STUMPTOWNBLOGGER

LINDNER’S WORLD & COOLEST PARENTS

 My mother didn’t *quite* make it, but today would have been my parent’s 74th wedding anniversary. I’m not sure what the pink motif in this picture is all about—I culled it from a video one of their friends sent me, but it looks like this was taken recently at their neighbor’s house across the street.

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To those of you who’ve been wondering, my dad is doing fine, I call him every day. He’s as strong as she was. Note the hand reaching over to keep in physical contact with my dad. After eight decades together, I guess that’s a habit you don’t want to break.

A REALLY GOOD MOM ....WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 Well, she went peacefully, which is all anyone can ask of life. My mother died at 4:35 PM today after what... 12 weeks on hospice? We’re all heartbroken of course, but it was time. In fact, at 97 years old, with never any medical issues in her entire life, I’d say she beat the curve.

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Born Bernice Helen Altman in Springfield Illinois, she married my dad on June 29th 1946. A week from today would have been their 74th wedding anniversary. She was a wonderful mother, with a cheeky, wry sense of humor. (She did spoil the living shit out of me, but I’m willing to let bygones be bygones 🙄).

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Again, we’ve all been as ready as possible for this, not the least of us my dad. Ever the scientist, he’s been prepared for it. He called to give me the news not long after. She was just breathing normally... normally... then stopped. About as painless a passing as anyone could hope for. And yes, that adorable pink cherub is me, I’m guessing around February 1953. The other shot was taken in our back yard in Israel, in 1962, reassembling a Roman amphora we found.

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Thanks for everything, mom. Sorry about that incident in 1965. Oh, and the um... fire In 1964. Oh, and the drugs during ‘66-‘68. And uh... Oh, the time I got busted stealing marshmallow peeps down my pants from the candy store when I was 6, and when the clerk grabbed my arm, I peed all over the peeps... and when you told dad about it later that night after I was in bed, you both laughed so hard it woke me up. (The store didn’t want them back after that).

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But I digress. I love you mom. Thanks for the Beatles tickets, the Doors tickets, the trip around the world, and not freaking out when you found my stash when I was in the 8th grade.

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And thanks to all of YOU, for your concern, everyone. This has been a long, drawn
out ordeal, but all things must end. All we can hope for is as gentle a waltz across the finish line as my mom experienced this afternoon.

 

WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 For maybe 10-12 years, I’ve been serving this family out in Beaverton on Saturday mornings. Mom, dad, and two daughters. I think the first time I served them, the younger one was still in the oven. Today she’s in grade school, her older sister is in middle school. I make a special concoction for them that I’ve never (officially) put on the menu. I make the younger one a pear creme smoothie, the older one gets a blackberry or sometimes a black cherry creme smoothie.

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The family is about to move out of state. Dad got a transfer within the company, and they’re all pretty happy about it. I’ve been scheming to surprise them with a “freebie day” at Pony Espresso when the time comes to thank them for their patronage all these years.

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I made them their usual smoothies, mom got her usual iced Mexican mocha, then the girls put a little gift bag on my counter. I said “What the hell is this? You don’t give me gifts, I give YOU gifts!” The girls stole my thunder!!

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But when I looked in the bag, I literally GASPED. These two girls built this scale model of my old Javamobile I out of Legos! Complete with my JAVA1 license plates, the smokestack that went up the driver’s side rear, the OPB sticker on the service side, and my menus... including the placard from maybe ten years ago when I entered the America’s Food Truck competition.

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Honestly, I don’t think I’ve EVER been so moved. Their mom told me they’ve been working on it off and on for a year. Girls, if you’re reading this... I’ll never forget it, and I’ll never forget YOU. This is going to be displayed prominently somewhere inside Javamobile II. I just have to figure out where!

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Life just doesn’t get any better than this. ❤️

CULINARY WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 So this is a RADICAL culinary experiment. I picked up this gorgeous slab of pork belly at Costco the other day, with ambitions to smoke it on my grill the first sunny day we had. Why pork belly? Because it’s pork belly. Shuddup a’you face. Since it’s a (relatively) thin cut of meat, it won’t take as long to smoke as butt or brisket.

