants off, not leave them there to leak sometime in the future.” Katie Robinson via Facebook: “People became wealthy while they created the pollution. Why aren’t the people who became wealthy ever held accountable for the cleanup of these sites?”

To people who think it’s prima facie obvious that all immunity must be for life (I’m looking at you, Sen. Rand Paul), recall that common colds are caused by coronaviruses (albeit less virulent ones) and we get those over and over. At the moment, opinions—even those of experts—vary as to how serious a problem reinfection may become. (The scientific method may be the best thing we have going for us as a civilization, but reaching clear, unerring conclusions with blinding speed is not exactly its strong suit.) “So far, reinfection with the virus seems to be rare,” says Vines, “and the cases that are reported are of mild illness, not worse.” That said, if you are reinfected with a mild or asymptomatic case and you’ve stopped taking precautions because you’re Rand Paul, you could be infecting the rest of us without knowing it. I understand your rebellious, self-destructive itch, Feverish—do I ever—but for now you’ll have to scratch it the old-fashioned way, by staying drunk for a week. See you on Zoom! QUESTIONS? Send them to dr.know@wweek.com.

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CITY FINES “BLACK LIVES MATTER” SIGN OWNER: Just off Interstate 5 at the Columbia Boulevard exit in North Portland, motorists are presented with a 42-foot-long “Black Lives Matter” sign on the front of an industrial building at 866 North Columbia Blvd. Somebody didn’t like the sign and, on Nov. 23, filed a complaint with the city’s Bureau of Development Services. On Dec. 10, BDS fined owner David Gold $292 for violating the city’s sign code—the BLM banner, bureau determined, is too big and was installed without a permit. BDS spokesman Ken Ray says that before citing Gold, the bureau notified him he’d need to remove the sign or apply for a permit, neither of which Gold did. “The Bureau of Development Services reviews permit applications and enforces the city’s sign code without regard to a sign’s message or content,” Ray says. Gold isn’t happy. “With all of the current protest signage and all other problems facing Portland,” he says, “it’s unbelievable that city resources are being used to fine political speech.” LET’S GET A ROUND OF SHOTS: The first shipment of COVID-19 vaccines arrived Dec. 14 in the state of Oregon, a watershed moment marked with little fanfare. Other states announced the arrival of the plane delivering the vaccine (California) and/or administered vaccines in front of the press (New York, Ohio, California). Oregon officials didn’t announce the vaccine’s arrival for more than four hours. Oregon Health & Science University officials announced plans to vaccinate health care workers beginning Wednesday, Dec. 16. They also laid out the way they will decide which workers get it first: “We are further prioritizing health care workers who are physically present and necessary for patient care who are 55 or older, who self-identify as members of the BIPOC community and/or who have a self-disclosed medical risk factor, as defined by the [Centers for Disease Control and Prevention],” says a news release from OHSU.

“TINY” TOESE TO BE RELEASED EARLY FROM JAIL: Tusitala “Tiny” Toese, a regular at Proud Boy rallies in Portland and Vancouver, Wash., is scheduled to be released from the Multnomah County Inverness Jail on Dec. 21. Multnomah County Circuit Judge Kathleen Dailey sentenced Toese to 181 days in jail Oct. 20 for violating his probation agreement by, among other things, leaving the state where he lived, Washington, without permission to attend a protest in Portland this summer. Toese’s sentence was reduced to 121 days with credit for time served during previous jail stints dating back to October 2019, plus an additional 30 days of “good time” credit for completing an in-custody work program, says Chris Liedle, a spokesman for the Multnomah County Sheriff ’s Office. NEW LIFE FOR HOPEWELL HOUSE: Cash gifts could well mean hope for Hopewell House, a pioneering end-of-life center in the Hillsdale neighborhood closed by Legacy Health in September after 30 years of operation. About 10,000 people have died there over three decades and another 9,000 received care there before returning home to die. The closure left Portland without a hospice—so a group called Friends of Hopewell House set out to buy the 12-room structure from Legacy. Earlier this month, real estate investor Joe Weston gave the group $500,000, which came on top of $500,000 from Priscilla Wieden, whose husband co-founded the city’s leading ad agency, and $1 million from the Marcia H. Randall Foundation. The group hopes to reopen Hopewell House and is still raising money through a crowdfunding campaign. With Weston’s gift, the Friends made Legacy a bid. “We have received a proposal from FOHH to purchase the land,” says Legacy spokeswoman Vicki Guinn, “and will evaluate that proposal over the next month.”

NEWS

MEAN STREETS: Road deaths are up in 2020.

That’s the number of people killed in Portland traffic so far in 2020. With two weeks left in the year, 2020 has eclipsed the 50 traffic fatalities in 2019. Last year’s figure was the deadliest year on Portland streets since 1996, when there were 59 traffic deaths, according to the Portland Bureau of Transportation. The high number of 2019 deaths prompted hand-wringing at City Hall and a pledge to redouble multimillion-dollar efforts to reduce traffic deaths. Despite the COVID-19 pandemic cutting car travel by 20% to 30% for much of the spring and summer, 2020 was worse. The most recent traffic fatalities occurred Saturday, Dec. 12, when both a driver and passenger of a vehicle died after another car T-boned them near the Wilkes neighborhood, according to the Portland Police Bureau. The driver was arrested after initially fleeing the scene. “One year does not make a trend, and we all know that with the COVID-19 pandemic, 2020 has been a unique year, with a unique impact on travel patterns and our society more broadly,” says Dylan Rivera, a spokesman for PBOT. “We are taking a close look at the fatal crashes that occurred on Portland streets this year to see what potential patterns may emerge that might help inform the public about what they need to do to travel safely.” City Commissioner Chloe Eudaly, who oversees PBOT, is disappointed the city hasn’t moved forward with a basic step: spending the $15 million the City Council approved in June 2019 for fixed speed radar cameras, which have proven successful at reducing speeds here and around the country. Eudaly points to a persistent problem, what she terms the “glacial pace” of the city procurement process. “Despite significant investments from PBOT in traffic safety improvements, without a commitment from other bureaus and the Oregon Department of Transportation, and inadequate enforcement from PPB, traffic fatalities continue to rise,” Eudaly tells WW. “Radar cameras are an effective, nonbiased and safe approach to traffic enforcement.” Eudaly is frustrated the city hasn’t put the money to work. “The procurement process was set to take eight months and is now seven months overdue,” she says. “I realize the shutdown has impacted all our bureaus and priorities have shifted, but this is an urgent need. 2020 traffic fatalities will meet or exceed last year’s death toll. It’s heartbreaking to think lives have been lost due to lack of enforcement and an inefficient bureaucracy.” TESS RISKI and NIGEL JAQUISS.

BRIAN BURK

WESLEY LAPOINTE

THE BIG NUMBER

FINDINGS

Spare Change Multnomah County prepares to approve a plan to spend homeless services money—with a few wrinkles. BY N IGEL JAQU ISS

njaquiss@wweek.com

In May, voters approved Metro’s novel $250 million-a-year tax to tackle chronic homelessness by providing services— from addiction treatment to help with job hunting—to houseless people, along with putting a roof over their heads. Since then, the region has descended deeper into the COVID-19 pandemic. Multnomah County Chair Deborah Kafoury, one of the measure’s biggest backers, notes that the pandemic appears to have worsened homelessness. “You only need to go outside to see there’s a crisis,” Kafoury says. On Dec. 17, Kafoury and the Board of County Commissioners will vote on a plan to put the tax money to work. We checked in with her and other key stakeholders to see how plans to get the money on the street are progressing. When is the money going to hit the streets? Not until July 1, 2021. Local governments, including the city of Portland and Multnomah County, sometimes borrow against anticipated tax receipts. Given the crisis on the streets, some people would like to see that. Kafoury recognizes the urgency of the situation, but she says borrowing would not be prudent. She wants the Joint Office of Homeless Services to have time to ensure the money is spent as effectively as possible. “We’ve had to do really extensive community outreach,” Kafoury says. “We’ve been asking, how should the money be spent and what should be the priorities? That has taken a while.” Kafoury and Marc Jolin, director of the joint office, say service providers are stretched to their limits already and that not everything they’ve done in the past has worked, so the solution isn’t as simple as just adding more money to the current response. “There’s going to be an expectation that we can solve homelessness in a year or two,” Kafoury says. “It’s taken us a long time to get here and is going to take us a long time to solve this challenge.” Another issue: Metro has told Multnomah County to expect only $52 million of its projected $100 million alloca-

CHRONIC CONDITIONS: Multnomah County commissioners will vote this week on a plan to implement Metro’s homeless services measure.

tion next year. That’s more conservative than state revenue forecasts, which show high-income earners and large companies that will pay the Metro tax are mostly thriving. Metro spokesman Nick Christensen attributes the lower number to “some code changes and some possible delays in collections associated with the launch of a new tax.” Does everyone agree where the money should go? Not exactly. For the past couple of months, what’s called the “coordinating board” of A Home for Everyone, the larger board that directs the joint office, has hashed out four drafts of Multnomah County’s local implementation plan. The plan focuses heavily on addressing historic racial inequities in housing and talks about the need to build capacity in culturally specific nonprofits. That’s always been a part of the spending plan, but it wasn’t a central selling point to voters. City Commissioner Dan Ryan, among others, has pushed to keep the focus on mental health and addiction services, which county data shows are the leading disabilities among chronically homeless Portlanders. “There has been creative tension,” Ryan says. “The first draft was weak in terms of supportive services—which is what voters voted for.” Kafoury and Jolin say the focus on racial equity is required by Metro—and an imperative because of the overrepresentation of people of color among the county’s homeless population. “Racism and homelessness are inextricably connected,” Kafoury says. “The majority of our providers have been white organizations that are successful serving white people but not people of color.” How is Multnomah County doing compared with the other two Metro counties? One of the eye-popping stats in Multnomah County’s draft implementation plan is that although the county comprises 46% of the population in Metro’s jurisdiction, it provided 90% of publicly funded homeless services in the region last year. In other words, Washington and Clackamas counties are shirking their responsibilities. Both counties are moving more slowly than Multnomah—they’ve let Metro know they won’t have implementation plans until spring. Jolin says he believes the other counties are working in good faith and as fast as they can. “There is an explicit understanding of the regional nature of the crisis,” he says, “and of the importance of all three counties contributing their proportionate share.”

BLACK AND WHITE IN OREGON: The state isn’t tracking the demographics of student debt. ‚ Visit wweek.com for more. Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

NEWS DOUG BROWN

TWO JOBS: Detective Erik Kammerer, shown here policing a Portland protest, also investigates homicides.

Desk Duty

Detective Erik Kammerer is investigating a police shooting while being investigated for his own use of force. BY L ATISH A J E N S E N

and

TE SS RI S K I

503-243-2122

A Portland police officer under investigation for allegedly using excessive force during protests has a puzzling assignment: He’s a lead detective on last week’s shooting of a Portland man by U.S. deputy marshals. The officer who’s both being investigated and leading an investigation? Detective Erik Kammerer, whom three eyewitnesses identified to WW in October as “Officer 67,” the cop who hit a Black homeowner in the head Sept. 5 and shoved at least three other people at protests this year. Mayor Ted Wheeler’s office confirmed the officer wearing that number has been removed from the Rapid Response Team, the unit that polices protests. City officials won’t formally confirm Kammerer’s identity, and he continues to perform his other duties. Those duties include investigating homicides and shootings by police officers. Court records show Kammerer has played a key role for at least a decade in grand jury proceedings to determine whether other police officers were justified in using deadly force. His latest assignment? On Dec. 8, the U.S. Marshals Service announced Kammerer is one of two detectives who will investigate the wounding of Jonathan Crowley, 31, by deputy marshals in North Portland. Portland police confirmed to WW that Kammerer is one of the lead detectives on the case. In other words, a police officer who was removed from street duty because of allegations he used too much force will help determine whether another cop was justified in pulling the trigger in a recent shooting. Longtime critics of the Portland Police Bureau say that’s outrageous.

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

“There’s no reason why you need to put a detective on a serious case where stakes are very high when there’s smudge marks on his record,” says Jesse Merrithew, a criminal defense lawyer in Portland who has observed Kammerer’s previous testimony. City Commissioner Chloe Eudaly, who is departing City Hall next month after losing a reelection bid, agrees. “Personnel protocols in the Portland Police Bureau are woefully inadequate. Removal from street duty is not—in my opinion—a satisfactory response to Detective Kammerer’s well-documented violence toward protesters,” Eudaly tells WW. “I hope that the next council is able to solve the contractual barriers to police accountability that we currently face through the upcoming police contract negotiations.” Wheeler, Commissioner Jo Ann Hardesty, and the Police Bureau all declined to comment. Kammerer has not responded to requests for comment on this story or previous stories about him. A review of court records shows that Kammerer, a 26-year veteran of the bureau with an annual salary of $112,881, is not merely a riot cop whom protesters say they avoid. He plays a key role in Portland criminal justice— both in the city’s response to demonstrations and in the legal consequences for fellow officers who kill. Kammerer is a squad leader of the bureau’s Rapid Response Team, court records show. That means, until WW’s story last month, Kammerer was in charge of commanding 10 to 15 officers on the team’s “Delta Squad,” instructing them to deploy tear gas and other riot control munitions. He also served as an intel officer on the bureau’s Special Emergency Reaction Team, at least until 2019. (It is unclear whether he is still assigned to SERT.)

