writer, speaker, content creator

Author Archive

Regarding This Past Friday Night

In Politics, Portland on November 28, 2010 at 10:02 am

Finishing work on Friday evening I was in high spirits- my tour had gone well, the weather was agreeable, and I was on my way to meet some friends for burgers and beer at one of Portland’s local hipster holes. The streets of downtown were crowded with people who had showed up for the Christmas tree lighting in Pioneer Courthouse Square, and every third person seemed to have a green blinking light on their person. (They must have been handed out as a promotional item.) I passed the Square, took a look at the tree, and a huge crowd of people were still there singing carols. Jogging a few blocks over to Burnside, the newly-lit White Stag/Made in Oregon/ Portland, Oregon sign lit up the night. All was wonderfully festive.

And the next morning I opened my browser to discover that someone had tried to blow all of that up.

The facts of the case are widely reported, so I won’t bother reiterating them here. I’m quite happy they got this guy, and all for stings, but there are two things that I can’t stop thinking about:

Firstly: As a matter of personal policy, I refuse to be frightened by this. Like the poster says, I’m going to keep calm and carry on.

Secondly: Law enforcement (at least based on reported anecdotes) seems to be targeting foreign-born individuals who have become radicalized. Most of the time, it seems that these guys probably couldn’t pull off their desired schemes themselves. The feds are with them every step of the way. Left to his own devices, I wonder Mohamud would have gotten the materials he needed.

Again, I like the idea of stings. It’s a great thing to keep potential criminals off balance. Potential terrorists don’t know if they’re talking to an actual Jihadist or a federal agent. Sowing that kind of overcaution, confusion, and fear among these criminals is great, strategically.

And yet, I wonder how many unbalanced guys the FBI would catch if they targeted the militias in Montana, the self-appointed border guards in Texas, or the white supremacists in Idaho. How many other Tim McVeighs are out there that could be stung into arrest? How many native-born, equally bloodthirsty, equally unbalanced white Mohamuds are there?

I have no kind of sympathy for adherents to radical Islam. They are, at the very best, foolish. However, history tells us that they are not alone. Prior to September 11th, 2001, the largest terrorist act in American history had been carried out by a radical white Christian. McVeigh’s kin, gun-toting religious radicals who are doubtless incensed by the very existence black president, are still out there.

What could we reap with a focused effort? Given the collaboration, encouragement, and resources of an undercover FBI agent, what kind of potential violence could we find welling from religious white America? I don’t doubt that Mohamud (may he spend his remaining days ingloriously in prison) has an equal and opposite out there, a kind of inverse brother born not in Somalia but in Kansas, reading not a Quaran but a Bible, and just as filled with impotent unarticulated rage, and dreams of violence.

Why I Killed SonicLlama

In Uncategorized on November 21, 2010 at 12:14 pm

This (wholly narcissistic) issue has been on my mind off and on for the past year or so. Quite some time ago, I ceased to use a screen name on this blog. Not only that, but I tweet using my real name as well, and when I comment on various forums I do so as “Joe Streckert” if I can use a space, and “JStreckert” if I can’t.

Previously I’d gone by the nom de net “SonicLlama,” a handle that I acquired in high school. It stuck the way nicknames usually do, lodging itself in my mind. I attempted to use a few others: “Cerberus,” as I’ve always liked the big three-headed fellow, but ultimately that was too negative and possibly too pretentious to use on a regular basis. Sometimes, in FPSs, I went by “Mr. Mutilate,” but the drawbacks of that one should be abundantly obvious. “Metis,” was another attempt, a Greek term meaning “skill” or “wisdom.” The main appeal was that it was invoked at length in Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon.

