Portland Sayings And Quotes

I am going to a conference tomorrow," she said. "In Portland. Dr. Melissa Sanchez will speak. She says you think your way to a sexier you. Hormones are powerful drugs. Unless we tell them what we want, they backfire. They work against us." Dorothea turned, pointing the Ajax can at me for emphasis. "Now I wake in the morning and take red lipstick to my mirror. 'I am sexy,' I write. 'Men want me. Sixty-five is the new twenty-five.

They haven't killed us yet," I say, and I imagine that one day I will fly a plane over Portland, over Rochester, over every fenced-in city in the whole country, and I will bomb and bomb and bomb, and watch all their buildings smoldering to dust, and all those people melting and bleeding into flame, and I will see how they like it. If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit. This is the way the world is made now.

Craziness is only a matter of degree, and there are lots of people besides me who have the urge to roll heads. They go to stock-car races and the horror movies and the wrestling matches they have in Portland Expo. Maybe what she said smacked of all those things, but I admired her for saying out loud, all the same--the price of honesty is always high. She had an admirable grasp of the fundamentals. Besides, she was tiny and pretty.

Scott gave my knee an affectionate squeeze. "You'll never hear me admit this again, so listen up. You look good, Grey. On a scale from one to ten, you're definitely in the top half." "Gee, thanks." "You're not the kind of girl I would have chased after when I was in Portland, but I'm not the same guy I was back then either. You're a little too good for me, and let's face it, a little too smart." "You've got street smarts," I pointed out. "Stop interrupting. You're going to make me lose my place." "You've got this speech memorized?" A smirk. "I've got a lot of time on my hands. As I was saying--hell. I forgot where I was." "You were telling me I can rest assured that I'm better-looking than half the girls at my school." "That was a figure of speech. If you want to get technical, you're better-looking than ninety percent. Give or take." I laid a hand over my heart. "I'm speechless." Scott got down on his knee and clasped my hand dramatically. "Yes, Nora. Yes, I'll go to the homecoming dance with you.

As dazed as I was, I still remembered to say I was from Portland instead of Beaverton, to avoid sounding like a hick—or having to endure any beaver-related attempts at humor.

Gotta say you Portland people take weird to a new level.

It’s like each face was a sign like one of those “I’m Blind” signs the dago accordion players in Portland hung around their necks, only these signs say “I’m tired” or “I’m scared” or “I’m dying of a bum liver” or “I’m all bound up with machinery and people pushing me alla time.” I can read all the signs, it don’t make any difference how little the print gets.

Honesty was the strongest thing there was, because once you were brave enough to be honest, there wasn’t much anybody could say that could cut through what you’d already put out there. Your truth was your sword and your shield.

Katherine’s theory is that everyone looking to make a new life migrates west, across America to the Pacific Ocean. Once there, the cheapest city where they can live is Portland. This gives us the most cracked of the crackpots. The misfits among misfits. “We just accumulate more and more strange people,” she says. “All we are are the fugitives and refugees.

Gate C22 At gate C22 in the Portland airport a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed a woman arriving from Orange County. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking, the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island, like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing. Neither of them was young. His beard was gray. She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish kisses like the ocean in the early morning, the way it gathers and swells, sucking each rock under, swallowing it again and again. We were all watching– passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could taste the kisses crushed in our mouths. But the best part was his face. When he drew back and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost as though he were a mother still open from giving birth, as your mother must have looked at you, no matter what happened after–if she beat you or left you or you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth. The whole wing of the airport hushed, all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body, her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses, little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

Percy gripped his leather necklace. " I started to remember in Portland, after the gorogon's blood. It's been coming back to me slowly since then. There is another camp __ Camp Half-Blood." Just saying the name made Percy feel warm inside. Good memories washed over him: the smell of strawberry fields in the warm summer sun, fireworks lightning up the beach on the Fourth of July, satyrs playing panpipes at the nightly campfire, and a kiss at the bottom of the canoe lake

Her baby wouldn’t stop crying. She’d started fussing at the last station, when the Greyhound bus out of Bangor stopped in Portland to pick up more passengers. Now, at a little after 1 A.M., they were almost to the Boston terminal, and the two-plus hours of trying to soothe her infant daughter were, as her friends back in school would say, getting on her last nerve.