“As a Squad Leader I am charged with ensuring life safety, allowing and protecting free speech, protecting critical infrastructure and preventing property damage, including subsequent looting,” Kammerer wrote in a July 4 declaration submitted on behalf of the Police Bureau in a federal lawsuit. Kammerer has been a homicide detective for the bureau since 2007. That job includes responding to the scene of murders and interviewing witnesses. And it means Kammerer has played a role in exonerating police officers who fatally shot Portlanders. He has regularly been called as an expert witness in Multnomah County grand jury proceedings dating back to at least 2010. Court records indicate Kammerer has testified in grand jury proceedings for several fatal high-profile officer-involved shootings, including those of Aaron Campbell, Keaton Otis, Quanice Hayes and Andre Gladen. In some of those proceedings, Kammerer provided testimony that may have contributed to officers’ exoneration. For example, Kammerer gave expert testimony to explain why the officer who fatally shot 17-year-old Quanice Hayes didn’t see his gun lying in the grass a few feet away. On Feb. 9, 2017, Hayes was shot three times by Officer Andrew Hearst while surrounded by at least five officers who were responding to an armed robbery call. All officers present at the time of the shooting said they did not see the tan gun found a few feet away from Hayes after Hearst shot him. Kammerer defended those officers by saying that because none of the officers saw it before Officer Hearst fired, the gun, to Kammerer’s belief, must have fallen out of Hayes’ pants after he was shot and that Hayes was reaching for it when Hearst fired. “Based on the fact that nobody saw that gun there until afterwards, that’s why I believe that he had it on him and was in the act of retrieving it at the time that he was shot,” Kammerer said, according to grand jury transcripts. Portland attorney Ashlee Albies, who represented Hayes’ family in a lawsuit against the city of Portland, says Kammerer’s testimony was memorable. “I remember being very surprised at his testimony,” Albies says. “It’s not based on expertise, it’s based on speculation.” Kammerer also testified in the grand jury proceedings for the shooting death of Andre Gladen, who was shot by Officer Consider Vosu on Jan. 6, 2019. Kammerer, who was the primary investigator on the case, testified Gladen had taken a knife from Vosu’s vest and—based on a toxicology report—that Gladen had been on methamphetamine at the time of the shooting. Those were important findings in exonerating Vosu. The Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office plans to continue calling Kammerer to testify in future proceedings. “We will continue to subpoena Detective Kammerer as a witness based upon his current assignment with the Portland Police Bureau,” says Brent Weisberg, a spokesman for the DA. There’s no evidence Kammerer’s testimony to grand juries has been dishonest. But some Portland lawyers argue that Kammerer’s alleged actions during protests should call his judgment into question. Alex Meggitt, a civil rights lawyer in Portland, says someone like Kammerer, whose impressive résumé is explained to grand jurors at the start of his testimony, plays a crucial role. “The grand jury will take a police officer’s comments on police conduct with a lot of authority,” Meggitt says. “It’s an issue if the person presenting that evidence to the grand jury is someone who routinely uses an unreasonable level of force or does not follow those regulations.” Merrithew puts it more starkly. “For an officer-involved shooting, he has displayed his bias on the street,” he says. “The public knows exactly where he stands. In my view, he has no credibility to say a police shooting was justified or not.”

NEWS ALEX WITTWER

No Picnic The city wants visitors to come back downtown—but it hasn’t given a food cart pod permission to operate. CLOSED FOR BUSINESS: Two dozen food cart owners are waiting anxiously for city permits that will allow them to cook again. BY NIG E L JAQ UI SS

njaquiss@wweek.com

Like a lot of people seeking to do business in downtown Portland, Keith Jones needed a permit from the city. More than one, in fact: In June 2019, he needed permits from both Portland Parks & Recreation and the Portland Bureau of Transportation to relocate a food cart pod to the streets surrounding Ankeny Square park. A year ago, Jones told the Portland Tribune the new cart pod was a few weeks from opening. “Now,” he tells WW, “I’m afraid to say anything.” In a year when the pandemic crushed indoor dining, food carts are one of the few thriving sectors of the restaurant industry. But after 18 months, Jones’ project still lacks permits. And the two dozen food carts—which once anchored the city’s oldest and largest pod on what’s now the construction site of a Ritz-Carlton hotel—have been refugees. For Jones, director of Friends of the Green Loop, a nonprofit that seeks to create a linear park linking Portland’s central public places, the city is sending a puzzling message. (The proposed Green Loop has a culinary focus and runs through the Park Blocks, which include Ankeny Square.) Mayor Ted Wheeler, his City Council colleagues, and groups such as the Portland Business Alliance are begging visitors to come back downtown. “I’m hearing this cry for help from downtown, and we’ve got this great thing that is ready to go,” Jones says. “But we can’t get the permits.” One of the carts, Hua Li House, which served Thai-Chinese food, belongs to the family of Lily Chen, 24. Her parents, who speak only Cantonese, are unemployed, and Chen says they just got hit with a $350 personal property tax bill for the cart, even though it didn’t serve a single meal last year. For her, the situation can be summed up swiftly: “It’s terrible.” For months, Jones has worked with Travel Portland, Prosper Portland and other groups to find a home for

the carts, which got booted in June 2019 from Block 216, between Southwest 9th and 10th avenues and Alder and Washington streets. From the moment the carts were evicted from Block 216—where the Ritz is rising—boosters have pushed for a relocation strategy. “A lot of time and effort has been poured into this project,” says Maureen Fisher, the PBA’s director of downtown services. “There should be no reason to delay making it happen.” More than a year ago, Jones arrived at a plan: array the two dozen carts around Ankeny Square, a moribund halfblock city park bordered by West Burnside and Southwest Ankeny streets and Southwest Park and 8th avenues. Ankeny Square boasts valuable assets: two public restrooms, open space suitable for tables and chairs, and lots of foot traffic. To be sure, achieving Jones’ vision of closing off sections of nearby streets would require work on PBOT’s part. And Jones would have to wrangle upgraded electrical infrastructure to support the carts. Even before COVID-19, however, neighboring businesses were enthusiastic. Geoff Phillips, owner of Bailey’s Taproom at 720 SW Ankeny St., loved the idea of having two dozen food carts adjacent to his bar. “It would have been huge,” Phillips says. “The amount of foot traffic the carts generated in their former location was unbelievable.” But the pandemic closed Bailey’s doors for good in September. Another nearby bar, The Alchemist, is gone as well. U.S. Outdoor, long a fixture around the corner from Ankeny Square, moved to the Pearl District. For a while, Jones convened weekly meetings with the cart owners and city officials at Travel Portland’s offices. Many of the cart owners, like the Chen family, are immigrants and, for many, a cart represented not only their life savings but their only source of income. During the pandemic, PBOT has indeed issued permits

for 700 businesses to erect outdoor seating on sidewalks and in parking spaces. And putting carts in rights of way is more complicated. “State law requires months of public process and input from nearby landowners to close a street to vehicle traffic on a permanent basis,” says PBOT spokesman Dylan Rivera. “We are exploring that option, as well as temporary options that could help us provide space for the food carts here hopefully much sooner.” Jones encountered the city’s siloed form of government, in which each bureau reports to an elected commissioner rather than a city manager. Still, many observers find it preposterous that “The City That Works” can’t make this happen. “I don’t understand it,” says Greg Goodman, whose family owns Block 216 and who has tried to help the carts relocate. “It’s like the city almost has to go out its way to to make it happen. If you look at the people, mostly immigrants, who have lost their jobs, it’s horrible.” It’s perhaps even more telling that Jones even had political pull. His ally: Marshall Runkel, chief of staff to Commissioner Chloe Eudaly, who oversees PBOT. Eudaly deputized him to make the project happen. After working unsuccessfully on Jones’ behalf for 18 months, Runkel says the experience has been educational. “One of the lessons we should learn from this last horrible year is, we have to be a lot more nimble and we have to make our actions match our words,” he adds. “Our odds of overcoming the challenges we’ll face in the future go way up when we stop thinking bureaucratically and start thinking creatively.” Jones believes PBOT wants a solution. The bureau required him to get insurance all the way back in March—a cost his thinly financed startup has absorbed since then, even though Ankeny Square is closed off from the public by security fencing. “If I don’t get this done,” Jones says, “I’m going to have to leave town.” Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

MICK HANGLAND- SKILL

NEWS

WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS WEEK

Beyond the Barricades Armed activists seized three blocks of a North Portland residential neighborhood. Here’s what it was like inside the encampment. BY S U ZE T T E S M I T H

and

JUSTI N YAU

8:56 pm Dec. 8, North Mississippi Avenueand Skidmore Street A group of guards watch the entrance to a barricaded section of road in North Portland. They’re armed, masked, and dressed in black—from their balaclavas to their boots to their bulletproof vests. It’s intimidating, but they’re also laughing with each other, which gives the barricade a feeling similar to entering a nightclub. Can you walk in or will the bouncer tell you to scram? It’s actually a site of protest and siege: what the guards will later name the Red House Eviction Defense, or RHED. It takes the shape of a series of street obstructions that cut off three blocks of road from regular car and foot traffic. At the center of the blockades stands the Kinney family home—known as the “Red House on Mississippi”—home to a Black Afro-Indigenous family for three generations. For six days, the activists guarding the gates have defied City Hall, chased off police, and captured national attention by occupying these blocks in a campaign to defend the three-bedroom house from seizure due to foreclosure. 10

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They argue the foreclosure resulted from confusing, predatory lending practices and s the latest case of racist gentrification in the historically Black neighborhood of Albina. They also entered a fraught Kinney family legal saga that included reports of animal abuse on the property and the eldest son’s assertion that he is a “sovereign citizen” outside the reach of the U.S. court system. The eviction defense was a remarkable escalation in activist tactics—the seizing of a residential neighborhood by an armed resistance to the legal system. By Dec. 13, it appeared to have worked: The Kinney family raised enough money to buy back the house, and Mayor Ted Wheeler brokered a deal to remove the barricades. For five nights, Portland’s attention was fixed on this intersection. It was easy enough to walk through, but the armed guards deterred many. On any given night there were between 100 and 200 people inside the campground. We were two of them. On this night, the blockade is brand new. Mississippi is blocked at its intersection with North Skidmore by tall, improvised fences of wood, furniture and scrap metal. Farther in, similar structures stand, suggesting fortifications for tactical retreat. Czech hedgehogs (six-armed metal posts that are difficult to drive over) and spike strips (planks with nails sticking through them) lie scattered across the asphalt to impede barricade-busting vehicles. There are more blockades to the east and to the west, one block out on either side, with checkpoints at every entry. It looks like the border of a small nation. But a volunteer who goes by “Ranch” is hopeful people will see RHED in a hospitable light. “This place was founded on a spirit of welcoming and generosity,” he says.

HOMEWARD BOUND: More than 100 activists began occupying the city streets surrounding the Kinney family home on Dec. 8.

5:38 am Dec. 9, North Albina Avenue and Prescott Street Expecting a morning raid by Portland police, a small crowd begins to gather before dawn by an inner barricade. Most of the activists are still asleep, many on miscellaneous mattresses close to the barricades. Some of the awake activists are making coffee, surrounded by helmeted members of Portland’s independent press, who have covered protests for months. A figure in black approaches the press. “If you don’t want your camera smashed, you should leave,” he says. Moments later, a water bottle flies over the barricade, slamming into one journalist’s backpack. Another bottle follows but misses. A groggy-looking foursome, also in black clothing, approaches the press group. They begin explaining privacy guidelines they want the press to follow. “No faces. No photos. No interviews. No requests for interviews,” one says. “Uh, could you get that guy to stop chucking water bottles at us?” one reporter asks. “Oh yeah, that shouldn’t be happening,” the groggy volunteer says, waving for another person to check it out. “We’ll talk to him.” Behind the fences, piles of stones and glass bottles lie ready, anticipating some sort of medieval war. There’s also an onion. “You can take a photo of that,” a less dogmatic activist says to a journalist lying in the road to take pictures. “But don’t post it to social media.”

J U S T I N YA U

BLOCKADE: A guard stands atop the North Barricade, keeping watch for vehicles approaching the area. J U S T I N YA U

COFFEE BREAK: Protesters wait at Albina Press to buy coffee and use the restroom when the shop opens. J U S T I N YA U

CHRISTMAS GIFTS: Mutual aid food drops overflowed with donations. J U S T I N YA U

GOOD FENCES: One of the barricades erected along North Mississippi Avenue.