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So here’s the funky part. I made a rub based on traditional North African spices. Because you know; North Africa... where NOBODY eats pork? I pulverized some coriander seeds, cumin, black peppercorns together, stirred in some pimentón paprika, onion powder, garlic powder, Indian black salt and a big handful of crushed, dried mint. Very Moroccan! Notice that the only “sweetness” in this rub will come from the paprika. There’s zero sugar of any kind in it, so there’s nothing to caramelize. But I’m hoping 🤞 once the pork starts to render, it’ll form a nice, savory crust with my rub. I’m not a big fan of those sugary barbecue sauces, but unfortunately, that’s the only way to get a nice glaze.

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Oooops! I miscalculated the size of this cut. It’s too long for the chamber! So I cut it up a bit to get it to fit, then squirted a drizzle of harissa over each piece. Aaaaaaand of course, just as I put the meat in the smoker, it starts to rain. No matter. I refuse to let a little Oregon sunshine dampen my spirits or my smoker. (gas side’s on the left, charcoal’s on the right).

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I’m also smoking some fresh veggies, which are on the top bunk getting tear-gassed by hickory smoke. Once they’re smoked, I’ll toss them with a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar to make a kind of a smoked frito misto.

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If this turns out as anything other than a fiasco, I’ll be satisfied. But if it’s bad, this post will self-destruct in five seconds, and I’ll disavow any knowledge of this recipe.  🤐

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Good luck Bruce!

WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

So... I placed an order for five different IKEA wall units back on March 26th (that was 71 days ago). Bear with me here as I cast my tale of woe. But before I begin, a refresher course in modern communications:

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• The IKEA stores are *closed* due to the coronavirus. Understandably.

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• They are *not* accepting phone calls to their call centers. 👉🏼 NO PHONE CALLS!

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• They aren’t accepting any emails other than cancellations. 👉🏼 NO EMAIL!

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• I have posted directly on their Facebook page. Bupkis.

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• I have PMed them. Zilch.

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• I have reached out to them on Twitter. Diddly-squat.

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• I am DEAD to them. 😵

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On May 11th (25 days ago), I received the two smallest units, plus 8 of the 12 glass doors needed for the five units. Due to their above HORRENDOUS customer service, I have been unable to find out where the rest of my order is.

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I have 350 pounds of glass doors stacked in one room, waiting...waiting...waiting.

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Which means my bedroom is still stacked floor-to-ceiling with books.

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Still with me? Good. Here comes the exciting part.

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I got this email today, informing me that the largest of the five units shipped today, June 5th, at 8:53 AM. YAAAAY!

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The scheduled delivery date? May 11th, 2020. May 11th was 25 days ago. 🤦🏻‍♂️

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No word on the other four units... but I do have the doors for them, so I have to assume they got my order!

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Meanwhile... I have books. Lots of books. Books stacked in front of my closets. Books blocking access to my clothes. Books in places where books don’t belong. They belong in bookcases.

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Good thing I ordered some! SEVENTY-ONE DAYS AGO. 😠

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I like your products IKEA, but you’ve *really* got to get your shit together.

WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 I post this every other year or so on this date. But it’s been several years since I’ve shared it, and since this saga has had so many twists and turns in recent years, I’m’a gonna give it another run up the flagpole.

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On the weekend of May 18th-19th 1968, there was an outdoor music festival down near San Jose called the Northern California Folk Rock Festival. We lived in the East Bay at the time, about 30 miles north of SJ. This was before Woodstock, Altamont, etc., but after Monterey Pop (which I went to almost exactly one year prior).

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The headliners were, on Saturday: Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother & the Holding Company (Janis Joplin’s band), Eric Burdon and the Animals and the Grateful Dead—though the Dead weren’t in the original billing for some reason.

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The Sunday lineup was Country Joe & the Fish, Canned Heat, the Youngbloods, Taj Mahal, Ravi Shankar, Electric Flag, Kaleidoscope, and the Doors. [NOTE: In the footage, I mislabeled Taj Mahal as the Youngbloods. That’s clearly Taj Mahal.]

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My brother and I were YUUUGE Doors fans. We’d already seen them in concert a couple of times before, but this was too tempting to pass up. Besides, the tickets were only $4.00 per day. We passed on the Saturday show, since we couldn’t do both (and I'd just seen Joplin and the Airplane a few weekends before). He took his girlfriend Janet, I took my girlfriend Jill. 