The trouble with “Metis” was that later I found out that it’s both the name of a Native American group up in Canada, and the term for an inbred werewolf in the Werewolf: the Apocalypse RPG. Not wanting to have my meaning mistaken, I quickly ditched that and went back to using “SonicLlama,” even though I’d long since grown tired of the moniker. The breaking point came, I think, when a then-girlfriend referred to me as “SonicLlama” on her blog. Seeing my high school screen name used in the context of something kind of sweet and romantical seemed highly weird, and I just ditched the thing altogether.

Being utterly unable to think up something meaningful or witty, I simply started blogging as “Joe” and then appended my last name to it. At times I wondered if this is something that’s sort of foolish, given that anyone could Google me and find, for example, pictures of me with stupid hair. I’ve also wondered if my habit of appending my real name to things on the internet at all narcissistic. I do like attention, after all.

But… No. No, I don’t think so. In fact, I wish that more people did what I did. Using my real name means that I don’t say anything online that I wouldn’t say in person. Being a troll lacks all appeal, and big part of that is that I don’t take on too much of a persona while online. There still is a bit of one, but appending “Joe Streckert” to my blog and twitter feed prevents me from ever succumbing to the Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory, a process wherein normal people become insufferable while behind a scrim.

Screen names are fine, and it is fun to give yourself a nickname (I might think up something specifically for gaming) but for now whenever I see someone else posting under their real, actual name, it makes me smile a bit. Maybe, like me, they couldn’t summon up a handle that fit them well. Or maybe they just don’t want to be a fuckwad. Either way, I approve.

An Incomplete List of Fifteen Books

In Books on November 14, 2010 at 5:43 pm

Okay, I’m doing one of these chain Facebook note things. I never do these, but this one’s about books. Apparently it has the following rules:

Rules: Don’t take too long to think about it. Fifteen novels you’ve read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I’m interested in seeing what books my friends chose. (To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste rules in a new note, cast your 15 picks, and tag people in the note.)

Okay, that’s nice. I guess the point is that you can’t pick books that say “Hey! Look at how awesome I am because of my refined taste in wordy things!” Being genuine and honest seems to be the point. Oh, well.  Here’s the (definitely incomplete) list:

1. Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson
As a kid I identified tons with Calvin, with his endemic behavioral problems, overactive imagination, and love of very large words. I love comics to this day because of Calvin and Hobbes, and Watterson showed me from a very young age that there is no contradiction between being ironic and sincere, or both snarky and poignant. Calvin is a deeply realized character, and to this day I still see a lot of myself in him. He’s also a guy who imagines killer snowmen and time travel, and there’s no contradiction in that.

2. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis
Were’s in elementary school here. I was a little Catholic school kid in a dumb uniform and I was fully aware of the Christian allegorical elements of these things while I was reading them. Because, c’mon. Aslan is fucking Jesus. It’s not subtle, people. By the time I got to The Last Battle, I was fully disgusted with Lewis’ world-view, even at the young age. Lewis, in that book, is hugely judgmental of nonbelievers, casually racist, and generally thinks that dying is grand because that means you get to hang out with Jesus all the time.

This was my first inkling that religion was actually sort of fucked up. I think I was eight or something.

3. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
Yes, everyone and their dog is going to choose this. This is not original. Whatever. It really is quite good, despite being hugely popular, and blew my mind into approximately 12,586,327 individual pieces back when I was twelve. I loved every overwrought word of it, and got turned into a ginormous nerd because of it. I roll funny-sided dice on a regular basis because of this trilogy, just like every else.

4. Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare.
This is the first Shakespeare play that I read, saw, and really understood. This was in middle school. Beatrice and Benedick’s relationship is defined by unspoken attraction that they act out by making fun of each other. There was this girl I liked in eighth grade, and I let her know as much by writing nasty columns about her in the school newspaper. (She happened to be the student body president, so it was kind of relevant.) Anyway, the point is that there was this girl, and I really liked her so I totally insulted her because I didn’t understand my feelings or girls or anything. Kind of like in Shakespeare.