3:12 am Dec. 12, food truck at North Albina and Prescott At the east entrance to the RHED, a medic shows off a recently acquired, gas-powered heat lamp with goofy glee. Once it’s actually attached to a small propane tank, the lamp begins to glow with pleasant warmth. The temperature will drop to 34 degrees this morning. The entrance, which resembles a middle ground between a checkpoint and an outdoor campground, contains semi-organized piles of useful items. Boxes of tin foil and paper plates are used at a nearby food cart called Riot Kitchen. Its sign advertises “Warm, vegan food for all (except cops).” The truck serves primarily vegetarian and vegan food, but also cooks up ribs—in keeping with the tradition of Riot Ribs, the donations-only barbecue stand associated with the downtown Justice Center protests this summer. Ribs are served in batches, in the midevening and late-night “antifa time.” There’s vegetable soup, Cajun rice and a truly outstanding succotash. Hungry diners stand around talking and taking bites, juggling flimsy paper plates. A Riot Kitchen staffer suggests that while all the sides are perfectly good on their own, the secret is to just dump everything into the soup and eat it that way. One block north, a group of lookouts stand guard in the cold, silhouetted in front of a small bonfire they set in a cast-iron fire pit to keep warm. One carries a rifle and another a paintball gun. “Just one chud who threw an egg tonight,” one of them says. “Not much else, but I’m sure they’ll be back.” Since the blockade began, occupiers have been visited nightly by vehicles with hostile occupants. The incidents range from insults to drive-by hurling of fireworks and other incendiary devices. The harassers don’t leave their cars—but activists assume they are right-wing counterprotesters, or “chuds.” The wee hours of the morning are nicknamed “chud o’clock.” Suddenly, there’s a shout of “Get cover! Get cover! Get cover!” And they all scatter to their many hiding places and battle stations. But it turns out to be a false alarm. A gray sedan idles innocently. “Does anyone know where Portland Avenue is?” the driver asks. 6:02 am Dec. 12, North Albina at Blandena Street After a long night of guard duty, occupiers excitedly line up to buy coffee from the nearby corner cafe, Albina Press. The door opens. “Oh, thank God,” one black-clad youth says. A friend replies, “Yeah, I’ve been waiting to use the bathroom forever!” A cafe worker sticks a rubber stopper under the front door to keep it open—to create airflow as a COVID precaution—then returns a moment later holding a cardboard box with 12 coffees inside. Throughout the week, various neighbors have purchased coffee for the activists. On one occasion, an older man walked in and gestured somewhat grandly to the people outside. “I want to buy a round of coffees for these fine people,” he said. If the closure of a major city street caused any neighborhood resentment, it hasn’t been apparent on the street. In fact, neighbors seem supportive of the movement: A few nearby residents proudly pointed out pieces

of wood they brought to be used in the barricades. Another couple invited activists up to their balcony to take photos. When asked, the cafe worker says a lot of people buy the protesters coffee. “It’s happened a number of times,” he adds. As dawn breaks, the RHED feels like a woodland campground. Some are sleeping. Some are stirring. There are over 30 tents, more if you count the waterproof canopies that popped up when it began to rain. Now there’s a thoroughfare of covered area keeping clothing donations, food and medical supplies dry—the interior of which feels like a street bazaar, but everything is free. A call goes up: “Mic check!” And the crowd responds: “Mic check!” As it has since the Occupy Portland camps a decade ago, the call-and-response signals an announcement. “Yesterday we built stairs!” an organizer says through a megaphone. “Today let’s build a ramp to improve accessibility.” They want everyone to be able to reach the top of the hill, where there’s a large, brick fire pit. “It’s a place for BIPOC people,” an entrance guard explains. “It’s a place where BIPOC can relax and finally be themselves.” The implication is that it requires several physical barricades of protection and layers of guards—in the middle of an occupied campground that is itself under constant threat of raid by local law enforcement—to make people of color feel safe standing around a fire pit. 6:56 pm Dec. 13, North Albina at Prescott If the RHED at dawn is like a campground, at night it’s like a food pantry. Donations fill the tents until activists say they can’t take any more. Stacks of bottled water and a large pile of packaged toilet paper sit in piles marked “Stuff 2 go 2 houseless camps.” There’s food at almost every entrance. Each checkpoint has a rain cover and improvised fire pits in metal drums. People sit in camper chairs and on spray-painted couches, talking about politics sometimes but also breakups and TV shows. Almost everyone has a story about physical injuries related to being arrested at protests over the summer. After dinner, the RHED holds a dance party on Albina where some 20 people confidently dance and another 30 stand around and think about dancing. They dance to the musical taste preferences of artist and activist Creme Brulee: Rihanna, Frank Ocean, Kreayshawn. The DJ set pauses and a local activist who goes by Ragina Rage—who’s long been associated with the Red House and says she’s spent a portion of this year living in the small campground beside it—speaks to the crowd, reminding them all that if they’re cold tonight they might want to consider what it’s like for people who can’t go home. Rage celebrates the recent crowdfunding success: over $300,000 to help the Kinney family buy their home back at cost. The next morning, the occupiers will agree to dismantle the barricades. “Even if we get this house back, there’re so many other families,” Rage says. “The eviction moratorium is almost up. There are so many other families. If they need help, we’ll be there. And y’all better show up.”

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

TREVOR GAGNIER

In the Surge Three nurses describe life and death during the worst week yet of the pandemic.

TAKING DELIVERIES: Legacy Health was the first hospital system in the state to receive doses of the Pfizer vaccine on Dec. 14 as the state grapples with a surge in cases. BY R AC H E L M O N A H A N

r monahan@wweek.com

On Dec. 2, Heather Rose, a Legacy Health nurse, sent WW’s newsroom a letter. Her holiday message was agonizing. “I have found myself shaken by a different sort of suffering,” she wrote of the fact that Oregon’s COVID deaths had reached their highest rate since the pandemic began. “The patient who is awake, staring at me with a mix of terror and tears in their eyes.” “Health care is a different sort of job these days,” wrote Rose, who works in an intensive care unit. Speaking of herself and all the health care workers on the front lines in the U.S., she continued: “We are asking a lot of 18 million 12

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

citizens who did not sign up to run into burning buildings…as mainstream Americans deny the building is on fire, while others add fuel.” If the firefighters who ran into the Twin Towers on 9/11 were the heroes of that era, this decade’s heroes are the medical workers who care for those who’ve caught a disease they didn’t know existed this time last year. The latest surge in the pandemic started early last month and continues unabated, even as vaccines arrive in freezer trucks. As many Americans perished from COVID on one single day this month as died on 9/11.Since the middle of November, the number of Oregonians hospitalized with COVID-19 has risen 70%.

After receiving Rose’s letter, we asked her and two other Portland nurses to share their experiences amid the most devastating week of the pandemic. Our hope: that readers will get a firsthand glimpse of what’s at stake if they take more risks. What follows is not an argument for or advice on how to stay safe but rather three nurses’ stories of their workplaces during this pandemic—rooms few of us hope to visit and most would lack the fortitude to withstand. News editor Aaron Mesh contributed reporting to this story.

WESLEY LAPOINTE

KJERSTEN OLSGAARD Olsgaard, 35, a Multnomah County nurse at the Mid-County Health Center in Gresham, serves the ethnically diverse populations of East County. That community has been hit disproportionately hard by the pandemic. Olsgaard, who has more than six years of experience in hospitals and clinics, described the conditions.

We do COVID testing every day in the afternoon. We have an outdoor tent that we, as the medical

staff, set up. I think this is our fifth tent, because they’ve blown away in the wind and broken. Supposedly, we’re getting a more permanent structure, but that has been in progress for a very long time. We’re pretty much doing Third World medicine right now, to be very honest. We are some of the last people to get money. We are working out of a tent and trying to figure out how to not burn through our PPE. In a way, the burnout and the chaos is a little bit normalized. The fear is a little bit normalized, too. For me, in the beginning, it was like, “Oh my gosh, what if I get it?” And now it’s almost like, when do I get it. You know, that just helps me not be so anxious. We have one of the most diverse patient populations in all of Multnomah County. And

I would argue probably even the state of Oregon. The majority of our patients do not speak English. We have a massive refugee and immigrant population. The majority of our patients are in poverty of some shape or form. I do so much work that has nothing to do with medicine—patients that I talk to on the phone. When I say, “OK, based on your symptoms, you need to go to the emergency room,” their questions are not about their symptoms or their medical condition. It’s: How much is that going to cost? How do I get there? I can’t go and I don’t have a ride. I don’t speak the language. I don’t

know how to access public transportation or call a cab. I have five children that I’m caring for and I don’t have child care. How do I take them? What do I say when I get to the emergency room to get the care that I need? So half the time I’m acting more as a social worker, to be honest. My patients don’t know

how to navigate a system. And COVID time is showing more and more that the system was not built. It’s 100% harder for them. They are living in multigenerational families. They have a family of 10 living in an apartment, for example, and I’m asking the entire family to quarantine for 10 days, which means that four of their financial contributors can’t go to work. They are asking me, “How do I pay my rent?” They have no financial safety net. They are the Amazon delivery people, the grocery clerks. They are the people who are still out working as essential workers who, because of their language barrier, don’t have the means to protect themselves like a lot of white people do. The state does have financial resources to assist people who need to quarantine. You can get $120 a day for the 10 days of quarantine, which if you qualify would be a total of $1,200 to help with the financial assistance. I give the patients the phone number and the website. Who knows if they have a computer or internet? There are some resources, but it’s not enough.

The majority of my patients don’t know how to stay safe from COVID-19. And again, that has

to do with the fact that, for many, there are 10 of them in a home. Or they don’t have a car and are exposed because they have to use public transportation. The fact that they don’t have the financial safety to take time off work when they aren’t feeling well. On top of that, the fact that a lot of them can’t read—whether it’s language or literacy—all of the news that’s telling them what to do, whether it’s billboards, posters, TV, internet. They don’t have access to that. We are housed in the ZIP code that has the highest number of cases in all of Multnomah County. From earlier this month, I do have this

statistic: One week, we had a 45% positive rate, which I guarantee blows out of the water any other testing site. And 45% is astronomically high. To me, it relates to the fact that these are some of the most vulnerable patients because of their language barrier or cultural barrier, the poverty that they see. They’re mostly women. We’ve always tested higher than everybody. And again, that’s because of who we’re testing: vulnerable people. To me, it is systemic racism, 100%. I think there are more concrete things that we could do, like give the vaccine to these patients first. I see how our culture and our society does not care about these people as a whole.

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

WESLEY LAPOINTE

ERIN BONI Boni, 37, works at Oregon Health & Science University as an intensive care nurse overseeing extracorporeal membrane oxygenation, or ECMO. An ECMO machine functions as an external lung, giving the blood oxygen when a patient’s lungs are too damaged to do it themselves. The treatment is a last resort for the most severe cases of reparatory diseases like the flu or COVID-19. Oregon has limited number of ECMO machines. Boni, from Central Washington, is one of few Portland nurses with expertise in the procedure.

The numbers of patients in our hospital in ICU are exponentially growing. It changes

the day-to-day in some ways, because our hospital’s already full of patients. So that means, when you’re at work, you’re just having to work really, really hard all day. And then they’re often asking if you can come in for extra shifts. So you can work up to a 16-hour shift and then come back the next day, oftentimes at your normal shift time. So people are tired. A friend who I work with clocked in 198 hours in a two-week period. More errors are prone to happen, little mistakes. It feels riskier. So much of what keeps us safe is our personal protective gear and making sure that’s clean and taking it on and off appropriately. And I worry. The patients are really sick. Not just their lungs are being impacted, but they’re going into kidney failure. They’re having issues with blood clots. And then, at the same time, they’re having issues with bleeding. So we’ll be treating the blood clots with a blood thinner and then they’ll start bleeding from somewhere else. They’re having what we call “agitated delirium.” A lot of these patients, pretty early on in their hospitalization, will wake up thinking that we’re trying to harm them, or very, very confused and unable to be reoriented. We also can’t have their families at their bedside, which can sometimes help ease their level of distrust

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

or discomfort. Also, when I go in the room, I have a P100 respirator on my face, which looks like a gas mask, essentially. And then I’ve got a shield over my face. So I imagine, to someone waking up confused and thinking that someone might be harming them, they look at me and I’m supposed to take care of them, but I don’t look like a reassuring face. A lot of our patients require translators, but the translators aren’t able to come into the room. We have this really cool video monitor where we call up a translator. But I’m trying to assess if someone is just confused or whether they’re delirious, whether they can follow my directions in a different language, using a translator video while they’re in a bed with a breathing tube and oftentimes ECMO cannulas. Sometimes in the middle of the assessment, you have to just be like, “OK, we’re gonna stop this,” and re-sedate or give medication to help them calm down. Because it becomes pretty quickly an unsafe situation. I’ve been working with the same patient for the past three weeks and, for three days in a row,

he was making great progress. We hadn’t been able to get him to be awake and communicating without having really wild swings in blood pressure and oxygenation. We’d gotten him to this point where he was following commands in all extremities. And he was trying to communicate. Oh, it just was so exciting! Because

we’ve had a lot of people do really poorly recently. It’s hard not to get that hope. And then the next week I come in and we’re back to square one. Except that there’s now new complications related to his illness, including kidney failure and a major bleed. When you work with someone and you start to have that hope that maybe this outcome will be different, and then you just get knocked back to reality. A lot of them are young. We do have a lot of older patients, but when I say older, I’m talking 50s, 60s, who are requiring ECMO. But I’ve taken care of pregnant women on ECMO. I’ve taken care of people in their 20s, 30s and 40s, all requiring the highest amount of life support you can get in order to survive— or often not survive—their illness with COVID-19. We’ve had a lot of people who we think have gotten over the hump. And then, the next time you come to work, you’re like, “What happened to this person?” “Oh, they died.” And at that point, you just are like, “Well, was their family able to make it? Was it at least peaceful?” It’s pretty distressing. It is emotionally exhausting. If you saw this suffering of these real people, like I see every day and my colleagues see every day, you would see that they aren’t just numbers. And I would think that that would maybe change your behavior.

