On an average day, during the walk from Pioneer Square to Portland State, I encounter a number of people asking for money or food.
Polyamory. A term with which I was completely unfamiliar until moving up to Portland. A term that is still so undefined, even my writing software underlines it as an unknown word.
Sometimes when they feel a strong connection and the mood is just right, pro-life folk and fellow conservatives like to come together in a passionate unity against the things that really piss them off.
“A minimum of two years experience.” This is the sentence at which most students’ eyes stop on almost every job listing page.
By now, we can all spot that clipboard and super enthusiastic grin from blocks away. There are the usual various tactics of avoidance: crossing the street, texting furiously, making a fake phone call, pretending you’re already a member.
Somewhere between downing our second glass of Kombucha tea in the lobby of the Ace Hotel, digging through a cardboard box of giveaways, and going to see some film at the Laurelhurst, we need to take a moment to look at the silent dangers that could be slowly chipping away at our health.
Finally someone has had the sense to make a show about Portland.
There is no better way to celebrate the morning after a holiday dedicated to marathon-style family gluttony than spending money in retail.
We go to school. We work at our various places of employment. We socialize in coffee shops, bookstores and bars. And a great number of us get to do so without the slightest notion of fear.