Sort of Coping" Why is anyone in the world so terrible. Real catastrophe and catastrophizing. If we only knew when it was going to happen. I saw you put your hands on the floor. Intimacy without disturbances. The scope here of memorization, planets. The history of children sitting still. You are so cute in all your facebook photos. When you moved to Portland I forgot we used to call you Tumbleweed Tex. All those barking dogs, feathered hair. We have something in common I never mention. I wish I’d written it down and folded it into one of your piles saying I want to read every one of these books! Do you think you’ll have read them all before the end of time. Did you go in to see her when she was dead. Maybe you already knew.

One day a little old lady came and asked my name, saying she couldn’t read my nametag. I told her and reached for the little slip of paper she held, but she put it behind her back. It seemed she wanted to chat before giving it up. Fine with me. We chatted about our matching cardigans (the fact that I dress like a little old lady was not lost on me) and we chatted about how the Portland weather bothered her bones. We talked for a long while about her husband and how much she’d grown to hate him over the years. Then, since I guessed I’d earned her trust, she handed me her slip of paper. It was for a book on exotic poisons. I got her the book and spent the next few weeks scanning the obituaries for every old man that had died. So, yes, folks I may be an accomplice to murder. Don’t say there’s no excitement at the library.

When I took it off, I glanced in the mirror behind the dresser, and I nearly screamed when I saw the reflection. Finn was sitting behind me on the bed. His eyes, dark as night, met mine in the mirror, and I could hardly breathe. "Finn!" I gasped and whirled around to look at him. "What are you doing here?" "I missed your birthday," he said, as if that answered my question. He lowered his eyes, looking at a small box he had in his hands. "I got you something." "You got me something?" I leaned back on the dresser behind me, gripping it. "Yeah." He nodded, still staring down at the box. "I picked it up outside of Portland two weeks ago. I meant to get back in time to give it to you on your birthday." He chewed the inside of his cheek. "But now that I'm here, I'm not sure I should give it to you at all." "What are you talking about?" I asked. "It doesn't feel right." Finn rubbed his face. "I don't even know what I'm doing here." "Neither do I," I said. "Don't get me wrong. I'm happy to see you. I just...I don't understand." "I know." He sighed. "It's a ring. What I got you." His gaze moved from me to the engagement ring sitting on the dresser beside me. "And you already have one." "Why did you get me a ring?" I asked tentatively, and my heart beat erratically in my chest. I didn't know what Finn was saying or doing. "I'm not proposing to you, if that's what you're asking." He shook his head. "I saw it and thought of you. But now it seems like poor taste. And here I am, the night before your wedding sneaking in to give you a ring." "Why did you sneak in?" I asked. "I don't know." He looked away and laughed darkly. "That's a lie. I know exactly what I'm doing, but I have no idea why I'm doing it." "What are you doing?" I asked quietly. "I..." Finn stared off for a moment, then turned back to me and stood up. "Finn, I-" I began, but he held up his hand, stopping me. "No, I know you're marrying Tove," he said. "You need to do this. We both know that. It's what's best for you, and it's what I want for you." He paused. "But I want you for myself too." All I'd ever wanted from Finn was for him to admit how he felt about me, and he'd waited until the day before my wedding. It was too late to change anything, to take anything back. Not that I could have, even if I wanted to. "Why are you telling me this?" I asked with tears swimming in my eyes. "Because." Finn stepped toward me, stopping right in front of me. He looked down at me, his eyes mesmerizing me the way they always did. He reached up, brushing back a tear from my cheek. "Why?" I asked, my voice trembling. "I needed you to know," he said, as if he didn't truly understand it himself. He set the box on the dresser beside me, and his hand went to my waist, pulling me to him. I let go of the dresser and let him. My breath came out shallow as I stared up at him. "Tomorrow you will belong to someone else," Finn said. "But tonight, you're with me.