5. 1984 by George Orwell
We’re back in eighth grade again, and this is where I learned about political satire, dystopia, and hot, hot politicized sexuality. Winston and Julia totally did it and it was political and that was totally awesome because not only were they having tons of sex, they were also totally Sticking It To The Man by bumping uglies. Jesus Christ, that was sexy back when I was, like fourteen. Also there was some other stuff. Stuff about the nature of power and control and mind-warping people into subservience. That was creepy.

6. Everything Isaac Asimov Ever Wrote by Isaac Asimov
Along with Star Trek, Asimov turned me into a total technophile. His stuff seems sort of dated at this point, but he made me believe in The Future

7. Neuromancer by William Gibson
I’m pretty sure that reading this book is a step on the road to enlightenment. Also, this really hot smart girl lent it to me. That was awesome. According to Gibson, even if The Future (which really, is where we live now) turned out to be horrible, it would still be pretty interesting. On top of that, it would be a place where we’d all look awesome whilst wearing leather and sunglasses, and have sex with hot cyborgs.

9. The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco
If I were to explain why this book is truly awesome, it would give away the ending. It’s neat, though, because it’s a medieval Sherlock Holmes pastiche. Really! The book is totally Holmes and Watson as monks in the Middle Ages investigating murders in a monastery that have something to do with books. If you like this book, you are automatically a giant nerd.

10. The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus
At this point I’m a college freshman and have a non-ironic Che Guevera poster on my wall. There was an unfortunate chin-beard in there somewhere. The Myth of Sisyphus is basically Existentialism 101, and I still regard it as great reading if you don’t want to get depressed about how repetitive life is. Meaning in life is self-generated, and that’s actually totally okay.

11. The Collected Stories of Ryunosuke Akutagawa
Whilst in Japan, I attempted to read Japanese literature. Granted, it was in English. Akutagawa stuck with me the most. He’s quite witty, and almost cruel with how he deploys irony (though never in a way that comes off as cliched, at least not by Western standards). His story Green Onions is a great example of an author hating his characters, and loving every moment of it.

12. Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
I read this in Japan while thinking a lot about the direction my life was going and what sort of person I was. It was inspiring and thought provoking. I suppose that makes me a total cliche, utterly unoriginal, and something of a parody of the white-guy-in-foreign-country-finding-himself. Whatever. My experience was genuine and neato. Shut up!

13. Ulysses by James Joyce
For a long time I thought I hated Joyce because I thought he was impenetrable. He’s not, though. I totally penetrated him, and found it a very rewarding experience. Ulysses is a puzzle box with all kinds of references, puns, jokes, and Easter eggs in it. It’s not really about anything, but it’s a totally cool aesthetic experience that stretches your brain-parts out.

14. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
This book made me want to dig up Nabokov’s corpse, eat his brain, and absorb his writing talents. While reading it I wrote an essay all Nabokov-like, and successfully pitched it to a literary event. It was the first time that I ever got paid for anything I wrote, and Nabokov helped me get there.

15. Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace
I’ve read a few other of DFW’s books, but Consider the Lobster was the book that made me really love him, and sort of wish that I could be him (except without the depression part). There are very, very few authors whom I would call inspiring, but DFW is one of the most. He utterly charmed me with his wit, erudition, and utter genuine nature, and is one of the few writers whom I admire unreservedly.

Um, yes. there’s probably some other stuff, too, that I forgot.

Aww! It thinks it’s Oregon!

In Uncategorized on November 2, 2010 at 5:02 pm
Washington is stealing our logo. It’s kind of cute. Really, we should be flattered.

Look! Horsey!

In Portland on October 31, 2010 at 4:14 pm
I’ve seen several of these around town, and the gag is hardly original, but I think it’s funny every single time I see it. Honestly, I kind of wish every horse tie had some variant of this going on.
Update: Apparently this is a thing! Like, an organized thing! A friend of mine on Facebook alerted me to the existence of the Horse Project. Check it out!