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Here’s where it gets complicated. My brother brought our dad’s 8mm Bell & Howell movie camera. It was a wind-up contraption, the same exact model that Abraham Zapruder used to capture JFK’s assassination. But by today’s standards—even by 1970 standards—it was antiquated. It had no audio. Let me repeat that:

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🗣🗣🗣 THERE IS *NO* AUDIO! 🗣🗣🗣

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But my brother captured some amazing footage of Jim Morrison with it. After 35 years of doing nothing with the film strip, I finally bugged him into giving it to me to have it remastered. He thought it was a waste of time, so he let me have it. Through my friends at Oregon Public Broadcasting, I hired a professional video archivist who remastered it for me.

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This was around 2006, just as the three remaining members of the Doors were preparing to release their 40th anniversary boxed CD set. So I contacted the Doors manager, told him about our footage, and asked him if he’d be interested in it. Indeed he was! He told me that he’d be very grateful if I donated it to the band, for use in their “future products.”

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I said well, that’s very nice of you, but let’s dig deeper into this situation. I’m having a little trouble with the term “donate.” What say you we talk turkey?

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He wouldn’t budge. It was either give it to us, because if you use our music without our permission, we’ll sue you (the dumbass missed the part where I told him there was no music to use, since there’s no audio track 🤣).

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I talked it over with my brother, and we agreed to give the footage away to the world for free, rather than let the Doors make a killing off our film. So I uploaded the remastered footage to YouTube.

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That’s when things started to get weird.

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👉🏼 Weird thing number I.

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The footage took off like a scared bunny. I gave up on trying to keep up with the comments that very first day. But there was one comment that caught my attention, posted by a guy named “Robert Alan Krieger.” Robby Krieger, the guitarist for the Doors... the guy who co-wrote Light My Fire, Touch Me, Love Me Two Times, Love Her Madly, etc. He wrote “Awesome fucking footage dude.” I checked him out to make sure it was really him, and it was. If you click on the link beside his name, it takes you to Robby Krieger’s website. It’s buried in that thread of comments somewhere.

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👉🏼 Weird thing number II.

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A gentleman named Logan up in Canada messaged me: “You know who that is at the 1:50 mark, right? That guy in the light blue shirt manning that tripod?” I wrote back: “No. who is it?” “That’s Harrison Ford. He was an out of work carpenter at the time, so the Mamas and Papas hired him to build their stages for them. When the Doors needed a handyman to build their stages, the Mamas and Papas introduced “Harry” to them, and he stayed on touring with the Doors doing odd jobs. On that particular day, they had him shoot a home movie of the concert.”

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Sooooo... at the 20 second mark, that kid who looks like a young Mr. Spock in the dark blue Nehru shirt, that’s 16 year old yours truly. And at the 1:50 mark in the light blue work shirt, that’s 25 year old Harrison Ford. How do I know Logan wasn’t full of shit? Because I sent email after goddamn email to both Ford’s agent and his publicist, and I finally got a response from the publicist: “Mr. Ford tells me yes, that is him in your movie, and he asked me to thank you for bringing it to his attention.” So there.

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But wait, there’s more!

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👉🏼 Weird thing number III.

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It turns out, my friend of 50 years, Ricardo, worked with a nurse named Cathy McDonald. Cathy’s husband is a guy named Joe McDonald. As in Country Joe McDonald. Ricardo told Cathy about our footage, who then told Joe. Joe emailed me that he’d like to have a virgin copy on CD. So he gave me his address, and I sent him one. He was a little put off by the fact that our footage didn’t give him top billing, but them’s the breaks. The Doors were on FIRE in ‘68. He wasn’t.

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👉🏼 Weird thing number IV.

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I’ve lost count of how many people have pirated our footage. But honestly, it doesn’t matter. I uploaded it to be enjoyed, so the more the merrier. The only time it pisses me off, is when someone claims to be the original videographers. Chances are, they weren’t even born yet in 1968.

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Lastly, about 6-7 years ago, my dad gave me that old Bell & Howell wind-up camera. I have since restored it to tip-top 1962 condition; the year he bought it. I also still have *both* the original concert poster and the original Sunday program from the NCFRF ‘68.

