Pigs at Powell's
We were in Powell's last weekend, taking a break from the blistering boredom of the I-5 corridor. Powell's is, for those who have never had the joy of visiting Portland, Oregon, an entire city block of books. Four stories, nine -- ten, maybe -- color-coded rooms overflowing with, well, everything you could imagine that is still in print. And quite a few books that aren't.
Across the street used to be Ozone Records and this intersection of 11th and Burnside was Heaven for young lads with disposable income. Ozone is now a Buffalo Exchange, and the newly opened Ozone UK located a block east is but a pale shadow of its former self (though there was a huge wave of nostalgia for the old days which washed over me when I stepped in on Sunday and heard Curve's Cuckoo playing). Djangos.com's flagship store is just up the street from Powell's, though I had to admit a preference for shopping their online store -- access to their entire inventory, a Notify Me list, and you don't have to wonder if the sixteen-year old they have filing records knows anything about the more independent genres of music.
It's been a year or so since I've been to Powell's and the neighborhood has changed. They've been tearing down parts of the old Henry Weinhard's brewing facility for years now (I've got pictures somewhere of the wreckage of the first building), but, in the last year, the contractors have outdone themselves. In the past, the blocks to the west and north of Powell's had been quasi-industrial, a string of streets with relatively available parking and silent warehouses. Now it is all chrome and glass and dark brick and high tech metered parking. At least three of the new buildings are high-rise condominiums. There's a Whole Foods grocery market, at least two gelati places, and about a dozen coffee shops.
The Terrafazione Italia shop plays the Acid Jazz DMX channel. There's a whole range of culture being co-opted for mass consumption by the hipster set right there.
You have to go into Powell's with a plan. Random browsing is too overwhelming. You have to have a couple of titles in mind when you hit the Green Room, otherwise you'll be found in the back corner of the Rose Room in six hours, immobilized by the stack of books you're trying to carry around.
I was after a copy of Bad Wisdom by Bill Drummond and Mark Manring. Drummond is one half of The KLF Foundation and Manring has been fucked by rock in his disguise as Zodiac Mindwarp. Bad Wisdom is the travel diary of their journey to the North Pole with an icon of Elvis. Yeah, I know it sounds like High Art and all, but these two have a knack for turning hijinks/performance art into acts of random enlightenment which are both entertaining and inspiring. I had also hoped to get lucky and find a used copy of John Burdett's Bangkok 8.
We came out with a bunch of kid's books. Fully cognizant that we're going to be reading these books about a million times to our son before he gets old enough to tackle the complete library of Alexander Dumas that is waiting for him, our aim is to add books to our permanent library that have some staying power with the adult mind as well. Holly Hobbie's Toot & Puddle books make me laugh -- every time -- and are an obvious choice. The harder sell was The Wolves in the Walls by Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean. Anything with Dave's work in it is a no-brainer for me, but his work is probably a little too strong for young tykes.
Fortunately, there is a very stout-hearted and brave pig puppet in The Wolves in the Walls. There is at least one night in my future of sitting up with Solomon due to nightmares brought about because Dad's imagination has bled all over his wee boy and, yeah, that's the trade off and I can live with that. But there is a pig I can anchor him with and that'll help.
Pigs anchor all of us, you know. Ask any Chinese Astrologer.