WESLEY LAPOINTE

HEATHER ROSE Rose, 42, has been a nurse for eight years in Portland, all of that time in an intensive care unit. She started a nonprofit for teens with cancer. That nonprofit, See You at the Summit, takes terminally ill kids on what may be their last hikes in the Cascades. Last spring, the nonprofit had to stop its outdoor trips. Starting in April, Rose began working on call at a Legacy hospital in Portland.

We didn’t have a surge like New York did back in the spring. And so I think

we’re starting to see what New York saw and was telling us. But to see it is so different. It’s just so different than anything I’ve done in nursing. The uncertainty that leads to that fear, that’s sort of crippling for patients, and it’s devastating to their emotional well-being. My day job is working with adolescents who are in treatment for cancer, and I am not foreign to death or the fear of death coming. But there is something so unique to have a person off the street who yesterday seemed fine. And today, they can’t breathe and can’t get in bed, and they’re asking you, “Am I going to die?” I’m not used to looking into my patient’s eyes and them wanting to know if they’re going to die or not, and not being able to give them even information to help them. They’re terrified. And I think that’s what’s I hate seeing.

We’re seeing it in greater quantities than we had in the spring.

As a nurse, you can have two awake COVID patients who are maybe not as critical, or you could have one COVID patient who’s requiring proning—being placed on their stomachs—and flipping. And in that case, we’re often paired up and chemically paralyzing those patients so they can tolerate lying on their stomach while they’re intubated. Now, as the surge comes, the way that could look is up to as many as three patients per nurse. What can you find to appreciate even as you struggle to breathe? The

patients that suffer less are those that have a sense of appreciation, even for the things in that moment. They get to take their mask off and have a drink of water. And they allow that to be enough, to be grateful for that moment. There’s less suffering among those patients. What can they find in that moment to appreciate, they can take a deep breath into that

gratitude and that feeling. That’s maybe one of the easiest things one can do, rather than start your meditation career. That would be the easiest first step. I don’t know if that’s going to scare anybody into changing what they do

and wearing a mask or not. I mean, I can’t get my own family to not travel. I try to share my experience—what I am experiencing, how tired I am. I try to share what our suffering is, to hope that is something that would break through. I don’t really know what else to do at this point when your own family is going to fly for Christmas, you know? I don’t know what else to say to them, other than “You put my life at risk when you do that.”

When we are hit in the next couple of weeks with the surge where I can’t provide the quality of care, then I can feel that sort of fracture inside. That is a different level of anxiety—my own sense of terror and fear. We’re not there today, but I anticipate that that is coming. I feel like it’s all hands on deck right now, and only half the hands are showing up. Not in terms of medical professionals, but in terms of our country and our citizens. I just feel like I have a skill set. My partner, he’s an ER doc, and I watch him go in and do the same thing. And I feel like I’m supporting him as well by just easing the burden of the system. I want to live in the America where we actually take care of our neighbor. If I want to live in that America, then I have to be that person, that citizen.

I’m not as tired as I am sad. I love to live

a full life. I have a puppy. I have a partner and we’re Pacific outdoor lovers and I’m just—I’m sad. I’m sad for a favorite patient of mine that we are going to withdraw care on tonight. That sadness is the fatigue that is so deeply draining.

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

TREVOR GAGNIER

Letter From a COVID Ward The Dec. 2 message that started this story. BY HEATHER ROSE

As an ICU nurse I have seen a lot of tragedy and trauma in my career. Human suffering is everywhere in a critical care unit. Nurses are accustomed to suffering, our patients’ and our own, as we carry out our job. We are well versed in being uncomfortable. As COVID patients slowly take over our unit, I have found myself shaken by a different sort of suffering. The patient who is awake, staring at me with a mix of terror and tears in their eyes. It is unlike any other critical care patient. There is an impending doom that lingers in the air. “Will I get worse? Yesterday I could walk to the bathroom, today I cannot even get out of bed? How much longer will I be able to breathe on my own?” On Monday, my patient is on high-flow oxygen, and by Friday they are on a ventilator. On Sunday, they are on a lung bypass machine. Thank God I encouraged them to talk to family as much as possible while they still could. Did I do everything I could? Did I expose myself to the virus? Have I exposed my family? This is a different sort of human suffering. The trepidation of the unknown. The old rules are upended, and we no longer know who will get better, who will go home but irreparably changed, and who will never go home. I am a stoic nurse. Good, bad or otherwise, it is who I have always been. But these days I find myself crying with my patients, unable to wipe away the tears under my head-to-toe safety gear. Gear that hopefully keeps me from ending up in the bed next to theirs. That is part of what punches through my veil of safety: When I care for a patient from a motor vehicle accident, I am not at risk of being hit by that car. However, as I help my young COVID patient sit up in bed, that very act of care could be the head-on collision I never saw coming. Health care is a different sort of job these days. We are asking a lot of 18 million citizens who did not sign up to run into burning buildings. Then compounding this request as mainstream Americans deny the building is on fire, while others add fuel. No citizen is an island in America; our freedom is interdependent on the collective. So how do we heal a nation with such blatant disregard for the well-being of that collective?

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

This country was founded on freedom, liberty and equality. Rights that have always been interdependent on individual responsibility to the whole. An agreement preserved in our Constitution. It has always required collaboration to ensure our rights are protected. That is the gift entrusted to us, each citizen, a thread woven together as the fabric of democracy. “One Nation, indivisible”—childhood words I mindlessly pledged allegiance to. No true context until now, as I watch us fall, divided. I fear as we lose the balance between individual rights and responsibilities, so will we lose our democracy. As I prepare to go back into work this morning, on what was supposed to be a day off, I am worrying for the average American at home on Black Friday. To the millions of you who chose to travel for Thanksgiving and eat with others outside your household…I choose to let my anger towards you go. Some of you are my own family and friends. Coronavirus cases will climb as a direct result of your travel. Your actions have directly endangered my life as a bedside nurse. They have directly endangered the person I love most in this world, an ER doctor. I am choosing to wish you well and hoping that goodwill is a step towards healing our nation. Yet your disregard for the collective shows how fragile this great American experiment is. I hope you will consider, as December rolls in, that you are not an island in this country. Your actions impact me and my well-being. Your actions impact whether there will be enough staff, hospital beds and ventilators available, maybe even for you. Please don’t put my life at risk any more than it already is. Please choose all of us instead of just yourself, even if that makes you uncomfortable. I do not want to be looking into your eyes filled with terror and tears in the months ahead, nor the eyes of the person you love the most. I do not want to be asking your family to call you now, because tomorrow may be too late. I wish I wasn’t using fear to scare you into being a responsible citizen. But I am. I am standing inside a burning building on the edge of a burning country, and I don’t know what else to do.

STREET PUPS IN THE PEARL Photos by Alex Wittwer |

On Instagram: @_wittwer

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

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WHAT TO DO—AND WHAT OTHERS ARE DOING—AS PORTLAND REOPENS.

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BUSINESS DEVELOPMENTS

Rolling Rock Roaming Empire is a record store on wheels.

Attack of the Clones

What’s more unsettling than a metaphysical being who watches you sleep and knows when you’ve been naughty or nice? How about an entire army of them? A decade ago, Chris Willis started one of Portland’s under-the-radar holiday traditions. Every Christmas, the local artist arranges 400 vintage, plastic, light-up Santa Claus figurines at an undisclosed location somewhere in town, for the public to either search out or stumble upon. He calls them the Santa Clones. What began as a charming bit of pre-Instagram whimsy has evolved into a yearly scavenger hunt, with Willis dropping hints on where to find the Clauses (Clausi?) on social media. Like everything else, though, Willis has had to adjust to the reality of COVID-19—namely, by manufacturing 400 tiny cloth masks for the miniature Kris Kringles to wear. In an interview with WW, Willis describes what other steps he took to pandemic-proof the tradition, the origins of the Santa Clones, and how they’re related to the terra cotta soldiers of ancient China. MATTHEW SINGER. WW: How did this all start? Chris Willis: I started them back in 2010. I had a collection of them, maybe 150 at the time, and I thought they’d look really great in an empty storefront somewhere. I started my search, found a place on East Burnside, and it got a great response. It was pre-Instagram, so it was all word of mouth. It really caught on, and I thought, “Maybe there’s something here?” I started rounding up more on eBay. How many is too many? It really depends on where a property manager or landlord or owner agrees to set this up.

And now there’s a scavenger hunt element? I installed them on a friend’s front lawn and, for some reason that year, I thought it’d be fun to give clues on Instagram. The clues were pretty simple, anybody from the area would be able to figure them out. When you get close to them, you can’t miss them. The glow is amazing. That’s really become part of people’s tradition: going on the hunt for the clones. How has the pandemic changed your approach to the project? Initially, I thought because masks are such a big part of our everyday lives, or at least they should be, it makes perfect sense for the clones to have masks on. It wasn’t about saying, “You can still have a perfectly fine holiday and celebrate while being safe and smart about it.” From an aesthetic standpoint, I thought it was so relevant and timely. I had to start three or four weeks ago thinking how to make these things producible in mass quantities. Four hundred little masks take a while to put together. What is the motivating force behind this? What do you want people to get out of the Santa Clones? Back in 2010, it was this aesthetic kind of thing. I was thinking of China’s first emperors, the terra cotta warriors, that whole repeated-figure motif, and I thought that’d be amazing with all these little Santas. There’s a pop-art aspect to it as well. But it’s really evolved now into how can I set them up in different ways in different spaces, and doing it for the people who are so excited and enthusiastic about it. That’s the biggest thing for me.

See a full video interview with Chris Willis at wweek.com/distant-voices. For clues to the whereabouts of this year’s Santa Clones, see instagram.com/chriswillis.

R OA M I N G E M P I R E FAC E B O O K

Every Christmas, Chris Willis hides an army of glowing Santa Claus figurines somewhere in town. This year is no different…except for one thing.

Music fans remember April 21, 2016, as the day Prince died. For Randall Harris, the date is important for a second reason: It was the day he finally made his passion project come true. For a decade, the former record store clerk and current graphic designer dreamed of starting a mobile record store. But it didn’t come to fruition until that otherwise tragic spring day, when he acquired the former dairy delivery truck he’s since turned into a rolling dispensary for new and used vinyl. “That’s when I actually found the guy in the paper and went and bought it,” says Harris, 47. “So that’s kind of the establishment day.” For vinyl collectors who are justifiably uneasy about spending longer than 45 seconds in an enclosed shop these days, the itch to spend a leisurely afternoon combing through racks of LPs in hopes of uncovering a gem has to be unbearable. While curbside pickup and online shopping are decent substitutes, the experience isn’t nearly the same.

That’s why Harris’ Roaming Empire Vinylmobile might be the pandemic’s saving grace. Living in Southern Oregon at the time, Harris would park the Vinylmobile at events like the Britt Music & Arts Festival in Jacksonville (“at least until the cops or security chased us off,” he says) and would often drive it to Portland to sell records outside shows at McMenamins Edgefield and Aladdin Theater. As the miles piled up, Harris’ wife convinced him to relocate to Portland permanently in 2018. With the live music industry shut down, Harris has had few chances to take the Vinylmobile for a spin. For time being, he has the truck parked in a friend’s driveway in the Richmond neighborhood. For three days each week, Harris pops open the awning door and the back gate to allow one customer at a time to browse through racks of well-curated ’60s and ’70s rock and soul, prewar blues, and modern indie sounds. Harris sits nearby, fielding questions and quaffing cans of beer as he spins rare Turkish psych rock on a portable turntable. It’s a decidedly low-key operation and not one that Harris can rely on for a steady income—a good day, he says, usually nets him about $200. But to hear him tell it, that was never his goal. “I’ve worked in record stores my whole life and, especially around Christmastime, it used to be horrible,” Harris says. “Helping people find that horrible Paul McCartney Christmas song over and over. You didn’t get to share your passion. This is the opposite. The only people that show up here want to sit and talk music with me for an hour.” ROBERT HAM. SHOP: Roaming Empire Vinylmobile, 3623 SE Rhine St., 541-292-2927. Open Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday; text for hours. Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

GET...OUTSIDE? OUTDOORS

Farm Fresh In Oregon, it’s possible to stay the night at a rural Christmas tree farm—if you know where to look.

JACK KENT

BY AN DI P R E W I T T

aprewitt@wweek.com

n Oregon, there are many ways to commune peacefully with nature. The catch: You must compete fiercely to do it. During peak hiking in summer, you’re bound to find trailhead parking lots overflowing, leaving nearby ditches and berms jammed with cars and looking like scrapyards. And booking a campsite is cutthroat business. Unless you time everything just right, yurts and cabins at the most sought-after state parks are all snatched up by weekend warriors far more ambitious than you are. And that was before the pandemic. This year, an outdoor escape became even more challenging to pull off. In March, the state park system took the unprecedented step of closing its properties—every last waterfall and walking path—in response to COVID-19. Campgrounds didn’t reopen until early June, and most cabins and yurts remain off-limits, due in part to budget shortfalls. If you’d given up on arranging that rustic getaway, there is hope in the fields, farms and forests of private landowners across the state. The online platform Hipcamp is nearly identical to Airbnb, but with a focus on lodging that places people smack dab in the middle of the great outdoors: Think tent sites, RV hookups and cabins. When browsing through Hipcamp’s dozens of listings, your gaze may fix on the one titled “Christmas Tree Farm Camping.” It is, after all, the holiday season. And this year, our gatherings may be smaller, but both anecdotal evidence and early sales figures indicate we’re celebrating as big and traditional as possible, either by setting up real Christmas trees in our homes, wrapping the exterior in lights, and doing more laps through drive-thru displays. So in a year when good spirits are hard to muster, a night on an 8-acre property boasting more than 500 planted firs would send levels of Christmas spirit through the chimney.

