ONE STORY ENDS, ANOTHER BEGINS

At a certain age you know how the story ends.

Things change, someone moves, you drift away.

But you still have memories, sweet memories, and that’s enough?

Noooooo. A good, long, “Noooooooo.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve heard of ‘destiny’, about ‘preordained’ this, and ‘inevitable’ that.

If it is the first time, I’ll explain: It’s a bunch of hooey used to explain the results of good luck and timing after reviewing a series of events, the outcome of a race, or a lifetime.

As much as I like the predictable, the dependable, and I don’t think I’m alone here, the more amazing the unpredictable and undependable are.

A football game is winding down, the home team is winning a close one, the opposing fans depressed and angry, until the Sports Gods spoke.

Things happen and there’s no one to blame. Every shot doesn’t go in, every pass isn’t a touchdown, and no one wins every race all the time.

 

We all saw the automotive future in 1967.

 

Half a century ago that Granatelli jet car carried Parnelli Jones and me far and fast into a future that never got here.

My own future, whatever it holds, is nearer now than ever, but that car transports me still.

 

The driver was a man named Parnelli Jones, a great racer name.

If a friend drove too fast they heard, “Hey, Parnelli, slow down.”

Parnelli held the lead until the Racing Gods spoke.

 

Jones built an insurmountable lead—until a $6 transmission bearing burned up with three laps to go. Jones coasted to the pit entrance while friend and rival A.J. Foyt went on to win.

By 1970, restrictions on air volumes and drivetrains had effectively legislated the jet cars out of the race.

With their throttle lag they were poorly suited to other tracks and other kinds of racing, and what had looked like a technological inevitability became instead a curiosity, a crazy Day-Glo moment in racing history.

 

Smaller Stories For The Rest Of Us

The Cargo store sits on Portland’s eastside just off the Water exit, the OMSI exit, coming down from the Marquam Bridge on I-5 north.

Hit the exit and the store is two blocks up on Yamhill on the left past the first stop sign.

Inside has the vintage feel of an old head shop, like an organized stoner created a space to get lost in.

Bins of vinyl, doo-dads, and things. Something will snag you.

This got me:

 

 

Rah Azul:

 

This may not be a selling point, but the east wall of Cargo is right by the railroad tracks and a train came by while my wife and I were there. (Yes, I carried the basket for Christmas stocking stuffers. And her purse. With no problem. No. Problem.)

Did we watch the train like a couple of kids? Yes. And it was a long one. I took video.

How many times do you get to see a train pass in comfort? Hardly ever.

 

One Story Ends, Another Begins

Both pictures are Portland, Oregon on the same day, yesterday, Sunday November 1, 2026.

Free parking Sunday, low traffic Sunday, go downtown and walk around Sunday.

That was the plan.

You can’t get more downtown than standing in the middle of Broadway and SW Jefferson.

Unless you go under the Hawthorne Bridge.

From Cargo on Yamhill drive up to 3rd St and turn south. In a few blocks you’ll see a one way sign under a bridge overpass.

Turn right and suddenly it’s the car chase scene from French Connection.

It’s a whole ‘nother downtown Portland under the Hawthorne.

It’s a whole different downtown on the Portland State campus, too.

 

PSU

My wife went to her first Hearty Plant meeting.

I dropped her at the pull-out on Market off the 12th St exit from 405 while I went to a Hearty Husband meeting.

Today it was held in my garage.

We all decided to get a lifting workout, a sauna, and a miserable Cowboy loss to the Cardinals to ruin my football trifecta.

I had high hopes after my North Bend Bulldogs defeated arch-rival Marshfield Pirates in the sort of stomp down that always went the other way in my day.

Then my Oregon Ducks pulled one out against Northwestern.

 

A couple of weeks ago I was in a place in Scottsdale Arizona drinking a margarita and eating chips while the Cardinals won their game in dramatic fashion.

The place was dead quiet. Was it quiet when they beat the Cowboys in overtime?

They may not be sports fans, but they like their town, and that’s how I feel about Portland.

I’m not in love, but I want a good experience.

Drop wife on time, pick her up on time. No funny business in between.

Pick up our pals for a dinner double date and discover we’re too early for our first choice?

Our senior citizen supper plans got adjusted, then adjusted again, until we rolled into the best place we’ve been yet.

This is a highlight, a win, in any city.

No mugging, no vandalism, no random violence, just a moment of wonder, some swordfish, sturgeon, and a gin and tonic.

Throw in a little sword-play for the last morsel of fish and it adds up to a joyful evening.

 

PS:

I finished the day at home watching a painful Sunday night game and not gorging on Halloween candy.

 

PSS:

Did I catch up on the latest news and world events? Noooooo.

Why? Because I voted and put my ballot in the box.

I made my mark:

 

Vote for people who support tranquility at home, peace abroad, your safety, and your prosperity.

Or vote for candidates whose main qualifications are ass-kissing, glad handing, and speaking on approval from their guy.

Do you want American representatives who dance to the tune from a tone deaf bully who answers questions about his decisions with, “Because I said so?”

When a man or woman can’t stand up on their own and instead use an orange crutch, they’re not fit for service.

There’s nothing wrong with being unfit to serve.

I’ll put on my Army E3 hat to explain: When one guy brings discredit and punishment to the whole platoon, the platoon responds.

No one deserves a blanket party for their poor decisions, don’t do that.

But poor decisions that hurt the country, drive costs up, interferes with education, creates doubt and mistrust in what were stable relationships with other nations, and draws in smart people who hadn’t thought of bullshitting their way through life for fun and profit, don’t deserve your vote.

Instead, vote for the grinder instead of the grandstander, the person who is running to solve problems they understand from their own deep immersion in the process, not the fuckstick who’s never held office but knows more about everything than anyone in the history of recorded time.

We’ve seen those people work out their weird-assed ideas on the world stage.

One of them shit-talked an entire nation into WWII. No one needs that.

Vote for people who understand a better life for you, for us, is more than tearing shit up and leaving it, more than consorting with jerks more than happy to tear shit up and leave it.

Vote like an American with a working conscience and consideration for your fellow man.

Those are two nice things worth your vote.