It's like each face was a sign like one of those "I'm Blind" signs the accordion players in Portland hung around their necks, only these signs say "I'm tired" or "I'm scared" or "I'm dying of a bum liver "or "I'm all bound up with machinery and people pushing me alla time." I can read all the signs, it dont make any difference how little the print gets. Some of the faces are looking around at one another and could read the other fellows if they would, but what's the sense? The faces blow past in the fog like confetti. I'm further off than I've ever been. This is what it's like to be dead. I guess this is what it's like to be a Vegetable; you lose yourself in the fog. You don't move. They feed your body till it finally stops eating; then they burn it. It's not so bad. There's no pain. I don't feel much of anything other than a touch of chill I figure will pass in time.

This is the hospital's idea of nondenominational." She points around the chapel. There is a crucifix mounted on the wall, a flag of a cross draped over the lectern, and a few paintings of the Madonna and Child hanging in the back."We have a token Star of David," she says, gesturing to the six-pointed star on the wall. "But what about the Muslims? No prayer rugs or symbol to show which way is east towards Mecca? And what about the Buddhists? Couldn't they spring for a gong? I mean there are probably more Buddhists than Jews in Portland anyway.

That supposed to be a comment about what? My legs? My butt? Let’s say that I know it’s a view. You could call it a panorama. Probably too much of one.” “Oh, no.” He was still smiling, but the smile had changed some. “That’s not too much. That’s a Southern boy’s hello-baby. That’s biscuits and gravy you got going on there. That’s a long, slow good time, sweet tea in the porch swing and your sweetheart in a pretty little dress, shoving off with her bare foot and giving you that come-on-boy smile. That’s bourbon and Coke and Friday night, is what that is.

If they want to buy fish they buy them back at the highway; they don’t come to the village because they probably think we still scalp people and burn them around a post. They don’t know some of our people are lawyers in Portland, probably wouldn’t believe it if I told them. In fact, one of my uncles became a real lawyer and Papa says he did it purely to prove he could, when he’d rather poke salmon in the fall than anything. Papa says if you don’t watch it people will force you one way or the other, into doing what they think you should do, or into just being mule-stubborn and doing the opposite out of spite.

But, should the period ever arrive, when luxury and intemperance shall corrupt our towns, while ignorance and vice pervade the country; when the press shall become the common sewer of falsehood and slander; when talents and integrity shall be no recommendation, and open dereliction of all principle no obstacle to preferment; when we shall entrust our liberties to men with whom we should not dare to trust our property; when the chief seats of honor and responsibility in our government shall be filled by characters of whom the most malicious ingenuity can invent nothing worse than the truth; when we shall see the members of our national councils, in defiance of the laws of God and their country, throwing away their lives in defence of reputations, which, if they ever existed, had long been lost; when the slanderers of Washington and the blasphemers of our God shall be thought useful laborers in our political vineyard; when, in fine, we shall see our legislators sacrificing their senses, their reason, their oaths, and their consciences at the altar of party;—then we may say, that virtue has departed, and that the end of our liberty draweth nigh." p37

If it was a mistake not to finish school (it wasn't!), it was an even worse mistake to go to work. ("Work! The word was so painful he couldn't bring himself to pronounce it," says a character in one of Cossery's books.) Until I was almost eighteen I had know freedom, a relative freedom, which is more than most people ever get to know. (It included "freedom of speech," which has hung over into my writing.) Then, like an idiot, I entered the lists. Overnight, as it were, the bit was put in my mouth, I was saddled, and the cruel rowels were dug into my tender flanks. It didn't take long to realize what a shithouse I had let myself into. Every new job I took was a step further in the direction of "murder, death and blight." I think of them still as prisons, whorehouses, lunatic asylums: the Atlas Portland Cement Co., the Federal Reserve Bank, the Bureau of Economic Research, the Charles Williams Mail Order House, the Western Union Telegraph Co., etc. To think that I wasted ten years of my life serving these anonymous lords and masters! That look of rapture in Pookie's eyes, that look of supreme admiration which I reserved for such as Eddie Carney, Lester Reardon, Johnny Paul: it was gone, lost, buried. It returned only when, much later, I reached the point where I was completely cut off, thoroughly destitute, utterly abandoned. When I became the nameless one, wandering as a mendicant through the streets of my own home town. Then I began to see again, to look with eyes of wonder, eyes of love, into the eyes of my fellow-man.