Some Underrated Monsters

In Art, Horror, Japan on October 30, 2010 at 9:14 am
It’s Halloween, which is objectively the best holiday all year. It’s not nearly as stressful as Christmas, it’s sexier than New Years, and is barrels more exciting than Flag Day. It’s also the holiday where we’ll all be reminded how pervasive two of the most popular monsters are- vampires and zombies. I guarantee you that every single Halloween party you go to will have, at the very minimum, three people dressed as these things.
It’s easy to see why. Vampires are an excuse to dress up all sexy-like. Dracula and Co. have always been distinguished by their nifty clothes, deathly pallor, and sexy neck-biting business. That’s all well and good, but vamps are a tad overexposed. As for zombies, they’re a super-easy costume to do: just slosh some blood on yourself, and, boom, you’re a zombie. You don’t have to have a particular clothing style or anything; all you need is gobs and blood and maybe a bit of putrescence. Boom. Zombie. Done.
The great pantheon of other monsters, though, seem to be sadly ignored. Not just in terms of costumes, but in general. What follows are a few monsters whom I think are just as creepy as the popular dead guys.
Werewolves
Yes, I know. Werewolves are in everything. They were in Buffy and they’re in True Blood as well. The problem with the wolves, though, is that they’ve sort of become a foil to vampires. Every other bit of vampire media seems to set up werewolves as the natural enemy of vampires. The World of Darkness did this, as did Underworld, as did that horrible Van Helsing movie.
I’ve got no problem with the Wolves Vs. Vampire thing, but the raging furry dudes ought to have a chance to stand on their own. The werewolf is basically about how scary it is to flip out and lose your shit, giving into rage and emotion. That’s something worth developing. Instead, they’ve just been a beastie for vampires to fight.
The Phantom of the Opera
This another instance where the creature in question is pretty popular, but not used to his full extent. The Phantom today is best known for the Andrew Lloyd Weber musical, which establishes him as a romantic lead first, and deranged killer second. People tend to think of the musical before they think of Lon Chaney’s freakish and psychotic Phantom, if they think of that at all. This is a guy who’s grossly deformed, gets obsessed with starlets, and then hangs people for his own enjoyment. He could be right up there with the Frankenstein Monster as a freakish horror, but instead is viewed as being all romantical and misunderstood. Rightly, he should be viewed as the aristocrat-killing opera-haunting all around murderous badass that he used to be.
Entities From H.P. Lovecraft’s Mythos That Are Not Cthulu
Cthulu gets way too much attention. He’s everywhere- movies, games, t-shirts, toys. You can’t go into a comic shop without tripping over a bunch of tentacles. As much as I like Cthulu, though, he overshadows the other nasty elder gods that Mr. Lovecraft bequeathed on us- grotesque beings such as Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat With a Thousand Young; or the King in Yellow, an eerie being who makes a memorable and hugely creepy appearance in The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath. The big green tentacled dude has been overexposed to the point where he’s almost a parody of himself, but the rest of Lovecraft’s pantheon is still genuinely creepy.
Pretty Much Everything From Japanese Mythology

One of the better books of ghost stories I’ve read was Lafcadio Hearn’s Kwaidan. Hearn was one of the first Westerners to be nationalized as a Japanese citizen, and he loved the folklore from his adopted land. Most people now think that his wife, a Japanese woman, had just as much to do with the book as he did, but he was a dude, it was barely the 1900s, and his name was put on the book.

Anyway, the thing that I find sort of creepy about Japanese mythology is that there are a disturbing amount of stories where a guy marries a lady, and then the lady turns into an ice witch or crane or fox or some other variant, often abandoning her husband once he learns her secrets. One can play armchair psychologist and wonder what this says about Japanese culture, but the idea that beasties are actually in your living room rather than out in the dark woods is niftily squicky in a pod-people sort of way.

