Saturday, May 28, 2016


The sound was like a dozen metal trash cans dropped at once from ten stories up. A car-crash sound. It was after 2 a.m. I scrambled down four flights and looked out the front door. A car had barreled through the fenced-off area in front of our brownstone and up onto the stoop next door, pinning some poor guy up against the front of his building. Just some guy, out for a smoke.

He was struggling to breathe, his crushed ribcage unable to expand enough to inhale. The car was on top of his legs as well, but moving it could have made things worse. Neighbors surrounded the car, preventing the driver and his passengers from fleeing. I couldn't tell what the people in the car were on, but their eyes were glazed in a mix of shock and chemical confusion. They weren’t really taking it in.

The guy’s cigarette smoke still hung in the air.

I looked at the guy, who clearly was about to pass out from the pain. I told him “Stay awake, buddy. An ambulance is on the way. You need to keep your eyes open.”

Several people were making 911 calls, and a team from the fire department a few blocks away arrived quickly and got to work sawing the fence so they could get a gurney to the patient.

I could tell he wasn’t gonna make it.

The EMTs asked everyone to clear the area, so I went back upstairs and looked out the front window. The firemen dismantled the last of the fence with the Jaws of Life. The guy was loaded into an ambulance and taken away. The car’s occupants had yet to be dealt with, but blue flashing lights had joined the red, so the cops were on the case.

The next day I asked a beat officer about the crash, and he said the driver had been speeding and lost control of the vehicle. He pointed left up Vanderbilt Ave. to Grand Army Plaza, noting how traffic lights synced as drivers built a head of steam on their way downhill to Atlantic Ave.--often passing 60 in the 35 zone. Even if everyone drove sober all the time, mayhem was inevitable.

I asked about the guy—did the officer know which hospital they had taken him to? The cop said they couldn’t say anything because of privacy laws, but indicated it was unlikely someone could survive something like that. That was the most closure I got.

It was so random. I had staggered through the car’s path on the way to my own front door not ten minutes before the crash. My girlfriend or other neighbors could have easily been taken out. Was there anything to be done, or was this just the price of life in the big city? I had been in the building for a little over a year; it was my neighborhood, but I wasn’t a native.

A few months before, I had seen a cyclist hit when a car ran a red light turning onto our street. She was wearing a helmet, but had still been thrown up on the hood and smashed her head against the windshield. Even from bystander distance, you could see blood in some of the windshield cracks. Chilling. Again, passers-by quickly surrounded the vehicle so the driver couldn’t hit and run. Apparently this happened so often the neighborhood had developed a protocol to deal with it.

The car crash ate at me for several days. I found myself keeping one eye on traffic at all times, plotting crash vectors and picking safe points to dive in case a wayward vehicle had my name on it. I suggested my girlfriend do the same. I was getting kind of crazy.

I kept seeing the guy’s eyes, wide in fear. I was looking at someone with minutes left to live. Killed by an impaired driver, but also by chance. This happened a lot. Too much.

I wrote our city council rep and asked if there was anything to be done. Not about intoxicated drivers; there will likely always be someone who drives high. But the speeding—couldn’t something be done about that?

Surprisingly, she said the traffic light timing could be adjusted to keep drivers under the speed limit, and that “traffic calming” could make it less likely cars would cross over lanes. Within weeks, I noticed the lights were no longer all green at the same time. Within a few months, road crews had laid down raised concrete lane dividers—some with trees and landscaping!

It’s not like our neighborhood was suddenly free of all calamity. I saw a man stabbed in front of our building that very summer. The next year I saw new red spots on the sidewalk, leading to where someone had apparently bled out. Every time the temperature passed 90, you could count on street fights breaking out. But at least the cars were tamer. That was something.

I still think of the guy sometimes, pinned.

Written for an exercise by Chuck Wendig.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Why I'm single.

On OkCupid profiles, they ask "What's the most private thing you're willing to admit?"

One woman answered: "Um, I don't like fabric softener?"

So I wrote her.

Dear Miss: 

I must protest your anti-fabric softener stance in the strongest possible terms. Fabric softener is one of the few areas in which the United States maintains a position of undisputed dominance. Please do not think of me as an unthinking patriot, as I fully support our migrant fabric softener workers as well. I even think of them as fellow countrymen, beating down endless rows of hard-water conditioned apparel with their well-worn softening sticks. They are a proud people, each with their own stories of hardship and hope. 