Treating Abuse Today (Tat), 3(4), pp. 26-33 Freyd: I see what you're saying but people in psychology don't have a uniform agreement on this issue of the depth of -- I guess the term that was used at the conference was -- "robust repression." TAT: Well, Pamela, there's a whole lot of evidence that people dissociate traumatic things. What's interesting to me is how the concept of "dissociation" is side-stepped in favor of "repression." I don't think it's as much about repression as it is about traumatic amnesia and dissociation. That has been documented in a variety of trauma survivors. Army psychiatrists in the Second World War, for instance, documented that following battles, many soldiers had amnesia for the battles. Often, the memories wouldn't break through until much later when they were in psychotherapy. Freyd: But I think I mentioned Dr. Loren Pankratz. He is a psychologist who was studying veterans for post-traumatic stress in a Veterans Administration Hospital in Portland. They found some people who were admitted to Veteran's hospitals for postrraumatic stress in Vietnam who didn't serve in Vietnam. They found at least one patient who was being treated who wasn't even a veteran. Without external validation, we just can't know -- TAT: -- Well, we have external validation in some of our cases. Freyd: In this field you're going to find people who have all levels of belief, understanding, experience with the area of repression. As I said before it's not an area in which there's any kind of uniform agreement in the field. The full notion of repression has a meaning within a psychoanalytic framework and it's got a meaning to people in everyday use and everyday language. What there is evidence for is that any kind of memory is reconstructed and reinterpreted. It has not been shown to be anything else. Memories are reconstructed and reinterpreted from fragments. Some memories are true and some memories are confabulated and some are downright false. TAT: It is certainly possible for in offender to dissociate a memory. It's possible that some of the people who call you could have done or witnessed some of the things they've been accused of -- maybe in an alcoholic black-out or in a dissociative state -- and truly not remember. I think that's very possible. Freyd: I would say that virtually anything is possible. But when the stories include murdering babies and breeding babies and some of the rather bizarre things that come up, it's mighty puzzling. TAT: I've treated adults with dissociative disorders who were both victimized and victimizers. I've seen previously repressed memories of my clients' earlier sexual offenses coming back to them in therapy. You guys seem to be saying, be skeptical if the person claims to have forgotten previously, especially if it is about something horrible. Should we be equally skeptical if someone says "I'm remembering that I perpetrated and I didn't remember before. It's been repressed for years and now it's surfacing because of therapy." I ask you, should we have the same degree of skepticism for this type of delayed-memory that you have for the other kind? Freyd: Does that happen? TAT: Oh, yes. A lot.

The game had only two rules. The first was that every statement had to have at least two words in which the first letters were switched. “You’re not my little sister,” Shawn said. “You’re my sittle lister.” He pronounced the words lazily, blunting the t’s to d’s so that it sounded like “siddle lister.” The second rule was that every word that sounded like a number, or like it had a number in it, had to be changed so that the number was one higher. The word “to” for example, because it sounds like the number “two,” would become “three.” “Siddle Lister,” Shawn might say, “we should pay a-eleven-tion. There’s a checkpoint ahead and I can’t a-five-d a ticket. Time three put on your seatbelt.” When we tired of this, we’d turn on the CB and listen to the lonely banter of truckers stretched out across the interstate. “Look out for a green four-wheeler,” a gruff voice said, when we were somewhere between Sacramento and Portland. “Been picnicking in my blind spot for a half hour.” A four-wheeler, Shawn explained, is what big rigs call cars and pickups. Another voice came over the CB to complain about a red Ferrari that was weaving through traffic at 120 miles per hour. “Bastard damned near hit a little blue Chevy,” the deep voice bellowed through the static. “Shit, there’s kids in that Chevy. Anybody up ahead wanna cool this hothead down?” The voice gave its location. Shawn checked the mile marker. We were ahead. “I’m a white Pete pulling a fridge,” he said. There was silence while everybody checked their mirrors for a Peterbilt with a reefer. Then a third voice, gruffer than the first, answered: “I’m the blue KW hauling a dry box.” “I see you,” Shawn said, and for my benefit pointed to a navy-colored Kenworth a few cars ahead. When the Ferrari appeared, multiplied in our many mirrors, Shawn shifted into high gear, revving the engine and pulling beside the Kenworth so that the two fifty-foot trailers were running side by side, blocking both lanes. The Ferrari honked, weaved back and forth, braked, honked again. “How long should we keep him back there?” the husky voice said, with a deep laugh. “Until he calms down,” Shawn answered. Five miles later, they let him pass. The trip lasted about a week, then we told Tony to find us a load to Idaho. “Well, Siddle Lister,” Shawn said when we pulled into the junkyard, “back three work.” — THE WORM CREEK OPERA HOUSE announced a new play: Carousel. Shawn drove me to the audition, then surprised me by auditioning himself. Charles was also there, talking to a girl named