The farm is in rural Lebanon, about 90 minutes south of Portland, where the hosts also live while running a scaled-down campground. Due to COVID, only one party can sleep over at a time, but eventually a handful of recreationalists will be able to spread out across the fenced-in area—most in tents, but there are a couple of parking spots for RVs. Those who feel sociable can then come together in the evening around a large fire pit lined with boulders to swap advice about nearby hikes and paddles. For now, though, you can enjoy having the run of the farm to yourself, aside from the couple who reside there and their three German shorthair pointers. Given the December chill, we decided to upgrade from pitching a tent to staying in the barn loft, where the bar for roughing it went from “sleeping on the ground” to “flipping through a less-than-ideal selection of channels via Dish Satellite.” But you’re not here to watch TV. You’re here to roam and spin among the Christmas trees, like a winter princess version of Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Our hosts greeted us at the front gate to lead us up a paved driveway past their house and to the big brick-red barn. Behind the barn is a dirt path that circles the property. After the recent rain, it was at first muddy, revealing enough deer tracks to

suggest this might be part of their regular commute. Eventually, we reached a leaf-covered stretch that served as a slip guard. So far, there were plenty of trees, but only a few that could have been of the Christmas variety—and even those were far too large to fit in any living room. We continued on, looping past a series of black troughs strapped to trunks. The grain feeders were further proof deer frequented this place. Beyond that were sizable campsites, one furnished with a picnic table, and a sturdy wooden outhouse just out of view for any guest who doesn’t want to traipse all the way over to the barn in the middle of the night. But we had yet to see any Christmas trees. And we were losing light, fast. Turns out, we passed right by them when we drove in. The tidy rows you’d expect on a tree farm were all there closer to the road—the year-old firs were just tiny. In fact, the flags marking each twig were more noticeable from a distance. It will take a few more years before you can really have that immersive Christmas tree experience, and a total of seven or eight before they’re ready to cut and sell, but there will also be more of them. The large open space in the middle of the property will soon be planted with firs. Even though the trees were smaller than expected, the mission to escape town was still accomplished. We breathed in fresh country air on our little hike. We learned more about the deer—a herd of 14 make their beds there, and sometimes “you’ll wake up to them fighting,” our host said. If you pop outside around 8 pm and turn on a flashlight, you’ll see a meadow full of eyes reflected back at you. We heard coyotes howl and cows moo in nearby pastures. Perhaps best of all, though, was nature’s reward the next morning: fresh eggs courtesy of the farm’s chickens, which we put to good use in a tomato basil Benedict. STAY: Search “Oregon Lebanon Christmas Tree Farm Camping” on Hipcamp to reach the reservation page.

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

FOOD & DRINK MICK HANGLAND-SKILL

HANG LOOSE: GrindWitTryz owners Tryzen Patricio (left) and Candace Lacuesta.

TAKE ME OUT

EAT GrindWitTryz, 2017 NE Alberta St., 971-865-5160, grindwittryz.square.site, @grindwittryz. Noon-8 pm Tuesday-Saturday.

On the Grind

In just a few years, Tryzen Patricio went from cooking Hawaiian cuisine in his dorm room to running a wildly popular food cart. Now he has his own restaurant—and the lines keep getting longer. BY JASO N CO H E N

@cohenesque

In 2015, Tryzen Patricio moved from Hawaii to Portland to attend Concordia University, where he also cooked the food he missed from home right in his dorm room, selling it to friends and other island transplants via word of mouth and Facebook. Among his memories from those days is going to the Bunk location on Northeast Alberta for sandwiches in between classes and telling one of his professors he’d eventually have a restaurant in the neighborhood. Life, as they say, comes at you fast. In August 2019, Patricio and his fiancée, Candace Lacuesta, moved his dorm room cooking to a food cart, GrindWitTryz—“grind” being Hawaiian pidgin for “eat.” Six months later, Concordia announced it was closing. And on Nov. 7, GrindWitTryz became a brickand-mortar, moving to the space that used to be Bunk Sandwiches. Formerly located at the Park the Carts pod on Northeast Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, GrindWitTryz was a near-instant sensation, its crowds and wait times harking back to the early days of Salt & Straw or Apizza Scholls, and even more so after COVId-19. “I’ve never seen a line for food as consistently long as the one at GrindWitTryz,” The Oregonian’s Michael Russell wrote in naming it one of his Carts of the Year in August. Most of those people were lining up for tastes of home, with Grind’s Hawaiian flavors also drawing on Japanese, Portuguese, Korean, Chinese and, particularly, Filipino influences—Patricio’s parents, Rini and Melonie, are both originally from the Philippines. The massive, meat-plus-two-carb plate lunches included ono chicken, spicy ahi poke and kalua pig, as well as specials like chicken long rice, loco moco and “Hawaiian Nachos,” packaged in the most full-to-bursting clamshell containers this side of Kee’s Loaded Kitchen. Patricio laughs when asked how many people a single order usually feeds. “Probably two to three,

depending on how hungry they are,” he says. “I tried eating a plate lunch [today] and I couldn’t eat half.” While attending Concordia, Patricio also worked at Alberta neighborhood restaurants Rice Junkies and Tonalli’s, now Angel’s. “The vibe and the community was so accepting,” he says. In that Oregonian story, he mentioned his desire to eventually open in the district, and with so many restaurants closing due to the pandemic, it didn’t take long for landlords and property managers to reach out with some deals, making a cart to brick-and-mortar gamble feel less risky. The new space also means a lot more daily menu items, with many of the former specials taking up permanent residence. A crew that was once Patricio, DaCuerta and one friend has also expanded, now including his mother and sister, who both relocated from Hawaii to help start the business. “The whole place makes people feel like this is your second home. Our mission is to spread aloha through our ono food,” Patricio says, verbalizing what is also the restaurant’s slogan, ono meaning “delicious.” Down the line, the aloha will also include a full liquor license and live Hawaiian music on the back patio. But for now, Grind is a takeout only, with online orders now preferred—though people still walk up, and when the kitchen gets especially slammed, the Square site sometimes pauses. Other offerings include surf and turf, combo plates and “krack chicken.” Patricio recommends the meat jun ($13), a breaded and marinated beef dish of Korean-Hawaiian origin, served with a soy-vinegar dipping sauce, while DaCuerta’s favorite is the ahi katsu ($12), the tuna coated in panko and deep-fried to medium rare with Sriracha aioli and katsu sauce. But the most popular dish by far is ono chicken, which comes by itself ($13) or on a combo plate with either the kalua pig or spicy poke nachos ($16). Here’s what you’ll get.

ONO CHICKEN ™ THE DISH The 12 pieces of crispy, sweet-glazed fried chicken thighs—more than a pound of meat—are piled onto a double-portion bed of rice. That’s in addition to the neat scoops of rice and macaroni salad on the side. ™ THE SECRET INGREDIENTS The breading for the chicken is seasoned all-purpose flour, but that’s all you’re gonna get out of Patricio when it comes to his father’s ono chicken recipe. “Ooh, I can’t,” he laughs when asked about specific spices. “My dad would probably kill me.” The chicken is then tossed in a sugary, almost-caramelized garlic-soy sauce.

THE SIDES

™ The rice is topped with furikake, which Patricio brings over from a favorite business in Hawaii, while the macaroni salad is his mother’s recipe, which means she’s also the one making it—25 to 30 gallons every day, and sometimes more on weekends. As with the chicken, seasonings are secret, but slices of carrot and scallion are visible, and its yellow color comes from the addition of hardboiled egg.

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

FOOD & DRINK TOP 5

HOT PLATES Where to get takeout this week.

Lottie & Zula’s

TREVOR GAGNIER

MICK HANGLAND-SKILL

FEATURE

120-A NE Russell St., 503-333-6923, lottieandzulas.com. 8 am-4 pm Tuesday-Saturday. Breakfast all day, lunch 10:30 am to close. Takeout and delivery only. Toro Bravo is gone, replaced by a punky sandwich window with New England roots. The heart of the Lottie & Zula’s breakfast menu are bolo levedos, or “Portuguese muffins”— something like a cross between an English muffin and a King’s Hawaiian roll, which makes its version of a McGriddle extra satisfying.

Aybendito

Dimo’s Apizza

Order at aybenditopdx.com. Ataula co-owner Cristina Baez’s tiendita is designed with the pandemic in mind, operating on a family-friendly take-and-make model. The online marketplace is stocked with the street food Baez grew up with in Puerto Rico: sofrito canéles to replace your stale bouillon, chimichurri, limited-availability pernil and pollo guisado, flan, and the staple pastelillo.

701 E Burnside St., 503-327-8968, dimosapizza.com. 4-9 pm WednesdaySunday. The menu at Dimo’s Apizza is loaded with variations of the New Havenstyle pies that chef Doug Miriello grew up eating in Connecticut. But his new spot is aiming for a place in Portland’s sandwich pantheon, too. The most recent addition to the menu is maybe the most impressive. It’s called The Beast: whole top sirloin seasoned like brisket, cave-aged Gruyère and slathered-on aioli.

Ripe Cooperative

5425 NE 30th Ave., 503-841-6968, ripecooperative.com. 10 am-6 pm Thursday-Sunday. Naomi Pomeroy wasn’t necessarily ready to say goodbye to Beast when it closed indefinitely in March due to COVID-19. But she wasn’t going to shed a tear over it, either. Pomeroy’s new venture in the 600-square-foot space is a gourmet community market with fresh pastas, bread, wine and box meals to go that will continue her mission of taking the mystery out of cooking.

Kemuri Hot Dogs

kemuri.us Afuri, the celebrated Japanese ramen chain, has started a delivery-only “ghost kitchen” focused on hot dogs. These aren’t typical ballpark franks, though. At Kemuri, the dogs are cooked over charcoal and include fixings such as kimchi, spicy ground pork, tonkatsu sauce, and kizami nori, or shredded seaweed.

SHOP:

Makers Market

Hannex General Store, 6127 NE Fremont St., 503-288-2944, madhanna.com. Store hours 9 am-5 pm daily, bar open for outdoor service 11 am-11 pm.

Northeast Portland dive Mad Hanna has found a way to stay afloat during the pandemic— by turning itself into a general store. BY JAY H O RTO N

@hortland

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

BUZZ LIST

Where to drink this week, one way or another.

Wayfinder Beer

Shine Distillery & Grill

304 SE 2nd Ave., 503-718-2337, wayfinder.beer. 3-9 pm daily. If ever there were a beer that could transport you to the brauhauses of Munich, it would be Wayfinder Hell, a crisp and snappy lager with a gasp of citrus that, in normal times, comes in a fat mug. Sadly, these aren’t normal times, but you can still get it in a can, along with the brewery’s other standout German-style beers. Delivery is also available Wednesday through Sunday.

4232 N Williams Ave., 503-825-1010, shinedistillerygrill.com. 4-8 pm Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday; 3-8 pm Friday-Saturday. Big family gatherings might be canceled, but this holiday season doesn’t have to be somber. Starting in the late afternoon, you can watch drag performances at Shine Distillery’s “drag-thru” while you wait for cocktail kits to go and bottles of housemade booze. CHRISTINE DONG

As a beloved neighborhood watering hole dependent upon die-hard area regulars, with a handful of dedicated employees and an expansive, well-sheltered back patio twice the capacity of the indoor space, Cully bar Mad Hanna seemed perfectly positioned to take advantage of state regulations guiding businesses during the COVID-19 pandemic. Instead, co-owners Liz Hanna and Crystal Maddox have gone all in on a new business pivot, a model they consider “pandemic-proof.” A few weeks ago, the pair transformed the kitsch-strewn barroom into a retail space equal parts indie boutique, craft fair and whimsically curated market. “When I was a kid,” Hanna says, “I read all the Little House on the Prairie books and remember the general store they would visit, with the barrels and the smoked meats and all the things hanging. I loved that intentional community aspect of the era—coming together because you feel comfortable and safe—and we’re trying to capture that here.” At the Hannex, as they’re calling it, the table nearest the door has been reserved for gift-wrapping, while boxes of used LPs are displayed for sale

atop the DJ cabinet, and video poker machines have been hidden behind coolers boasting fresh groceries and beer and wine to go. Yuletide-themed displays hawking hipster curios and DIY tchotchkes share floor space with a vintage clothing aisle, local dry goods, and a central merch table boasting the latest releases from doom-metalers Witch Mountain, graphic novelist (and former WW contributor) Nathan Carson, and other proud patrons of the tavern. After the holidays, Hanna hopes to formally move the Hannex operation next door, into the adjoining storefront formerly occupied by Proletariat Butcher. While the central array of collectibles—paintings, jewelry, build-your-own ukelele sets—may draw the eye, it’s easy to imagine the burgeoning grocery section and surprisingly affordable day-to-day practicalities appealing most to area residents woefully underserved along this stretch of upper Cully. Absent other nearby alternatives, simply offering a reliable source of batteries and distilled water should provide some solace in troubled times. “If there’s a zombie apocalypse, come here!” Hanna laughs. “Come here! We’ll survive together.”