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Oh, and the Doors 40th anniversary boxed set? No video of any kind was included. They had their chance, but I slammed those doors. 🚪 🚪 🚪

 

 

BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN BY OUR FRIEND LINDNER

 Well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I apologize for the cryptic message on Monday announcing a Facebook time-out, but I had no choice.

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This picture was taken on my mom’s 97th birthday last month in Danville, CA. I was en route to Mexico, so I made a pit-stop there to share in the celebration. Lisa drove down on her own. I’ve been holding out hope that both of my parents would live long enough to witness the dawn of a new, Democratic Administration, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.

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Neither of my parents have ever had any major health issues. No cancer, no stroke, no  bypass, nothing like that. Just the usual bumps and scrapes. Between the two of them, they’ve chalked up 197.5 years of happy, healthy living. But my mother has been struggling for the past 4-5 years with major back and leg pain. So much so, that she’s been wheelchair bound for the past 2 years. Her heart, kidneys, liver, brain, digestion, lungs, EVERYTHING... they’re all functioning per the instruction manual. But her expiration date has come.

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Her caregivers and my dad decided to call in hospice just over two weeks ago, so she’s been in the glide path ever since. Lisa drove down on Saturday to visit with her grandma one last time. Once she reported back to me the state of affairs, I decided to hightail my heiny down there too, with MAJOR resistance from friends who warned me against being out on the road during the pandemic. But I ignored them. No way I’m gonna fly right now, so I drove. Ten hours straight-through.

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(Funny sidebar story: as I was headed south on Interstate 5 near Redding Ca, my phone rang. It was Lisa. “Dad, you’re near Redding, aren’t you? I just saw your car in the southbound lane!” She was headed back north to Oregon, and by happenstance, spotted me going the other way!)

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What follows might sound cold to some of you, but it was actually very tender for all involved. At no time did I ever get choked up or weep. It was rather beautiful. My mother’s hospice bed is set up in their living room. It’s bright and airy, with big picture windows so that she can watch the house finches and squirrels battle it out for the seed my dad feeds them. They designed that room themselves, back in 1954-55. Every so often, she’d lift her arm and point to a squirrel on the tree outside the window.

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A little family history is in order. Back in 1940, my dad's buddy, Norman, introduced his cousin Bernice to him at some soirée. He was 21, had just graduated from Northwestern University, she was just seventeen (you know what I mean 🎶), a high school Senior. He didn’t ask her out until 1945, at which time she was 22 (good move, dad). And they tied the knot in 1946. So while they’ve been married *nearly* 74 years, they’ve actually known each other for 80 years. EIGHTY YEARS!

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But no one lives forever. And my mom’s time has come. When I got to Danville on Monday afternoon, she was very weak and listless. She was sleeping most of the day, but had moments of lucidity. During the 60 hours I was there, I could see the changes. At one point, I asked her if she was afraid of dying. She furrowed her brow and shook her head from sided to side. I said “That’s good. Because I know what being dead is like. And so do you.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. I said “It’s exactly like how it was before you were born. And was that really so bad?” That elicited a smile. But it was NOTHING like the smile she flashed when Lisa used FaceTime later that night. She lit up like a Roman candle, reached out to the iPad, and waved at her. Lisa is everyone’s favorite Lindner.

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By yesterday morning, she had weakened considerably. I got her to open her eyes once or twice, but that’s about it. Finally, I put my finger in her hand and said “Mom, if you can hear me, grip my finger.” And she did.

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I have some obligations back here in Portland this weekend, so I left California at 5:00 am today for the long, boring drive back. Her overnight caregiver was sitting beside her, checking her vitals. I first went in to wake my dad to tell him goodbye, then I went back into the living room. I took her hand. I said “Mom, I have to leave now. This is the last time we’ll see each other. I just want to tell you how much I love you, and to thank you for everything you did for me... [seats at UC Berkeley to see JFK when I was 9, the trip around the world when I was 10, tickets to see the Beatles when I was 13, the Doors, Monterey Pop, Altamont, letting dad think I was just high on pot when you knew it was LSD, etc., as well as just being a damned good mother].