Chris smiled at me, showing two ridiculously cute dimples and a few feet away a waitress dropped an empty cup she had cleared from a table. Blushing, she muttered an apology and hurried inside. I scowled at him, refusing to be swayed by his charm. “I see,” he murmured, nodding slightly as if he had just solved a puzzle. “See what?” Ignoring my question, he pulled out a cell phone, hit a number and held the phone out to me. I hesitated for a few seconds then took the phone and put it to my ear. “What’s up, Chris?” said a familiar deep voice on the other end. “Good question,” I responded tersely. “I told Chris you’d recognize him if he got too close.” Was that amusement in his tone? “Great. You won the bet. Buy him a beer or whatever.” I glanced at Chris, saw that he looked amused now, too and I grew even more agitated. “I thought we had an understanding when you left here last week.” “And what understanding would that be?” I gritted my teeth. “The one where you go your way and I go mine and we all live happily ever after.” “I don’t recall that particular arrangement,” he replied in his infuriatingly easy manner. “I believe I told you I’d be seeing you again.” I opened my mouth but words would not come out. People say ‘I’ll be seeing you’ all the time when they say good bye. It doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean they will send their friends to stalk you. “Sara?” “What do you want from me, Nikolas? I told you I just want to be left alone.” There was a brief silence then a quiet sigh on the other end. “We got word of increased activity in Portland and we have reason to believe the vampire might be searching for you.” It felt like an icy breath touched the back of my neck. Eli’s face flashed through my mind and my knees wobbled. Roland stepped close to me. “What’s wrong, Sara? What is he saying to you?” I smiled weakly at Roland and put up a hand to let him know I’d fill him in when I got off the phone. “I don’t know anyone in Portland so there is no way he can trace me here, right?” “There is more than one way to track someone.” Nikolas’s voice hardened. “Don’t worry, we will keep you safe. Chris will stay close by until we handle this situation.” Great, I was the ‘situation’ again. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not a child.” “No you’re not,” he replied gruffly and warmth unfurled in my stomach. “But you are not a warrior either. It is our duty to protect you even if you don’t want it.” I felt like stomping my feet like a two year old. Didn’t I get any choice in this? My eyes fell on Chris as I spoke. “How close is he planning to stay? He’s kind of conspicuous and I can’t have my uncle or anyone else asking questions.” Chris peered in confusion down at his form-fitting blue jeans and black sweater as Nikolas said, “Conspicuous?” I looked heavenward. “If you guys wanted to blend in you shouldn’t have sent Dimples here. The way some of the women are staring at him, I might end up having to protect him instead.” There was a cough on the other end and Nikolas sounded like he was grinning when he said, “Ah, I’m sure Chris can take care of himself. He will be in town in case we suspect any trouble is coming that way.

The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation. Did you know the KKK was very active in Portland as recently as the 1980s? Someone even called Portland the skinhead capital of the US back then. We can’t say racism doesn’t exist because it’s never personally touched us. It’s here and it can be deadly.

Merritt Paulson and the Portland Thorns essentially had their pick of the bunch. But it had been established well before the allocation process that the Thorns would be getting Alex Morgan, the most marketable player on the national team. Her preferred destinations included Portland and Seattle, but Paulson targeted Morgan as soon as he agreed to join the league. “It wasn’t a quid pro quo, but I definitely said to Sunil: If I’m going to be the one MLS team coming, I certainly want to make sure we get some terrific players to build around,” Paulson says. “We had Hope Solo last on our list. So, we had one player that we didn’t want anywhere near the team, and then Alex was the big ask for us.