TOP 5

Baerlic Brewing

2235 SE 11th Ave., baerlicbrewing.com. Ranch Pizza and Baerlic’s new “pie hall” is closed for the foreseeable future, but you can still order the taproom’s brews for pickup or delivery. And Baerlic has plenty of festive cans, from its crisp and piney Yippee-Ki-PA to a Mexican hot chocolate imperial stout.

Rally Pizza Enoteca Nostrana Bottle Shop

1401 SE Morrison St., 503-236-7006, enotecanostrana.com. 2-8 pm daily. One of the most beloved wine bars in Portland has assembled a six-pack of holiday wines. And at barely over $20 a bottle, it’s a pretty good deal for a high-end, highly curated shop that’s open for pickup and delivery.

8070 E Mill Plain Blvd., Vancouver, Wash., 360-524-9000, rallypizza.com. 3-8 pm Monday-Thursday, noon-8 pm Friday-Sunday for curbside pickup or delivery by DoorDash. Want to experience the thrill of buying a premade cocktail to go? You’ll have to cross the Columbia into Washington, where takeout mixed drinks have been legal since May. That means visiting Vancouver’s finest pizzeria, grabbing a fennel sausage pie, a side Caesar and a Little Italy—a whiskey drink in a sealed Mason jar that’s citrusy, sweet and bitter all at once.

Editor: Andi Prewitt / Contact: aprewitt@wweek.com

GET YO UR REPS I N OPB

SCREENER

MOVIES

While local rep theaters are out of commission, we’ll be putting together weekly watchlists of films readily available to stream. It’s the most wonderful time of the year: Dec. 18, birthday of both Brad Pitt and Steven Spielberg! To celebrate the holy creation of these populist cinema titans (who have somehow never worked together?), we’ve selected some obvious and some not-so-obvious highlights from their storied repertoires.

Moneyball (2011) TIGHTROPE WALK: New York Times journalist Nicholas Kristof grew up in Yamhill, where many of his peers have since found themselves struggling with poverty and addiction.

No Safety Net Tightrope, a companion documentary to a book published earlier this year, looks at poverty and addiction in Yamhill and beyond. BY C H A N C E S O L E M - P F EI FER

@chance_s_p

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

SEE IT: Tightrope: Americans Reaching for Hope streams on PBS.

Catch Me If You Can (2002) Tom Hanks and Leonardo DiCaprio headline Spielberg’s megahit crime-dramedy-biopic centering on a young, prodigious con artist (DiCaprio) who makes millions by posing as high-ranking career men and forging payroll checks, but not without catching the attention of an FBI agent (Hanks). Also, the multiple Christmas-set scenes technically make it a holiday movie! Amazon Prime, Google Play, Hulu, iTunes, Pluto TV, Vudu, YouTube.

Inglourious Basterds (2009) Once upon a time in Nazi-occupied France, a ragtag team of Jewish American commando soldiers—led by the roguishly charismatic Lt. Aldo Raine (Pitt)—vow bloody vengeance upon the Third Reich. Amazon Prime, Google Play, iTunes, Vudu, YouTube.

The Adventures of Tintin (2011) Spielberg’s impressive CGI adaptation of the classic Belgian Tintin comics follows our titular hero (Jamie Bell) and his dog Snowy as they embark on a high-stakes, globe-trotting treasure hunt, aided by a salty sea captain (Andy Serkis) and hindered by a dastardly villain (Daniel Craig). Amazon Prime, CBS, Crackle, Google Play, iTunes, Pluto TV, Roku Channel, Vudu, YouTube.

R O T T E N T O M AT O E S

This story of seismic collapse begins in Yamhill, Oregon: a town of little more than 1,000 people 40 miles southwest of Portland that was the once-friendly confines where New York Times journalist Nicholas Kristof grew up. He’s since witnessed dozens of childhood friends and neighbors succumb to addiction, poverty and a fatal, overriding hopelessness that economists Anne Case and Angus Deaton have termed “deaths of despair.” These intimate losses spurred Kristof and his wife, fellow Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Sheryl WuDunn, to embark on a book and documentary project, Tightrope: Americans Reaching for Hope, about the systemic failures bleeding places like Yamhill dry. And it doesn’t take long for the film to zoom outward from that rural patch of land in the Willamette Valley. In fact, it’s not exaggerating to say Tightrope makes the case that the entire country is in decline. “There are real human beings behind these evil forces of drugs and addiction,” WuDunn says. “America is only strong if most Americans are strong.” If the news media tend to rely on categorical designations for the country’s ills—the housing crisis, the opioid crisis, the unemployment crisis—Tightrope examines their enmeshed totality, everywhere from rural Oregon to urban Baltimore to suburban deserts hiding just off of Southern interstates. The film argues it’s past time to untangle the morass, which it pegs as beginning with the War on Drugs and the slashing of social programs in the early 1970s. From there, a spiral of economic and legal policies seemed to specifically attack vulnerable Americans. Wealth failed to trickle down, but trauma did. Piling on the misery further, the documentary was shot in 2018 and 2019. This year, the “tightrope” has shrunk from razor-thin to immaterial. “The problems we illuminate are unemployment, addiction, isolation,” says Kristof, with a pregnant pause. “Now, we have 11 million fewer people employed than we did before the pandemic. Addiction rates have soared. And people can’t get the support they need from institutions or each other.” Tragically, the urgency of those issues repeatedly outpaced Kristof and WuDunn’s reporting. Yamhill resident and documentary source Clayton Green died at age 57 during production. Keylan Knapp, the sole survivor of five Oregon siblings whom Kristof knew growing up, died at 54 this spring between the release of the book and the film. Kristof and WuDunn sent money to Knapp’s mother for the funeral. What else can you say to someone who lost all five children to drugs, WuDunn wonders.

Beyond writing about the lives of the people he grew up with, but topically related, Kristof used his platform at The New York Times to voice support for Oregon Measure 110, a ballot initiative to decriminalize drug possession. Although it passed in November, he considers it only a first step. “I think Oregon is experimenting in exactly the right direction,” Kristof says. “What I think is more important is the public health focus rather than the criminal justice focus.” Underscoring its human interest and data-driven reporting, Tightrope also explores how American myths hinder solutions—how detractors of social programs, for example, tend to embrace “rugged individualism” and “personal responsibility narratives.” While the film portrays recovering addicts, unhoused grandmothers and adoptive parents gradually accepting community support, it’s a thornier question whether working-class whites, in particular, would similarly welcome government assistance. “This is a demographic that has in many cases been critical of other Americans—particularly people of color— who accepted some kind of assistance,” Kristof says. “That can make it particularly painful and humiliating to find oneself in need as well. If we want to acknowledge that problem, as we should, we also have to acknowledge this was preceded by decades and centuries of injustice toward people of color and a complete lack of empathy.” WuDunn adds that blinding partisan narratives are killers of progress in gaining public support for government intervention. On a recent tour of a forest outside Yamhill, Kristof and WuDunn—an eminently friendly couple in their 60s—had the sheriff called on them. Someone had blocked their parked car and reported them as “antifa arsonists.” “They thought we were going to set fire to the forest?” WuDunn says. “Who knows?” On the cusp of a Biden administration amid the worst days of the pandemic, WuDunn and Kristof say they’re ultimately mixed whether the political class will directly assist the nation’s most vulnerable. WuDunn is skeptical, bluntly pointing to Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell as the staunchest obstacle to expanding critical public health programs. Kristof takes a longer but uncertain view: “An argument could be made that American history works in long cycles. For 50 years, we’ve been cutting taxes and underinvesting in human capital. Maybe, maybe that cycle is beginning to turn around.”

In this sports biopic, Pitt plays Oakland Athletics general manager Billy Beane, the man who assembled a baseball team using sabermetrics to assess player value. Critically acclaimed and a box office success, Moneyball earned Pitt his third Oscar nomination—probably because of the scene where he eats a whole Twinkie in just two bites. Amazon Prime, CBS, Google Play, iTunes, Netflix, Vudu, YouTube.

Meet Joe Black (1998) It’s important for us to humble our beloved A-list movie stars. This middling romantic drama about Death taking over the body of a newly deceased hot guy (Pitt) in order to experience life among the living certainly does that. Over the course of three hours, we’re treated to scenes of Pitt discovering the joys of peanut butter, the woes of getting hit by a car, and the humiliation of speaking with a bad patois accent. Amazon Prime, Google Play, iTunes, Peacock, Vudu, YouTube.

MOVIES GOLDEN GLOBES

TOP PICK OF THE WEEK

Another Round Danish mainstay Thomas Vinterberg’s new drama deserves an instant place in the canon of booze cinema, though it barely touches on addiction as audiences know it through films like The Lost Weekend or Leaving Las Vegas. Reunited with his razorcheeked muse from 2012’s The Hunt—Mads Mikkelsen—Vinterberg chronicles the quasi-scientific shenanigans of four middle-aged teachers trying to enliven their drab days with a slightly heightened blood alcohol level. They figure, don’t most people love easier, converse smoother and dream bigger with a little buzz? Of course, the experiment is not a lasting success (this isn’t some bizarre Carlsberg propaganda). But the way Vinterberg cautions against a chemical antidote to midlife ennui is as incisive as it is forgiving. Like alcohol, nostalgia can linger in the bloodstream, too. Surrounded by teenagers, the four teachers are steeped in an environment where binge-drinking is synonymous with fond memories. Mikkelsen’s splendid transformations from sober Scandinavian granite to drunken Silly Putty (look out for 2020’s best dance scene) illuminates the weight of alcohol more as symbol than chemical. Another Round cares little for the horror of helplessly draining the next drink. It’s after that deeper, more elusive fear being lubricated: What if you’ve already tasted the best life has to offer? NR. CHANCE SOLEM-PFEIFER. On Demand.

Wander Darkly

OUR KEY

: T H I S M O V I E I S E XC E L L E N T, O N E O F T H E B E S T O F T H E Y E A R. : T H I S M O V I E I S G O O D. W E R E C O M M E N D YO U WATC H I T. : T H I S M O V I E I S E N T E R TA I N I N G B U T F L AW E D. : T H I S M O V I E I S A P I E C E O F S H I T.

ALSO PLAYING

Light Years

Mank

Vermont, 1999: A hot pink lacrosse cap, a fistful of psilocybin mushrooms—things are obscure in Light Years before the actual obscurity even kicks in. The third indie dramedy from writer-director Colin Thompson (Loser’s Crown, It’s Us) employs mushrooms as an informal time machine, transporting mid-30s Kevin back to the first night he ever partook, at 16. The result is a bit like if Charlie Kaufman directed (and interrogated) a Mike White comedy for less than $100,000. Thompson himself quite charmingly plays most characters on Kevin’s trip—man, woman, young, old—but it’s Russell Posner as Kevin’s loopy, almost telepathically synced best friend, Briggs, that cements the film’s pathos and justifies the flashback in the first place. We’re swept into Kevin and Briggs’ teenage idiolect, borderline nonsense about Burlington rock bands and NBA draft busts to everyone else. But the love wrapped up in their shared language is enough to sustain and choke Kevin for the rest of his life. Even if the superimposed animation of the trip feels more obligatory than valuable and Thompson’s acting isn’t as strong in wholly dramatic scenes, the theme hoists this indie above its weight class. Selective memory is its own kind of drug, and you can always travel back one way or another. TV-14. CHANCE SOLEM-PFEIFER. On Demand.

In his first movie in six years, filmmaker David Fincher (Fight Club, The Social Network) hasn’t lost his ability to beguile, fascinate and vex. Working from a screenplay by his late father, Jack Fincher, the director has concocted a superb cinematic portrait of Herman “Mank” Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman), co-writer of Citizen Kane. In 1940, a bloated Mank drunkenly dictates the script to his formidable transcriber, Rita Alexander (Lily Collins). He’s preparing the project for Orson Welles (Tom Burke) to direct, but flashbacks insinuate that Citizen Kane is powered by a personal grudge Mank holds against William Randolph Hearst (Charles Dance). Tormented by his tacit participation in a Hearst-backed smear campaign against the writer and liberal California gubernatorial candidate Upton Sinclair (Bill Nye), Mank models the megalomaniacal Charles Foster Kane on Hearst. Was Citizen Kane’s origin that simple? Hardly, but you don’t have to buy the theory to dig the movie. Beneath the seductive sheen of Erik Messerschmidt’s black-andwhite cinematography lies Fincher’s conviction that Hollywood—like the melting ice sculpture of an elephant at a party Mank attends—should be liquefied for its sins. Mank may not be cheery, but no one goes to Fincher for good vibes. Gleeful pessimism is his drug of choice, and for us, it can be an improbable and exhilarating high. R. BENNETT CAMPBELL FERGUSON. Netflix.

ANOTHER ROUND

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

Adrienne and Matteo (Sienna Miller and Diego Luna) are not-sohappy new parents. They fight at home, at parties, in the car…until a head-on traffic collision cuts their final argument short. This propels Adrienne into an out-of-body experience, trapping her in a limbo where she’s forced to silently and invisibly observe the paramedics fail to revive her, and her subsequent funeral. And then she wakes up. She’s not dead, but she’s convinced she is, triggering an existential crisis that causes her to reflect on the truth behind her relationship with Matteo. This is the point where the film becomes visionary, evoking dreamy Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-esque reveries across memory in order to pinpoint where their love began to fade. In these retrospective journeys through the most salient events of their relationship, Adrienne and her imagined version of Matteo communicate frankly about their ups and downs—something they struggled to do in the real world. Reminiscent of a less esoteric She Dies Tomorrow (another three-star 2020 release), this confident directorial debut from Tara Miele is a psychological probe into the ways we reckon with trauma, effectively blurring the malleable lines between reality and memory. R. MIA VICINO. On Demand.