Hungry ghosts are also genuinely spooky. Vampires are supposed to illustrate the horrors of thirst, hunger, and general lack of satiation, I suppose, but anymore they’re way more about leather and sexy times than anything else. Hungry ghosts, dried out husks forever trying to satisfy themselves, seem actually damned.

Anything William Blake Ever Painted


William Blake is one of my favorite painters. He was also probably insane, and his paintings of scenes from Dante’s Divine Comedy are fairly creeptacular.

Actually, paintings aside, he himself was probably pretty monstrous.

About A Certain Urban Nickname…

In Portland on October 14, 2010 at 8:12 pm

I’ve never liked the name “Rose City.”

Portland, to me, has never been the “City of Roses.” That name reeks of airbrushed idealism, it seems forced and false. The idea of this place as some sort of fragrant garden, some sun-dappled manicured lawn redolent of blooms and buds seems hugely false. The region is fertile, yes, it is green, certainly, but it has never struck me as particularly rosy.

The everpresent evergreens seem a better symbol, as do the layered and enveloping clouds. This city isn’t suggestive of brightness and perfumed plants. This place is rain-soaked. It is green and awash more with the scents of coffee and hops than any ornamental plant. Roses are an ignored ideal. Portland deserves a sobriquet.

“Puddletown” is more accurate, but there are rainy cities everywhere. Such a name is not terribly unique. A better fit is “Bridgetown,” a name that brings to mind our wonderful and inspiring urban infrastructure. “Stumptown” speaks to the actual history of the place, and is a reminder that we stand in the middle of what once was a dense forest. Even “Rip City” works better than the floral monikers. It is full of nonsensical bravado, reminiscent of Drexler-era games of NBA Jam. But, it calls to mind something real, a time when the Trail Blazers were a force to be reckoned with.

All of these are good. All of them are better than the too-cheery names “Rose City” or “City of Roses.” All of them seem to have more of that very in-demand commodity; authenticity.

I hope that the roses fade, that “Stumptown” and “Bridgetown” gain primacy. A stand of evergreens or the spires of the St. Johns Bridge are more real and more inspiring symbols of our metropolis than any non-native flower will ever be.

We are Stumptown, Puddletown, Bridgetown, even Rip City. Roses, it seems, just happen to grow here.

"I Don’t Create. I Own.": In Which I Finally Watch Wall Street

In Movies on October 8, 2010 at 9:53 pm

Goodfellas is, ultimately, a movie about how hollow and empty the life of crime is. Chances are, says Goodfellas, that you’ll probably end up dead. Or, if you don’t, you’ll at least end up washed up and existentially empty.

Yet when watching it one thinks, “Being a gangster sure looks like fun, what with all the snazzy suits and easy money.”

Wall Street is, ultimately, a movie about how hollow and empty the life of stock trading is. Chances ares, says Wall Street, that you won’t produce anything and you might go to prison. Or, if you don’t, you’ll at least end up washed up and existentially empty.

Yet when watching it one things, “Being a stock trader sure looks like fun, what with all the snazzy suits and easy money.”

I finally sat down and watched Oliver Stone’s eighties epic this evening, and while I enjoyed all 125 of its minutes, I couldn’t help but feel that the movie kind of misfired. Reason being, I ended up being utterly charmed by Gordon Gekko, the slimy stock trader who was really supposed to be the villain.

Make no mistake- Gekko is presented as a reprehensible person. He’s a lying, manipulating bastard who plays other people to get his way, and wholly owns that. The “greed is good” speech has been widely touted as summing up the movie (and in context, it is pretty badass) but when Gekko proclaimed “I don’t create. I own,” that really summed up his character for me. He owns his leechlike state. He touts his non-contribution to civilization as a point of pride.

He does not provide any good or service to anyone. He enriches himself on the labor of others. He can decide the fate of thousands of people, yet in the end he’s little more than a petty oligarch.

Yes. I got it. I was totally on board with Wall Street‘s anti-corporate message.