Do Magic’s Lakers win five titles with Jordan before Jordan thriving in Denver and Walton’s feet holding up in Portland? I’m going out on a limb and saying no. What a shame.

Janet Portland was her daughter’s alibi for murder,” Peggy says. “Then a year later, Janet decided to stop being her alibi anymore. And now she’s here. On enough medications to kill a horse. You can connect the dots from there.

I didn’t know I was so tired.” They had been packing for days, finalizing their arrangements, saying their good-byes. Of course she would be exhausted. “At least an hour.” Joe shelled an egg into a napkin on his knee. “Sleep more if you want. You need your rest. It’ll be a long ride yet.” They finished their lunch, and as they were packing it away, the conductor came through the car. “Portland, Portland is next.

Dear Thomas, What is there left to say? You know I’m sorry. You know I miss you. How many letters can a sister possibly write to her brother before he believes her? My heart breaks again and again. Did you ever truly find happiness, or did I steal it away forever? How I wish you could sit in this room—as awful as it is—and tell me the stories of your life. You were such a wonderful brother, putting up with me during my teenage years. Can you believe the things I did? So desperate for attention. And you were the only one who ever gave it to me. You even gave up living in the dorms to stay home for me. What would I have done without you? I still laugh about the time you beat up Jim Harrison for calling me a skank. How strange we never spoke of Vietnam. Or the fall of the Berlin Wall, the war in the Middle East. Can you believe we all have computers? Can you believe Tom Brady? That’s right, I keep up a little. How about Portland’s evolution? I thought the Maine Mall would ruin our city forever. I hope you know that after hitting rock bottom, I’ve dedicated my life to making up for my sins and attempting to honor you. I suppose it’s not much, but it’s the most I can offer. I love you, Thomas. Always your sister, I hope, Emma

Portland?” I ask. “Seattle,” he says. “I’ve never been,” I tell him. “All I know is what I saw in Fifty Shades of Grey.” He looks at me dead-on. “The most accurate representation of our city I can think of. Great work.

It was the early nineties, and Palahniuk was employed at a Portland, Oregon, truck-manufacturing company called Freightliner. Many of his colleagues were well-educated, underutilized guys who felt out of sorts in the world—and they put the blame on the men who’d raised them. “Everybody griped about what skills their fathers hadn’t taught them,” says Palahniuk. “And they griped that their fathers were too busy establishing new relationships and new families all the time and had just written off their previous children.

He had the marketing department organize tests, running commercials in only the Minneapolis and Portland media markets and measuring whether they generated an uptick in local purchases. They did—but, Bezos concluded, not enough to justify the investment.12 “It was pretty clear afterward that TV advertising wasn’t really having an impact,” says Mark Stabingas, a finance vice president who joined the company from Pepsi.

Well, I’d better see if Luke’s here and let you get back to … your stuff.” He looked down, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, my dad wasn’t a collector or any sort of packrat, but my parents were divorced. I’m his only child and my grandparents live in Portland, so I guess it’s my responsibility to decide what to do with everything. It’s all mine now, including the house. The funny part? I don’t want any of it.” “My brother’s fiancée died a year ago. Her stuff still hangs in his closet. It’s just stuff, but there has to be a finality to get rid of it. I bet you’ll feel it when the last thing is removed from here and someone else buys the place. The ‘stuff’ is the epilogue. The story is over, but part of it lives on like a ghost for just a few more pages. What’s left at the end of the epilogue?” “Nothing.” Lake cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “Depends on how you look at it.” “And how would you look at it?” “I’m not sure yet. My boyfriend died in the accident that took my leg. When I came out of my coma the funeral was over, his parents had cleaned out his apartment, and some other person lived there. I turned the page after the final chapter only to find no epilogue. The author of my life sucker punched me.” “Some would say the author of your life is God.” “And I’d agree. But no amount of faith can truly comfort a grieving heart that can’t make sense of such tragedy. I didn’t lose my faith, but I did feel like God sucker punched me. No epilogue. But he’s God so I’ll probably forgive him some day.” Cage chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll be grateful.” She tore her eyes away from his smile and those dimples. “I’m sure he’s waiting.