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But there was no reaction. I again put my index finger in her tiny little hand and said “Mom, if you can still hear me, give me a squeeze.” And there it was. Ever so feeble, but unmistakable. Through the pain, and the morphine, she was still hearing and registering. I kissed her lightly on the forehead and said “You can let go whenever you’re ready. Go gently into that good night.” And I left.

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I got back to Portland about an hour ago and called my dad for an update. She’s totally unresponsive now. I think I got in just under the wire. She probably only has a few hours left to live.

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I love my parents as much as anyone loves theirs. This was a beautiful, peaceful visit. Even though it was the last time I’ll ever see my mother, I won’t grieve her death. I will celebrate her life, instead. For 40 years, she grew exotic orchids in her greenhouse, she even has some named after her. (One of the members in her orchid guild was non other than Perry Mason himself, Raymond Burr). She worked with the brilliant Dr. Marian Diamond for some 20-25 years doing research on the human brain. She was admired by everyone who met her, lived a loooong, happy, healthy life with her toy-boy of 75 years, and is going out in style... in no pain, on her own schedule, surrounded by family, friends, house finches and squirrels.

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Throughout *my* life, as I’m sure is the case with all of you, are decisions that I’ve wished I could do over again. And I’ve got a TON of those. But as of today, I now have 3 major decisions that I’ll never, EVER regret making: 1) resisting the Vietnam War, 2) resisting getting married, and 3) ignoring the “advice” from friends and family to remain here during my mother’s final hours, out of fear of the coronavirus. Being there for her was by FAR the best thing I’ve ever done.

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Rest In Peace, mom. You’re the best.

WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 On April 22nd 1963, my 11th birthday, our family drove up to an ancient Crusader ruin in the Upper Galilee called Montfort (we lived in Israel between 1962-‘63). Montfort was built in the 13th century by the Teutonic Order (German) Crusaders. It‘s located about ten miles inland from the Mediterranean coast, and maybe 8-9 miles south of the Lebanese border.

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For my parents, the reason for these excursions was historic: to teach the young’uns some history. For my brother and I, it was an opportunity to scrounge for artifacts. Montfort hadn’t been excavated at that time, and it was generally just a pile of rocks.

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The Teutonic Crusaders put their Crusader cross motif on everything. On their tapestries, their coinage, their armor, and their pottery—like that shard at left. So my brother and I were scrambling around *inside* the castle keep, when I found what I thought was a Crusader coin. Booyah! I mean... it kinda’ looked like one. Only it was fat. And made from stone. But there was a Crusader cross on it! WT Crusader F? It took me a few minutes to realize what I was holding: it was a fossilized sea urchin. And it was a hell of a lot older than this castle! Possibly hundreds of millions of years older.

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But the mystery of course, was what was it doing *within* the confines of a 13th century castle? And of all the answers I’ve postulated over the years, I’ve only been able to come up with one logical one: Some Crusader, or the wife or child of a Crusader, found that fossil somewhere nearby, was probably attracted by the likeness to the Crusader cross (a message from God: Eat more seafood! 🤩), and took it back to the keep. Where an 11 year old American kid found it 800 years later on his birthday.

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Thanks for all the birthday messages folks, I’ll try to get to them later today. But for the moment, my focus is about 57 personal years, 7,000 miles and 8 centuries away from my iPad. Thank you all!

WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 Here’s an example of good ol’ Yankee ingenuity (the better side of capitalism).

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At the farmer’s market I serve at, there are no vendors selling trinkets, jewelry, kitschy nicknacks etc. It’s all produce, food stalls, coffee (😬), craft soaps, cannabis products, honey, etc. And since the Oregon Liquor Control Commission FINALLY eased their draconian rules several years ago, wines and liquor. Oregon’s wine and spirits industries have exploded in recent years.

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But it has to be locally produced by your company. No one can buy up California wine or Kentucky bourbon and sell it at the market. The finished product has to be *YOUR* creation, whatever it is.

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As you can imagine, sales are in the toilet for everyone right now. I’m personally down by 65%, but in my case, I don’t care. I technically retired over a year ago, and I just do the market because I love it. I love the other vendors, my customers, and schmoozing with the many friends I’ve made over the years. But for those who are still trying to keep their ledgers in the black, times are tough.

