I love you. I hate you. I like you. I hate you. I love you. I think you’re stupid. I think you’re a loser. I think you’re wonderful. I want to be with you. I don’t want to be with you. I would never date you. I hate you. I love you…..I think the madness started the moment we met and you shook my hand. ― Shannon L. Alder
This is a reprise of a blog post of a newspaper column from maybe 1990.
And wherever she is, I hope and pray Norma Louise has had a great life in the years since.
Remember that country-western song lyric, “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” Well, Norma Louise is back and not a moment too soon. Because I see Mayor Bud Clark declared the day before Valentine’s: CONDOM AWARENESS DAY. Yo, whatever happened to Dress As You Please Day?
Sometimes I feel like I’m paying property taxes to live in the middle of a Harvey Korman movie.
Turns out Norma “I’m-The-Best-Thing-In-Your-Life-And-Don’t You-Forget-It” Louise was about to celebrate a birth anniversary. The older she gets, the greater the celebration. I’ve seen shorter Oktoberfests.
So, on the eve of the lady’s birthday, Guido Maldemara was assigned to take her to her favorite restaurant, Delphina’s. Northwest Twenty-First and Kearney.
There’s a certain ambiance about Delphina’s created doubtlessly by the fact we never dine there except on special occasions or when someone else is picking up the tab. Which pretty much qualifies as a special occasion as far as I’m concerned.
There are a wide variety of Italian dishes, hefty portions and wines I can afford. Norma Louise enjoys Delphina’s because she thinks it’s civilized and romantic. I like Delphina’s because she likes it.
All week long we did civilized and romantic stuff, counting the days until Norma Louise’s actual birth date.
She was hoping for presents. I was hoping to get on with the rest of my life. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as civilized and romantic as the next guy.
And you ladies know just how civilized and romantic that is.
I went by myself to Bodice Rippers II, the annual evening of “luscious passages and quivering lips” at Anne Hughes Coffee Room at 1005 W. Burnside. Otherwise known as Powell’s.
Ms. Hughes, stunning in a strapless chartreuse evening gown – more like a prom dress – trimmed in white lace, opened the show. Which focused on romance novels, especially those with embossed covers.
Hughes reads the titles of the twelve books Barbara Cartland has produced over the last twelve months. These are for real: A Chieftain Finds Love, The Caretaker Of Love, Little Tongues Of Fire, and The Herb Of Happiness. Hughes next read from a glossary of the most over-used phrases of romance novels, e.g., bruised, caught helplessly, little one, minx, as in “Come here, minx, he murmured,” ruefully, full name as in “You don’t mean that, John Smith,” growled hoarsely, rippled, and steaming. As in “She brought out steaming cups of coffee.”
“The main value of genre fiction is that it is trash,” explained Diana Tuttle, attired like some goddess of the night. “It is not pretentious. It is the antithesis of literature. It sells.”
Ms. Tuttle limited her performance to reading the back covers of several romance novels. My personal favorite line, from Texas Rue was “He had to taste the source of her honeysuckle scent, especially now that they escaped the outlaws.” Nothing like eluding bad guys to work up an appetite.
“Underneath that blood and dirt, he was devilishly handsome,” describes Chance Fitzwilliam. These heroes never have names like Bob or Fred. It’s always Count Vincente St. Laurentino or Sir Brevard Hotchkiss Broughton.
Roslyn Lindquist, who can read to me anytime, exposed us to Heaven Scent, the tale of a preacher’s daughter and seven orphans and a bounty hunter. No mention of a wicked witch.
You have to read to page 159 before you get to the sexy part. That seems like a lot of waiting. The hero, complete with glint in his eyes, grabs the lovely heroine with his gun-calloused hands.
“Hannah knew little of the intimacies between a man and a woman, but she was getting brisk clues.”
Apparently, one of Portland’s best actresses, Vana O’Brien, is also one of this town’s better writers. O’Brien read an original short story in which the lady of the house goes to the door to let in the oil man. He was an Adonis with the softest mouth she had ever seen on a man. His chest was huge, and on it was a nametag: PHIL.
“Nothing in her life prepared her for the events of the next hour.”
Nothing prepared me for Valentine’s night. I took Norma Louise and her fur jacket to Delilah’s for “an evening of love poetry from the mushy to the kinky.” I got to wear my red sportscoat, which doesn’t get out as much as I’d like. The literati were out in force and the room was SRO.
Judith Barrington read poems for those of us who can never find Hallmark cards with the correct pronoun. She worries on this holiday – and others – about people who have misplaced their lovers.
One man who knew right where to find his main squeeze was Joe Cantel, leader of the Charlie Manson Family Chorus. She was sitting in the front row as he read ‘Sonnet 43 From The Portuguese,’ better known as “How Do I Love Thee?”
And you knew he was reading it especially for her because he was nervous as a pup on his first hunt. It was all Joe could do to choke back the tears as he concluded the reading by asking,”Crae, will you marry me?”
Tough act to follow. But I knew just the place, The Northwest Artists Workshop. 522 Northwest 12th. We walk in, the place looks like a halfway house alumni party. A dance group named The Touch Monkeys claims to be dancing.
Erotic 89, besides sounding like a mathematical error, is unique. It’s probably best if I don’t accurately report with all my vast skills as a wordsmith the art displayed here. Wait for the XXX movie.
Okay. For example, take Brad. Please. In the far back room, a.k.a., the East Gallery, is an actual living male homo sapien. A real human. Brad.
On a white pedestal.
He was part of a juried show called Understatements: Artists Make Underwear. Work described as “functional, non-functional, two- or three- dimensional, altered… no size limitations. Within reason.”
Anyway, Brad is standing on this white pedestal in studded black gloves, knee-high black boots, a black vest. All of this in leather, of course. And, and, a red G-string with spikes sticking out of the cup like some satin porcupine. He was hard to ignore.
Believe me, I tried.
We got out of there when I returned from a wine run and overheard Norma Louise talking to a handsome young man in black chaps – leather of course – who turned out to be the artist.
She was asking him technical questions, like “Are those ten penny nails?”