Back in Portland, Oregon, Diehl realized that another fundamental problem involved communication. Engineer Mendenhall had spotted the fuel problem. He had given a number of hints to the captain and, as the situation became serious, made direct references to the dwindling reserves. Diehl, listening back to the voice recorder, noted alterations in the intonation of the engineer. As the dangers spiraled he became ever more desperate to alert McBroom, but he couldn’t bring himself to challenge his boss directly. This is now a well-studied aspect of psychology. Social hierarchies inhibit assertiveness. We talk to those in authority in what is called “mitigated language.” You wouldn’t say to your boss: “It’s imperative we have a meeting on Monday morning.” But you might say: “Don’t worry if you’re busy, but it might be helpful if you could spare half an hour on Monday.”5 This deference makes sense in many situations, but it can be fatal when a 90-ton airplane is running out of fuel above a major city. The same hierarchy gradient also exists in operating theaters. Jane, the nurse, could see the solution. She had fetched the tracheotomy kit. Should she have spoken up more loudly? Didn’t she care enough? That is precisely the wrong way to think about failure in safety-critical situations. Remember that Engineer Mendenhall paid for his reticence with his life. The problem was not a lack of diligence or motivation, but a system insensitive to the limitations of human psychology.

Tate says I 'meddle.' I don't meddle. I just want what's best for her. And she's got good stuff that she doesn't mind me borrowing...as long as she doesn't notice it's gone.

The lack of affordable housing regulation allows rents to rise with little restriction, and Oregon law prohibits local governments from enacting almost all rent-control policies outside of special subsidized units. But regulation, like Portland’s famous urban growth boundary, has also enhanced the number of multi-unit buildings being constructed inside a limited zone to avoid suburban-like sprawl. Although Portland’s rental rates are not skyrocketing at the speed of San Francisco or even Seattle, the U.S. Census ranks Portland as having one of the tightest markets in the nation. Despite tax-abatement programs for luxury neighbors like the Pearl District and the South Waterfront supposedly tied to affordable-housing units, the city Housing Bureau says they won’t even meet 2003 goals, much less expand and continue programs. Meanwhile, the average condo price rose 41 percent last year and the average apartment rental has climbed at a steady pace of six percent in 2012 and again in 2013.

When the sun comes out in Portland, the city changes. All spring, there are hints of how good it’s going to be. It’s a Saturday morning, you walk outdoors and there are no clouds. Suddenly, you see people emerging from their homes, looking at the sky, confused. Everyone just stands there, soaking up the vitamin D. A few minutes later, they snap out of their stupor. They say: “Oh. Outside! I get it! This is how life used to be!” Sunglasses are uncovered, bikes are taken out of storage, and men remember what women are. People point their cameras toward the sky, take a picture of pure blue and immediately post it online. The caption will be a series of capitalized vowels followed by a field of exclamation points. But this is just a tease, because it will rain again. The city has to wait for the Fourth of July. After that, there won’t be rain for four months. That four months is what Portland is all about.

Trying to decide---I can't say if you should wait in line at Salt & Straw or Voodoo Doughnuts. Do you have a preference?" "Not waiting in line? Portlanders are surprisingly willing to wait for their food." "They're willing to wait when the food is worth their time. I think Salt & Straw. And really, they've got a smart setup to keep your wait as short as possible, and they give out samples while you're in line. At least, they did when I was there." "And this is... artisanal salt? And straw?" "It's ice cream," I said with a laugh. "Really good ice cream, with fun, inventive flavors. And even if you don't want inventive, the basics are worth the wait." "Well, if you're sending me to ice cream, then you have to get Cat to take you to Black Dog Gelato. Once you're back in Chicago, at least.

How do I get her back?” “You don’t. You cry. You watch L Word reruns. You say you’re going to go vegan and stop drinking, but you don’t actually do it. That’s what you do when you get dumped. Because people don’t come back.