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But one spirits vendor has come up with an ingenious work-around. Booze sales have dropped precipitously, so he’s reconfigured his product—for the time being. He’s running his stills to brew a grain alcohol up to 151 proof, blends it with a medium of some sort (I assume glycerine), and sells it as a hand sanitizer. And business is BOOMING for him.

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Hand sanitizers (i.e. Purell, etc.) have disappeared from the store shelves. I don’t know what it’s like elsewhere, but here in Oregon, toilet paper, latex gloves and hand sanitizer fly off the shelves the minute they’re stocked. But thanks to this vendor’s ability to pivot from a slow-selling potable to a product in red-hot demand, he’s making a killing.

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“When one door closes, another opens. But we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.”

 

~ Alexander Graham Bell

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This vendor spotted the open door and walked right through. Our customers on the other hand, must now drive through.

https://katu.com/news/local/beaverton-farmers-market-converts-to-drive-thru

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO LINDNER

 I had to run down to the bank yesterday to deposit a couple of checks that have been collecting sheetrock dust [edit: and to buy 15 rolls of quarters]. Surprise! The Sellwood branch I go to has been shuttered due to the pandemic. The next-nearest Branch is about five miles away in Clackamas, so I’ll sashay on over there.

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But first, I’m gonna pick up some produce at the semi high-end grocery store across the street from my now-closed bank... some Jalisco chilies, a lemon, some tomatoes, a red onion and some mint. I don’t demand much from life, but fresh mint isn't “optional” for a proper mint julep.

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So I walk in, and it’s like a scene from The Omega Man. The shelves and produce area are all well stocked, but no one’s there, save maybe six employees and two or three other shoppers. I waltz over to the produce section to get what’s on my list.

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They’ve placed markers on the floor to remind folks to keep their distance from each other in a kind of a “chute” format. I take a paper bag, pluck out five fat Jalisco chilies. Then I looked for a plastic bag (or whatever that green pseudo-plastic stuff is) for the mint, which was right next to the chilies. Oh, there they are; about three feet to my left. I turned, grabbed a plastic baggie, then reached over and grabbed the tongs for my mint... but came within a few nanoseconds of pinching some green and purple haired woman on the buttocks with the tongs.

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She mistakenly thought that when I was done at the Jalisco chilies bin and pivoted for a baggie, I was done PERIOD. And boy-howdy, was she expressive. I couldn’t see her whole face of course, due to the mask, but her eyes set the tone for what came out from behind that mask:

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“Hey! They’ve got a system here. You’re done. Get behind me if you want something else.”

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It took me a second to figure out WTF, but once I did, I told her “No, I was NOT done. I’m still picking out what I need. You moved in before I was finished.”

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She didn’t even look up when she said it: “Fucking boomers.” Whatevs. I paid for my produce, then off to Clackamas I went to do my banking.

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Same basic arrangement there: customers are lined up in a virtual chute, with a security guard—big kid, late twenties at the door directing folks. I walk in, he says “Please wait right there, sir.” I nod. An older guy (maybe 75-80) walks up behind me. The security guard instructs him “Please wait right there sir.” The guy says “I have to transfer some money to my grandson in Italy. It’s very important!” The guard reiterates “I understand, sir. It won’t be long.” Then the old guy went BONKERS! “How long will this take? My grandson is desperate!” The guard tried the soft touch; “Not long. Did you have a pleasant Easter sir?”

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“I don’t celebrate pagan holidays. If you’re a real Christian, you know that Jesus was...” and down that rabbit hole he went! I made eye contact with the security guard and gave him an eye-roll. He smiled and responded in kind.

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So in my first major foray out into a hostile world for mint, chilies and commerce, I got called a “fucking boomer” and witnessed a grandfather’s tantrum-cum-sermon at being asked to stay put for two minutes.

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But once I got home, things turned REALLY weird: My friend Jason messaged me; “Are you seeing this?”

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“What, is Trump giving another crazy presser right now?”

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“Yeah.”

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So I turned it on and watched as a 73 year old lunatic in heavy makeup and bleached blond hair took one more giant leap towards authoritarianism.

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I had half a mind to hunt down that old man and the purple and green haired woman and thank them for their sanity. Relatively speaking. 🙄