Half Brothers As a kid, Renato (Luis Gerardo Méndez) and his dad, Evaristo (José Zúñiga), used to build model planes together. That was before Evaristo suddenly left Mexico for the U.S., leaving his son behind. Years later, Renato is still building planes (real ones; he’s a strait-laced aviation executive), and still stinging from his father’s apparent abandonment. But when Evaristo shows up again, sick and dying, his last request is for Renato to embark on a road trip with…his surprise American halfbrother, Asher (Connor Del Rio)! Asher wears Hawaiian shirts and works as a “brand ambassador” for Chili’s. Renato wears pressed suits and has his own decadent office.

On the surface, it’s your average odd couple romp: Two guys on opposite planes of life are forced by extraneous circumstances to get along. But the film’s strength lies in its subversion of the traditional American gaze—instead of telling the story through Asher’s eyes, we’re firmly planted in Renato’s perspective as he speaks Spanish with his fiancée, rants about ignorant white Americans and uncovers the truth behind why his dad never returned to Mexico. At its core, Half Brothers is a madcap road comedy with a grounded heart, and though the beats and bumps are familiar, it’s a pleasant enough ride. PG-13. MIA VICINO. On Demand.

Sound of Metal If a noisecore drummer loses his hearing, should anyone care? Sound of Metal presents a remarkably empathetic portrait of that rare beast—the working hardcore percussionist committed to sobriety and a girlfriend/bandmate—yet shows just a taste of the goodish life Ruben (Riz Ahmed) and Lou (Olivia Cooke) share while touring in a cozy Airstream before his sudden loss of hearing tears their plans asunder. While the plotline might seem eerily similar to the 2004 indie flick It’s All Gone Pete Tong, this story isn’t about punishing hubris. Ruben, unlike Pete Tong’s superstar DJ, has already dealt with his substance-abuse issues at the film’s start, and he tries his damnedest to embrace the silence suggested by deaf guru Joe (Paul Raci) at a cultish American Sign Language camp. Unable to abandon his eterna-gigging life plans, our hero neither hears nor listens to the increasingly gloomy diagnoses en route to affording the semblance of hearing promised by cochlear implants, which prove a maddeningly false tease. This directorial debut from The Place Beyond the Pines screenwriter Darius Marder exploits next-gen soundcraft and Ahmed’s electric vapidity to its best advantage while ignoring moralistic conventions, but there’s a troubling condescension pegged to the protagonist’s chosen genre and instrument. Would a talented singer-songwriter be so blithely expected

to accept medical practicalities rather than further damaging health in pursuit of doomed passions? Would Beethoven? At the end of the day, this is an expertly crafted labor of love championing the abandonment of dreams. What’s the sound of one hand clapping? R. JAY HORTON. Amazon Prime.

Zappa Possessed of an abstruse, willfully difficult muse that bled impossible time signatures and dark humor into even the most approachable sections of his daunting discography, Frank Zappa effectively evaded commercial success until late-life novelty single “Valley Girl” inexplicably cracked the charts. But his fame as an iconoclastic counterpop-cultural figure somehow still burns bright a quarter-century after his 1993 death from prostate cancer at the age of 52. How, exactly, did an avant-rock misanthrope best resembling a cross between social activist Abbie Hoffman and Beaker ever end up becoming one of The Muppet Show writers’ dream guests anyway? Zappa, the long-awaited doc that began streaming Nov. 27, doesn’t much care and may be offended by the question. While nearly all authorized rockumentaries shelve criticism of the man for access to the music, Zappa leans into the infernal bargain with generic platitudes and overtold anecdotes scattered throughout 120-plus minutes of performances, interviews and home movies—family keepsakes plus the artist’s own experimentalist collages—stitched together from the evidently overflowing estate vaults. It’s all sure to be a treat for fans and seems fitting tribute to a largely unknowable polymath whose creative oeuvre, which includes a stint writing greeting card copy as a teenager and a final turn as a symphonic composer, survives largely through sarcastic quips and critical reputation. Still, so much of his life story—growing up near a chemical weapons plant, arrested for recording a fake sex (audio) tape, signed by a distracted label rep hoping for a white blues band—feels sufficiently compelling if only the nonstop miasma of footage would get out of its own way. NR. JAY HORTON. On Demand.

FLASHBACK

THIS WEEK IN 2000

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

Editor: Andi Prewitt | Contact: aprewitt@wweek.com R YA N P F E I F F E R

PERFORMANCE

BOOKS

Written by: Scout Brobst Contact: sbrobst@wweek.com

FIVE GREAT 2020 BOOKS FROM INDEPENDENT PUBLISHERS

The Baddest Bitch in the Room, Sophia Chang

Christmas Spirits

WRECK THE HALLS: One actor will get drunk during a performance of A Christmas Carol, staged in the home of Experience Theatre Project’s founding artistic director.

Experience Theatre Project’s A Drunk Christmas Carol confronts the ghost of hangovers future. BY JAY H O RTO N

@hortland

For a performance company whose guiding vision centers on immersive stagecraft, the Experience Theatre Project has been surprisingly busy during the pandemic. May’s chillingly minimalist Turn of the Screw webcast was among its most successful productions. The late-summer launch of monthly showcase Le Chat Noir Moderne, hosted by an eclectic, ever-changing roster of artists from around the globe in an online salon has been a hit. For Halloween, ETP even invited viewers into a seven-story virtual haunted house for the two-night Tower of Terror. Even though the Beaverton company’s upcoming A Drunk Christmas Carol will face far more competition from other local theaters’ digitized offerings, this improv-fueled Dickensian piss-take won’t resemble anything else in our little corner of the internet. “Granted, a lot of other people are doing these now,” admits founding artistic director Alisa Stewart, “but that just makes us strive to improve ourselves and keep moving forward instead of making Zoom calls. At the end of the day, we always want to innovate.” WW: How’d the idea for A Drunk Christmas Carol come about? Alisa Stewart: I was of a mind that we needed to do something that really went back to the performing arts, but didn’t know exactly what. We toyed with the idea of doing another livestream play like Turn of the Screw, and one of our board members suggested we have some fun with a well-known tale—just goof it up and have a good time. I’d already been considering something along the lines of Drunk Shakespeare for a fundraiser next year. Drunk Shakespeare? It’s a classically trained theater group from New York and Chicago, where I worked professionally a long time ago, and the performances were so funny. One of the actors is chosen to be the night’s designated drinking artist and given five shots of alcohol. An audience member usually takes one as well to confirm the presence of alcohol. Then, they all move forward performing one of Shakespeare’s plays, and it’s a hoot because some of the other actors try to keep the train running while others just try to mess with the drunk. I wanted a show like that but our own thing—not too crazy, not Shakespeare, something that people would really dig in to have fun with—and the idea of A Drunk Christmas Carol was born. I adapted the original story to incorporate masks and social distancing. There’s a dash of game show involved. 28

Willamette Week DATE 2020 wweek.com

How so? When the audience registers, they’ll be asked questions that feed us information for the show. What kind of alcohol should the actors drink? What’s the ending line? In this tale, Tiny Tim does not say “God bless us everyone.” The funniest answer wins. So, a game show for the actors? Sort of. They’re contestants but, at certain moments, the audience can win prizes. We’ll be giving away gift cards to Golden Valley Brewing. Also, two audience members can buy tickets to be All-Seeing Christmas Spirits who can stop the show at any time and have actors spin what we call the “Big Wheel of Fate,” which could make them drink, or switch to Southern accents, or change genres, or continue as they were but now inside the locker room of the Seattle Seahawks. Where are you planning to film? My living room is big enough to sit everyone comfortably, and we can really deck the halls. We’ve got wireless mics, we’re using five different cameras, and our stage manager will essentially control the whole broadcast from my home office. So, basically, we’re creating a miniature television station. With the success of your online content, do you plan to continue to make virtual programming once the quarantine lifts? Once we get back again next year, we’ll try combining the live immersive stuff with the livestream for a little hybrid programming for people unable to see the experience. In the last six months, we’ve acquired webcams and microphones and all the equipment to make sure that we were able to produce. Transitioning online has been an investment in assets, but I think it’s been pretty creative and pretty fun. We’ve been finding our way around in the dark, figuring out what works best and what didn’t work at all, what we could improve upon and what we’d just like to drop. One show, we sold tickets while another was pay what you can, which seemed to attract more interest. If people don’t have to pay for something and can turn off what they don’t like, there’s not much of a risk, and we don’t feel the same heavy pressure to take care of everyone like we would in a live setting. Only one person wrote an angry note complaining because, after donating $10, he didn’t like the act. We sent back the 10 bucks. You know, art’s not for everybody. SEE IT: A Drunk Christmas Carol streams at experiencetheatreproject.org on Saturday, Dec. 19. 7:30 pm. Pay what you can; $10 donation recommended.

For decades, Sophia Chang was a matriarch in waiting, working in the wings of record labels—Atlantic, Universal and Jive—to help men in hip-hop sell their stories to the masses. Her story is revealed in the debut memoir The Baddest Bitch in the Room, and it rivals her former clients in the music business in entertainment value alone: She’s well versed in French literature, an expert in kung fu, cozied up to the Wu-Tang Clan, and is developing a scripted series based on her life. Indeed, Chang tends to be the baddest bitch in most rooms.

Alligator and Other Stories, Dima Alzayat Dima Alzayat can distill the difficult, often disorienting experiences of otherness better than most. In her debut collection of stories—some real, others not—Alzayat captures moments and stays in them, the nine shorts forming a patchwork of contemporary Muslim life. One story explores the perceived “danger” of “The Daughters of Manat,” a group chafing against traditionalism. In another, a great-aunt communicates the loss of cultural identity to her niece—an incredible unraveling of intergenerational scars and quiet legacies.

Pink Mountain on Locust Island, Jamie Marina Lau When Jamie Marina Lau was just 19 years old, her first novel, Pink Mountain on Locust Island, was released in Australia and shortlisted for the widely recognized Stella Prize. Now she is just a couple of years older and the novel has debuted in America, earning similar praise from similarly powerful people. The book is as strange as it is charming, telling the tale of a teenage girl, an older love interest and a father whose surrealist obsessions tip the story out of the realm of young adult fiction and into something like psychedelic noir.

Shuggie Bain, Douglas Stuart There are lots of people who spent the year slavering over Shuggie Bain, and now they are in the company of the powers that be at the Booker Prize. The novel stems from Douglas Stuart’s own childhood in Glasgow as one half of a mother-son duo that bends under the weight of addiction, prejudice, poverty and pride. Stuart writes in a way that hits every raw nerve in the reader, pinpointing places where emotions run deep and looking toward dysfunction with a level of clarity that belies the book’s debut status.

Atlantis, Carlo & Renzo Piano For many this year, the perfect city was the one that was not where you were. It was—if you heeded public health guidelines—a time for tourist imagination to run amok. But years before, renowned architect Renzo Piano and his son Carlo left Genoa, Italy, in an indulgent attempt to find a perfect city, one that would stand above all the rest, if beauty were a thing that could be measured. Atlantis became an essential quarantine read and a new way to reflect on the essence of travel, moving from the banks of the Thames to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park to the preserved history of Athens.

POTLANDER MAGIC NUMBER

REVIEW

Champagne Dreams Magic Number’s THC-infused sparkling cider gives new meaning to having a toast. BY BRIA N N A W H E E L E R

Discerning Portland potheads are already familiar enough with Bend-based Magic Number’s line of resin-spiked sodas, candy-sweet tinctures and flagship ginger beers. So when we caught wind of its limited-edition, seasonal run of Magic Bubbly, a $36, 750 ml bottle of cannabis-infused sparkling cider, we knew exactly what had to be done. I would have to take it to my squad’s annual fiveguest holiday party. Every year—yes, including this one—my pod and I get together sometime between Hanukkah and Christmas to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race Holi-Slay Spectacular. It’s a weed-infused annual tradition, so I figured Magic Bubbly would be a welcome addition. My quarantine crew is made up primarily of career stoners, some who booze, others who abstain, and some in recovery. There’s a lot of crossover and teetotaling, so the product seemed as if it would fit right in with the other bottles on the host’s kitchen counter, ranging from Rumplemintz and microbrews to eggnog and coffee. At least, that was my assumption. Here’s how it went.

THE SCENARIO Weed was already in the air by the time I’d wrested the cap from the top of the Magic Bubbly bottle. The wire that secured the cage to the bottleneck snapped halfway through twisting it free, requiring pliers to finish the job. A bottle of Magic Bubbly contains 50 mg of THC, so it was relatively easy to deliver approximately 10 mg into every guest’s mug. Heavier smokers got a heavier pour, while the novice tokers of the group got a more restrained splash. Only one guest was disappointed to see that the bottle was full of sparkling cider and not champagne. That guest got a very reserved splash.

TASTING NOTES Upon our first sips, we all swooned over the dry, floral notes of hibiscus and elderflower layered within the crisp sweetness of fresh-pressed apple cider.