But I digress. I would ask you to consider your words more carefully in the future. Just because Big Fabric Softener's image is seemingly unassailable, led by the universally-revered Snuggle Bear, we must remain vigilant in our support of this all-too-fragile industry. It should be a source of pride for everyone within our fine nation's borders. 

Yours in truth, 


Monday, May 30, 2011


My paternal grandmother died this morning after a long illness. She was 94.

Virginia Miller Belcher was always G-G to me. She and my grandfather (but especially she) had no interest in being GrandMAW and GrandPAW, so my Aunt came up with G-G ("Grandmother Ginny") and G-Pop as hipper alternatives. It was 1970. They were starting a well-earned retirement, having survived the Great Depression and WWII privations to become self-made millionaires.

My grandfather was a well-mannered Southern gentleman ("Open the door for your grandmother"), but G-G sealed business deals with well-planned parties and dinners. She wasn't doing it to land the cover of Southern Living, either. Ginny Belcher had a journalism degree from Northwestern and, as she was proud of saying, had been the third-highest female employee at Illinois Bell before she got married. She saw potential in their partnership. She and G-Pop loved and doted on each other, but they were also driven people who stressed hard work and education as keys to success.

G-G and G-Pop helped raise me when my parents didn't have their acts together, which was most of the time. My grandparents were a stable influence during weekend visits. Rolling up the long driveway to their house was like passing into sanctuary. I knew there would be no angry yelling there.

I could count on a comfortable routine at their place. There were trips to the beach and shopping for decent clothes and dinners at the country club and church, always church. Say "Yes, Sir" and "No Ma'am." Stand up when people approach your table. Look don't touch. Is your homework done? They had a lot of patience, especially when I was a teenager with raw emotional nerves. They should have gotten medals.

It may have been another chance for them to get parenthood right, or it could have been penance for their son's behavior while married. But it doesn't matter to me. G-G and G-Pop were a badly-needed second set of parents and I loved them for it.

G-G was always my number one fan. Her rallying cry was "Well get to it, kid!" I'm 41 now and G-G's gone; her cheering will have to come from my memory.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Mom died a year ago this week. She was kind of a slob, and one of the byproducts of that was that she would buy something and then lose it under a pile of other stuff. Then she'd buy another. As a result of this behavior, I inherited six rolls of dental floss.

I just used the last of it. I actually consider a year's worth of dental floss to have been a pretty practical inheritance.

Monday, February 1, 2010


It's easy to romanticize a distant train whistle. Up close they're loud warnings: Get Off The Tracks. I prefer them at a remove.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Why I Chose Stumptown

Since I moved from New York City to Portland Oregon four months ago, the top question I've been asked is "Why?"

Willamette Week, the top local indie paper, just released its annual Best of Portland poll. These answers sum up why I now call Stumptown home:

Best Reason to Love Portland

A strong plurality of you folks said the friendly, caring, weird and otherwise great people who live here are the best reason to love this city. You know what? We agree.

Runners-up: The Portland Timbers, craft beer, the food, the bike culture, the weather.

Some other notable suggestions:

“All the beautiful gardens people have in their front yards and parking strips.”

“Big-city resources, small-city community.”

“Bull Run water—fresh and natural.”

“Cafes, bikes, vintage stores, people and Forest Park (and days that take advantage of it all).”

“Casual attitude in a beautiful landscape.”

“Girls in miniskirts on bicycles!”

“Great gardening! Neighbors have chickens!”

“Hot, curvy tattooed chicks as far as you can see.”

“Is this even a question? Liberals, gays, green, and good music!”

“The best Argentine tango community in the U.S.”

“Its like Amsterdam but cleaner and with better bud.”

“It’s my hometown, motherfuckers! And bikes.”

“It’s the best parts of every Urban Utopia you’ve ever heard hyped, mashed together and slightly drunk.”

“Least-scary city ever—how times have changed.”

“No sales tax!”

“Rectangle glasses.”

“So many great restaurants, even though everyone would rather eat at food carts.”


I worry about the permanent record as it shifts from paper. China already does a number on a billion+ people with The Great Firewall. What happens if (alterable, revisionable) digital texts leave comparatively permanent paper behind? Ray Bradbury's firemen wouldn't need flamethrowers, just a figurative delete key.