The problem, though, is the Michael Douglas, as Gekko, is pretty damn charismatic. He eats up the screen, chews up and spits out the scenery, dominates the entire film, and is ultimately just bigger than anything else around him. He’s huge, vibrant, attractive, and looks like he’s having a great time. I had a hard time hating him, even though he was so obviously a son-of-a-bitch.

This is why Wall Street, at the end of the day, is something of a failure. At least ideologically. After seeing it, I kind of wanted to go to New York and blow hundreds of thousands of dollars on steak dinner, hookers, cocaine, and abstract art; all the while surveying the Manhattan skyline from a lofty perch. I will bet you anything that there are swarms upon swarms of WASPy little douchebags infesting trading floors and financial institutions because they were inspired by this movie.

Hell, I’m super-liberal, borderline-socialist, tree-hugging, crypto-hippie, and I was nearly inspired to go put on a pair of suspenders and become a professional swindler. Imagine what it could do to someone more nastily disposed. At Goodfellas is about the mafia, an organization that is sort of hard to join. Wall Street, though, is about the financial service industry, an industry that hires people all of the time.

And that’s why Wall Street is, ultimately, a failure. Its heart is in the right place, but its inspiration points staunchly in the other direction.

In Praise of the Satchel

In Uncategorized on October 8, 2010 at 2:19 pm

Bookbags are heavy, unfashionable, and reminiscent of Mormon missionaries and high school students.

Messenger bags, while wonderful, are sizable. The whole thing is vaguely fashionable and utilitarian, but in the end is a very large bag. For a day on the bike, they are great. For a night out, they are not.
A briefcase demands to be carried, and having one’s hands free is a plus.  What’s more, it is far too businesslike for social occasions.
What is a guy to do for those times when he’s going out, but doesn’t need a huge carrying case? How can one carry around a say, book, phone, iPod, and notepad, but not have to carry the aforementioned pieces of luggage?
The answer is simple: the noble (and unfairly maligned) satchel.
Call it a man-purse if you like. You may even shorten that to “murse,” if you so choose, or make a facile scrotal pun but calling it a “man bag.”  Call it whatever the hell you want. I don’t care. Your complaints that my trusty shoulder bag looks sort of swishy and effeminate are dwarfed by the sheer functionality of the item.
What do you need when you go out? I always carry a book with me, for those times when I’m waiting for/riding on public transport, or in the event that I simply want to spend a bit in a park or coffee shop reading. Not having a book make me feel naked and exposed, like I’m missing something essential.
I also carry around my iPod. You know, for music and podcast whilst walking. Striding through the streets of Portland, satchel on my shoulder, with the dulcet tones of either the Dirty Projectors or NPR’s Planet Money in my ears truly does put me in a specific demographic, one which I completely enjoy occupying.
In the off chance that I need to write something down, I carry a pen and notepad. This is a very, very handy item to have on you. When someone says “do you have something to write this down on?” I can say “Yes. Yes I do.”
All of these handy items (and oftentimes more!) are toted around in my trusty black satchel, an oiled-canvas bag that I’ve had for a few years now. I got it as a going away present, and it is, far and away, one of the most useful gifts I’ve ever received. It has been to Japan, China, Korea, and even as far as California. It’s held a camera, voice recorder, bottled water, an amplifier, and even a marriage license. When handed a stray piece of paperwork, I need not fold it up awkwardly- it goes in the satchel.
I am proud of how danged handy, how wonderfully useful this item is. As widely-used as it might be, though, by urban types such as myself, the satchel is unfairly spurned. There seems to be a stubborn subset of men who reject its use because it vaguely resembles a purse.  Certain kinds of men, insecure in their masculinity, deny the obvious usefulness of the satchels.

On the off chance that any of those guys are reading this, I would like to address them specifically for a moment. All of you guys who, for some reason or another, think that the satchel is vaguely girly.