Graham is also one of the few living products of artificial insemination experiments in red wolves, a technique that Will wants to further hone. Artificial insemination may be useful to the program in the future in case the captive breeding efforts to create matched pairs based on mean kinship falls short of reproductive goals. In some cases, the captive female wolves were so aggressive to males that they were paired with that breeding never took place. Artificial insemination and securing red wolf sperm from all of the founding lines of the captive breeding program were identified in the 1990 Red Wolf Recovery/Species Survival Plan. Not long after, workers began collecting red wolf sperm. According to Will, there happened to be a fellow outside of Portland who had an international canid semen bank. The captive breeding program contracted him to help explore the viability of using electroejaculation on wolves. In the 1990s, Will helped develop protocols for immobilizing, catheterizing, and stimulating the wolves they sampled. They went through the captive population and methodically collected and evaluated sperm from male red wolves. If the sperm met certain criteria, it was processed and frozen. Eventually, the cryopreserved red wolf semen bank held samples from sixty individuals, which collectively represented thirteen of the fourteen founding lines. The work died down when a grant ran out and one of the main reproductive physiologists switched jobs. Today, the early efforts to cryopreserve red wolf sperm and artificially inseminate females have proven their value - not just through Graham and his antics at the exhibit, but because a wolf named Stubs, one of the last living representatives from one of the fourteen founding lines, died in 1998. With Stubs’s death, the unique diversity of his founding lineage died within the captive population. However, his semen was collected and banked before he died. Will would like nothing more than to resurrect Stubs’s line. The only challenge, he says, is that the previous two cases of artificial insemination, in 1992 and 2003, were done using fresh sperm. In the first case, a six-year-old red wolf birthed two females and one male. Graham was born into a different litter of five. “Clearly, we know artificial insemination using cryopreserved sperm works. It’s been done in other animals,” Will says. “We just need to pick this research up again and see where it might lead.” If male red wolves experience a decrease in sperm quality, or if females are behaviorally uncooperative with their male counterparts, then artificial insemination may move from the realm of research to that of necessity. It’s always nice to have a backup plan.

A Guide to Choose the Perfect Paint Contractor Paints bring colors to the world and painters bring our dreams into shape. Wall painting requires some exclusive skills and people who master them are considered as experts. In today’s competitive market, everyone we see says that they are experienced and will be a perfect choice for a painting project, whether it is a room, a house, office or a tall building. But you can’t believe in their words. There are so many things that you need to consider while selecting a painting contractor. In the article, we have come up with a guideline that will truly help you find the right contractor. So, continue reading: Here’s what you should consider while choosing a Paint Contractor Considering a contractor for a wall painting project is a challenging task. So, you should follow the below-mentioned tips offered by Brian Erik Jamison of Portland Oregon, which will help you in this process.

It’s unfair that we can’t just be regular students here like everyone else,” I argued. “We’re the ones having sleepless nights while trying to get the administration to support us. But that is exactly what the Confederate flag bearer wants—for us to be so distracted that we fail our classes and reinforce the stereotype that we can’t cut it in a place like Harvard.” I then referenced a quote from Toni Morrison, who three years earlier had won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for Beloved, her devastatingly lyrical novel about a formerly enslaved woman choosing freedom on her own terms. More than a decade before that, in a 1975 lecture about the American Dream that Morrison gave at Portland State University, the author had cautioned that Black people needed to take care not to get turned aside by racism. “The function, the very serious function of racism…is distraction,” she had told her audience. “It keeps you from doing your work. It keeps you explaining, over and over again, your reason for being. Somebody says you have no language and so you spend twenty years proving that you do. Somebody says your head isn’t shaped properly so you have scientists working on the fact that it is. Somebody says you have no art, so you dredge that up. Somebody says that you have no kingdoms, and so you dredge that up. None of that is necessary. There will always be one more thing.” Thankfully, my friends heard what Toni Morrison sought to convey. From that day forward, we became more purposeful in how we showed up for rallies and protests, advocating for the causes we supported in between attending classes and study sessions, and refusing to allow our necessary activism to undermine our academic success. As Antoinette put it, “Our backs got straight, we faced forward, our stride was sure, because once we recognized the true toll of that Confederate flag, not just on our psyche but also our work, we were determined to get the last laugh.