Original title: “The Rouse That Roared.” Which you just know I didn’t write. Plenty of roaring later.
I was happier before all the progress. Back when a young runner could go out on a Sunday morning, stores were closed and the churches open and everybody else must’ve been sleeping and you could run right up the middle of a traffic-free Broadway. From April 11, 1991. – JDW
ICONOCLAST.
This mid-sized word means “a breaker of images; any destroyer or exposer of shams or superstitions; one who makes attacks on cherished values.”
Some folks have accused me of this, suggesting that I question many of the institutions of our community simply because no one else does. Occasionally, that’s true. Not everything in the Rose City is quite as rosy as some would have us believe. Often it’s every bit as good as it seems. But so much smoke is being blown, sometimes it’s hard to tell.
My thinking on this is simple. (I suppose you’re not surprised.) I believe that sometimes we can see ourselves more clearly under a brighter light shone from a different angle.
Take Pioneer Place, for example. (I won’t say it.) Watching the construction, it seemed like just another mall. But without parking.
Many among the local media, breathless at the anticipation of dozens of new advertisers, spoke of the sparkling downtown edifice in words usually reserved for Princess Di’s activities.
The local politicians, obviously holding their collective breath after investing millions of taxpayer dollars, promoting the shopping center as their shrewdest decision since they last ran for office.
They doth promote too much, methinks.
We were told Pioneer Place is “so beautiful…dynamic…dramatic…upscale… a jewel…ritzy…snazzy breathtaking…splendid…festive.. wonderful… grand…elegance,class and sass… posh.” By this time, I was starting to worry they might not take cash. What we had left.
At a news conference three hours before The Place opened, the head of PDC couldn’t remember how much public money he’d invested, but he reminded us that for every dollar of public investment, six dollars ($6) of Rouse money was spent.
Then there was the GALA preview. I wasn’t invited. Wishing to remedy an obvious oversight, I placed a call. Placed another and another and still another. Finally, I found a young lady who cautioned me that press passes were limited – “you understand” – but she’d see what she could do.
Twenty-four hours later, I got my answer.
“I have bad news, Mr. Welch. We’ve been told we have to draw the line somewhere, and we’ve drawn it above you.”
She actually said that. Mutant ninja publicist.
No problem. I’m not much good at cocktail parties anyway. The Skin and Grin Game. I tend to stand behind a potted plant and chat with whichever busboy is on break. The next day I opened the paper to read, “It seemed as if every familiar face in Portland was on hand.”
You can call me an outsider if you want, but you can’t call me familiar. Familiar means, among other things, “easy, well understood, of everyday occurrence or use.”
Then I noticed the musical introduction to The Place’s public opening would feature “Fanfare For The Common Man.” Suddenly, I began to worry Rouse wouldn’t allow me to shop here. Maybe I’m not sufficiently, you know, urbane.
I went to the opening for the masses. And they were there, over four thousand (4,000) of them. The bricks of Pioneer Square were warmed by the spring sun, and our hearts were warmed by the third-graders from Chapman School singing “Portlandia.”
Sitting there in the city’s living room, drinking a Latte Grande from Starbuck’s right there by the world’s most impressive weather sculpture, with the huge U.S.A. flag hanging from the eleventh floor of Meier & Frank and MAX whispering its way to Gresham, I was reminded how lucky we are – most of us – to live here.
There was so much confetti and so many balloons the sky actually darkened for a few moments. The crowd was enthralled; people were actually shooshing each other to be quiet so they could hear the officials praise themselves.
The scene was so festive, I actually didn’t mind it much when the Mayor ended his speech with his traditional “Whoop, whoop!” At least it wasn’t his other favorite two-word expression.
When the doors finally opened, I struggled inside, fending off repeated blows from a dowage with a gold card grasped tightly in her left hand.
To call The Place a madhouse would be a gross understatement. It was insane.
At the Nature Company we were wedged together tighter than a New England stone wall. A managerial type bulldozed through us in the opposite direction, forcing her way to the cash register. “I’m trying to run a store here,” she groused.
Through all the smoke, you come to find out it’s an exceptional store, too. As are most in Pioneer Place.
Chic… fun… interesting… educational… entertaining… fascinating… varied… smart… great people-watching… worth the wait. The Place is all that. Honest. My mom’s already talked about flying in to shop here.
My favorite stores. SOCKS FROM MARS. I saw no less than six (6) pairs I need. I need them. TWIST’s artistic inventory includes some truly unique items. You know, like art. DALLAS ALICE has a great selection of T-shirts. A splendid few from Matt Groening’s “The Simpsons” – for example, ‘Bartman.’
And because you can never have too many bookstores, SCRIBNER’S.
Must confess. I do worry about some of the titles proudly displayed in the front window.
Like How You Can Earn $80,000 Yearly As A Freelance Writer.
Why isn’t this book where it belongs?
In the fiction department.