Guys, let’s talk about that for a moment. Women, you might have noticed, wear pants. So do we. They wear shirts, just like us. They also get haircuts, much like we do. Would you walk around sporting women’s pants, shirts, or haircuts? Okay, some guys would, but for the most part, dudes, you’d get pants, shirts, and haircuts designed for you. Our pants are designed for a dude-waist rather than lady hips, our shirts are made with guy shoulders in mind, and our haircuts are generally a different species than those the ladies favor.
Thus it is so with the satchel. The satchel is no more a purse than any other dude-designed item. Try it! It is useful! No longer will you have to stuff paperwork in your pocket or keep five things in your hands at once. No more will you be without a writing implement or reading material. Your iPod and phone will not rest awkwardly in your pockets, and if you get sick of sitting on your wallet, it can go into the satchel. Glasses and sunglasses fit easily inside it, as do any other doo-dads or whatever you might have on you at the time.

Men, do not let this obvious bit of utility pass you by. We have the technology to carry around day-to-day items. You need not shirk from this innovation, this satchel. It is useful, it is nice looking, and (don’t worry) it’s definitely not a purse.

In Which the Front Wheel of My Bike Gets Stolen at a Busy Portland Intersection

In Portland, Rants on September 30, 2010 at 12:06 pm

For the first time in my life, I willingly approached a Greenpeace canvasser.  “Hello,” I said to her.

“Hi!” She was smiley and pixie-like and had red streaks in her hair.

“I know you guys have been on this street corner all day. My bike’s been parked over there, and someone stole the front wheel. Have you guys seen anything?”

She thought for a minute. “Yeah!” she said, “there was some guy messing with a bike over there earlier, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Any idea of what time?”

“Maybe two. I don’t know. Three? I was watching the pedestrians, mostly.”

“Okay thanks.”

“Do you want to help save the environment today?”

“Look, I just had the front wheel of my bike stolen.”

“You ride a bike! Obviously you care about the environment.”

“I’m in a very bad mood right now, and have to file a police report.”

“Okay, but it’s a great cause!”

I walked away. The corner where my wheel was stolen, SW Broadway and Morrison, is an incredibly busy spot. Several retail spots, tons of pedestrians, a few buskers, some canvassers, and a handful security guards are nearly always there during the day.

I asked around to see if anyone had seen someone messing with my bike. I asked the Baskin Robbins, Abercrombie &, Fitch, Nordstrom, multiple security guards, a few buskers, and a great deal of Pioneer Courthouse Square. I didn’t know why. There was no chance that I’d get my wheel back, I suppose I wanted some sort of satisfaction, or wanted to know that it wasn’t possible to just go up to a bike in a public place and, you know, steal parts of it without detection. The presence of lots of people would be enough to deter you.

Unfortunately, no one had seen anything of substance. My bike wheel was crippled, and some thief has a new front wheel, along with an old tire and much-patched tube. I was annoyed at the thieves, certainly (I had some nice thoughts about weaponizing my U lock and bruising up their soft tissue with it) but I was also pissed at Portland itself. This was on a dynamic, well-trafficked intersection. I would hope that the light of day, the presence of crowds, and general feel of the area would be enough to deter crime. It usually is, but today I got to be the one guy who happened to get his shit jacked.

In a very, very public place. The whole incident reminded me how easy it is to slip beneath people’s perception, as this clip illustrates. Stealing is actually quite easy, as is sleight-of-hand, being unnoticed, and stealth in general. When I was in high school, a classmate walked into a McDonald’s, took the gigantic ketchup dispenser with him, and then walked out. Nothing happened to him (he claimed that it was a “social experiment” and subsequently had a ketchup dispenser in his locker all year.) The Willamette Week actually did a story on this, and a reporter was able to very easily steal his own bike. I don’t have any profound conclusion here, but I really do want to believe that the presence of tons and tons of people on an intersection an exert enough ambient social pressure to make people behave. It works, I suppose, most of the time, but every so often a crowd of people on a street corner are all too happy to see nothing.