None of us detected even a hint of the Pink Lemonade live resin that medicated the cider, which sent one homie into a tailspin. “This tastes like the stuff you give to kids at a holiday party,” she said. “It tastes like a fancy farmhouse cider you’d keep in your cabinet for sober people to drink on New Year’s.” We brainstormed the drink’s potential as a cocktail mixer. It’s drier than classic celebration ciders but still retains a soft, round sweetness. We figured a splash of club soda could unbraid the floral perfume from the dense smack of the apple, and that would make room for a stiff shot of spiced rum or aromatic liqueur. The amount of THC per bottle would also make it a nice addition to an intimate evening with one or two others, and pothead partners with no attraction to traditional champers could share it on New Year’s Eve. If a body had enough of thirst, sweet tooth and high tolerance, they could probably polish off a bottle to themselves in one sitting without going catatonic.

THE HIGH Nearly 45 minutes after we’d all drained our mugs, the cider was working its full magic. We scream-laughed at raunchy Christmas raps, gorged ourselves on baked goods, and spent way more time puzzling over the Hot Box game cards I’d just introduced than we would have on any other evening. The body highs were loose and languid across the board, while the head highs seemed to hit everyone in their own particular way. For instance, I felt dreamy and euphoric, while another homie spaced out for a while trying to locate a kitten holiday video on the big screen. Another forgot several times how many people were in the room: five—always just five. “This isn’t for the office party, it’s for the office after-party,” was one homie’s hot take. “Weed people need way more weed,” offered another. “If you brought this to a party full of potheads, I think the consensus would be that this is, ahem, cute.”

HOW WE SPENT OUR HIGH After the Holi-Slay special drew to a close, our small party gathered on the sectional sofa for a game of Hot Box, the stoner version of Cards Against Humanity. After the last round, now two hours and a handful of joints since we’d drained our mugs, I checked in with the squad. Homie #1 was curled in a cuddle puddle with his pets. Homie #2 was claiming the Magic Bubbly’s effects were lost on her, but I could clearly see one eye drooping shut while the other brightened to keep up with her exhortations. Homie #3 and I giggled as we reexamined the most cringy of the Hot Box answer cards. Homie #4’s eyes were so low, cheeks so rosy, and grin so wide, he could have sat in for Stoner Santa. These effects couldn’t be attributed to the Magic Bubbly alone, but I’m sure the sparkling cider could be credited with delivering at least a modicum of syrupy glee—as well as something to festively deliberate over. By the end of the night, roughly 3.5 hours after a 10 mg dose, there was only a small layer of euphoria remaining, but it was enough to make the bike ride home gently exhilarating.

BOTTOM LINE As a seasonal commodity, a bottle of Magic Bubbly would be a considerate addition to a small cocktail party with a diverse intersection of smoking and nonsmoking guests. For some, it would be a novelty and for others an event, but either way, it’s a contemporary way to jazz up a standard wet bar. GET IT: MindRite, 1780 NW Marshall St., 503-477-4430, mindritepdx.com. Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

ART N’ COMICS!

Be a Willamette Week featured artist! Any art style is welcome! Let’s share your art! Contact us at art@wweek.com.

FEATURED ARTIST: MC Shoehorn

MC Shoehorn is a performance artist who creates music with his feet and dances with his horn. Shoehorn combines body rhythms and sophisticated forms and concepts into an entertaining spectacle. A specialist in sax and tap dance, he is also a vocalist, multi-instrumentalist, arranger and composer, utilizing a variety of wind and percussion instruments, original material and songbook classics, and music from around the world. In addition to his shoes and horn, he uses the Tappercussion(TM) Mark VII e-tap (TM) MIDI instrument to add percussive sounds like drum set, steel drums, sitar and marimba. www.shoehornmusic.com | instagram: miconshoehorn

JACK KENT’S

Jack draws exactly what he sees n’ hears from the streets. IG @sketchypeoplepdx kentcomics.com

Willamette Week DECEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com

JONESIN’

Week of December 24

by Matt Jones

"J'Accuse!"--they're in there.

ARIES (March 21-April 19) Your capacity for pioneering feats and impressive accomplishments will be at a peak in 2021. So you could become the best human ever at balancing a ladder on your chin or typing with your nose or running long-distance while holding an egg on a spoon with your mouth. But I'd prefer it if you channeled your triumphal energy into more useful innovations and victories. How about making dramatic strides in fulfilling your most important goal? Or ascending to an unprecedented new level of inspiring people with your passionate idealism? Or setting a record for most illusions shed?

TAURUS (April 20-May 20) Ark Encounter is a fundamentalist Christian theme park in Kentucky. Its main attraction is a giant replica of Noah's Ark. Constructed mostly from spruce and pine trees, it's one of the world's largest wooden structures. Even though I don't believe that there was in fact such a boat in ancient times, I do admire how its builder, Ken Ham, has been so fiercely devoted to making his fantasies real. I encourage you to cultivate an equally zealous commitment to manifesting your own visions and dreams in 2021.

GEMINI (May 21-June20)

ACROSS 1 Sluggish 5 Arm gesture done by kids graduating elementary school 8 Hosts in one's apartment (remember that?) 13 The A in A.D. 14 Public radio host Glass 15 Early online newsgroup system 17 "The Caine Mutiny" novelist 18 _ _ _ squared (circle formula) 19 Act as a go-between 20 Bygone laptop company's fiscal year division?

58 Particle accelerator particle

30 "For real?" response

59 "Me shooting 40% at the foul line is just God's way to say nobody's perfect," for instance?

34 Holly Hunter, in "The Piano"

63 Playwright Beckett 64 Suffix for Gator or Power 65 Idaho neighbor 68 Midway through a migraine, e.g. 69 "In the Heights" Tony winner _ _ _-Manuel Miranda

36 "Pretty sneaky, _ _ _" (Connect Four ad line) 38 Storyline progression 39 Many Super Bowl MVPs 40 Capital at over 9,000 feet 41 Like 50/50 odds 42 Alphabet where X is "X-ray"

71 Leg bone (connected to the arm bone?)

43 Bridge section

72 China's Sun _ _ _-sen 73 Male cats DOWN

25 "As Seen on TV" knife brand

1 Ocelot foot

27 "Batman Forever" actor Kilmer

35 Astronaut Grissom

70 Adult _ _ _ (Cartoon Network offshoot)

23 "Bleh!"

26 Dinnerware collections

31 ME zone, in winter

2 See 4-Down 3 Sonic the Hedgehog's echidna friend

46 Argentine soccer superstar Lionel 47 1960s United Nations secretary general 48 Dish prepared with garlic butter and white wine 50 Google gaming service as of 2019 51 Inventor's concern

29 Talent for detail, maybe

4 With 2-Down, interviewee for John Lennon retrospectives

52 "Allergic to Water" singer DiFranco

32 "Call Me Maybe" singer Carly _ _ _ Jepsen

5 _ _ _ Dots (cryogenic ice cream brand)

57 Rome home

33 General ballpark

6 "thank u, next" singer Grande

28 "Messenger" material

35 It may be educated 37 "How does a company reserve a symbol to trade?" and "How does it differ from NYSE?" 44 Photographer Diane

7 Hires competitor 8 Platform for the "Animaniacs" reboot 9 Bhutan's continent

45 Button alternative

10 Retailer that filed for bankruptcy in 2018

46 Greek M's

11 No divider, they

49 Long-running forensic drama with an upcoming reboot

12 Spanish currency pre-euro

50 Mineral spring 53 Airport posting

16 Briefly stated 21 Ball club VIP 22 Leicester lineup

54 Catchall abbrs.

23 "Kindergarten Cop" director Reitman

56 Largest moon of Saturn

24 Model/actor Delevingne

©2020 Jonesin’ Crosswords (editor@jonesincrosswords.com) For answers to this puzzle, call: 1-900-226-2800, 99 cents per minute. Must be 18+. Or to bill to your credit card, call: 1-800-655-6548. Reference puzzle #JNZ990.

55 Fledgling pigeon 60 Royally named liner, briefly 61 Arm bone (connected to the leg bone?) 62 Force to leave 66 Objective 67 Letters on British battleships

last week’s answers

From 1961 until 1989, a concrete barrier divided the city of Berlin. Communist East Berlin lay on the east side of the Berlin Wall, and capitalist West Berlin on the west. It was an iconic symbol of the Cold War between the US and Soviet Union. More than 100,000 people tried to escape from east to west, but just 5,000 succeeded. The standoff ended in 1989, during the peaceful revolutions that swept through Eastern Europe. In subsequent months, the Berlin Wall was slowly demolished. Today, tiny fragments of the wall are marketed as medicines for asthma, headaches, narcolepsy, and ulcers. Now I will propose that in 2021, you adopt the demolished Berlin Wall as your metaphor of power. May it inspire you to be gleeful and forceful as you dismantle psychological obstacles and impediments.

CANCER (June 21-July 22) The year 2021 will contain 525,600 minutes. But I suspect you might enjoy the subjective sensation of having far more than 525,600 minutes at your disposal. That's because I think you'll be living a fuller life than usual, with greater intensity and more focus. It may sometimes seem to you as if you are drawing greater riches out of the daily rhythm—accomplishing more, seeing further, diving down deeper to capitalize on the privilege of being here on planet earth. Be grateful for this blessing—which is also a big responsibility!

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22) Our lives are filled with puzzles and enigmas and riddles. We all harbor aspects of ourselves that we don't understand. I hope that in 2021, you will be on a mission to learn more about these parts of yourself. One of your superpowers will be a capacity to uncover secrets and solve mysteries. Bonus: I suspect you'll be able to make exceptional progress in getting to the root of confusing quandaries that have undermined you—and then fixing the problems so they no longer undermine you.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22) When actor Gene Wilder was eight years old, his mother began to have heart-related health issues. The doctor that treated her suggested he could help her out if he would try to make her laugh. From then on, Wilder cultivated an ability to tell jokes and got interested in becoming an actor. Ultimately he appeared in 22 films and was nominated for two Oscars and two Golden Globe Awards. I foresee a comparable development in your life in 2021: A challenging situation will inspire you in ways that generate a major blessing.

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22) In my astrological opinion, love won't be predictable in 2021. It won't be easily definable or comparable to what you're experienced before. But I also suspect that love will be delightfully enigmatic. It will be unexpectedly educational and fervently fertile and oddly comfortable. Your assignment, as I understand

it, will be to shed your certainties about what love is and is not so that the wild, fresh challenges and opportunities of love can stream into your life in their wildest, freshest state.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21) Until 1893, Hawaii was a sovereign nation. In January of that year, a group of wealthy foreigners, mostly Americans, overthrew the existing government with the help of the US military. They established a fake temporary "republic" that excluded native Hawaiians from positions of power. Their goal, which was to be annexed by the United States, was fulfilled in July 1898. I propose that you use this sad series of events as a motivational story in 2021. Make it your goal to resist all efforts to be colonized and occupied. Commit yourself passionately to preserving your sovereignty and independence. Be a tower of power that can't be owned.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21) In 2021, you may be smarter than you have ever been. Not necessarily wiser, too, although I have reason to hope that you will leverage your smartness to also deepen your wisdom. But as I was saying, your intelligence could very well soar beyond its previous heights. Your ability to speak articulately, stir up original thoughts, and solve knotty riddles should be at a peak. Is there any potential downside to this outbreak of brilliance? Only one that I can imagine: It's possible that your brain will be working with such dominant efficiency that it will drown out messages from your heart. And that would be a shame. In order to do what I referred to earlier— leverage your smartness to deepen your wisdom—you'll need to be receptive to your heart's messages

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19) The birds known as red knots breed every year in the Arctic regions. Then they fly south—*way* south— down to the southern edge of South America, more than 9,000 miles away. A few months later they make the return trip to the far north. In 1995, ornithologists managed to put a monitoring band on one red knot's leg, making it possible to periodically get a read on his adventures over the subsequent years. The bird's nickname is Moonbird, because he has traveled so many miles in the course of his life that it's equivalent to a jaunt to the moon. He's known as "the toughest four ounces on the planet." I nominate him to be your magical creature in 2021. I suspect you will have stamina, hardiness, persistence, and determination like his.

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18) An Aquarian park ranger named Roy Sullivan was struck by lightning seven times in the course of his 71 years on the planet. (That's a world record.) None of the electrostatic surges killed him, although they did leave a few burns. After studying your astrological potentials for 2021, I've concluded that you may be the recipient, on a regular basis, of a much more pleasurable and rewarding kind of lightning strike: the metaphorical kind. I advise you to prepare yourself to be alert for more epiphanies than usual: exciting insights, inspiring revelations, and useful ideas.

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20) Coral reefs are in danger all over the world. These "rainforests of the sea" are being decimated by ocean acidification, toxic runoff from rivers, rising temperatures, and careless tourists. Why should we care? Because they're beautiful! And also because they're hotbeds of biodiversity, providing homes for 25 percent of all marine species. They also furnish protection for shorelines from erosion and storm damage, and are prime spots to harvest seafood. So I'm pleased people are finding ways to help reefs survive and recover. For example, a group in Thailand is having success using superglue to re-attach broken-off pieces to the main reefs. I hope this vignette inspires you to engage in metaphorically similar restorative and rejuvenating activities, Pisces. In 2021, you will have an enhanced power to heal.

HOMEWORK: Make a bold positive prediction for your life in 2021. FreeWillAstrology.com

Check out Rob Brezsny’s Expanded Weekly Audio Horoscopes & Daily Text Message Horoscopes

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