July 3, 2009
It’s 7 a.m. as I write this, so maybe it’s just the tequila talking. But this was a lousy June. A never-ending series of Portland mornings — dreary days that drive men to bars for breakfast and cause teenagers to pierce cartilage. On a lifelessly gray morning last week I was driving north on the 101 Freeway, and the radio was airing endless reports on Michael Jackson’s sudden death the day before. The clouds outside mirrored the shrouds of sounds and sadness, white noise and unknowing on the airwaves.