Running across the Burnside Street Bridge in Portland last week, I came upon this graffiti message spray-painted in purple, letters a foot high, on the sidewalk bordering the vast Willamette River:

CALL YOUR DEADBEAT DAD. HE STILL LOVES YOU.

It was Father’s Day weekend. My mind started whirling. Did a specific dad write it to a long-lost child? Or was it more universal? A manifesto of sorts for all neglectful kids who haven’t stayed in touch with their dads? And did the suggestion tug hard enough to result in any action?

Couldn’t say. All I knew is this was Portland and the public call to action fit this city perfectly.

Also on the waterfront, scores of names of dead service men and women who died in Iraq were scrawled in chalk. “The Names Project,” said the message chalked on the sidewalk at the start of the long list.

Portlanders seem to live their lives out loud — at least many of those who reside in and around the city limits. I saw two anti-war protests on city sidewalks while there, and people gathering petition signatures downtown for an open space initiative, membership in Greenpeace and lord knows what else. I’ve visited there at least a half-dozen times in 10 years, usually for business, so I seldom get out to the suburbs. I’m pretty sure the Portland suburbs are like anywhere else, though — a gone-to-shit wasteland of chain restaurants and car lots. So I choose to stay in my little comfy urban bubble and it serves me just fine.

A group of City Weekly staff members attended the Association of Alternative Newspapers there. We worked during the day but played hard at night. The second night in, I’d had enough of crowds and loudmouths bragging on their newspapers, so I lit off on my own to Northwest Portland, AKA the Alphabet District. I walked from downtown for about 1 1/2 miles until I ran into a series of great bars, sidewalk cafes, coffee houses and nightlife like I never see in Salt Lake City. The host at the little Italian place where I chose to eat and sip Oregon pinot noir gave me the history of the district: a one-time working class area populated by longshoremen and their families. “It’s got the distinction of being the most densely populated neighborhood between San Francisco and Seattle,” he said, obviously proud of that little tidbit.

It’s easy to dismiss downtown Salt Lake as a decaying, even dead place because of its prehistoric liquor laws and clunky approach to nightlife. But it’s more than that. We cling to a culture here that a thriving nightlife is a little too much, a bit too excessive, showy and inappropriate. You see this even among those restaurant and club owners who are trying here: With the exception of the bigger, successful private clubs, too many bars are dark and dank, buried in basements with little or no light. Dirty.

It’s like going there makes you feel criminal, and I can’t believe city leaders want to put that message across.

And then there are the politics of Portland. I always get the distinct sensation when visiting there that speaking out is a public duty. People have opinions and they don’t shrink at sharing them. It’s a stark contrast to my hometown here, where so many people back into a position, or feign politeness or silence at the risk of offending or alienating someone else.

And of course, I do love the green and the clean air. We live in a high desert here in Salt Lake and I love that for its own exceptional qualities. But clean air? Now that is our challenge. I feel certain the next 10 years and the way we go about working on air quality will make or break Salt Lake as a livable and enticing city. I hope we haven’t started too late.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 19th, 2007 at 4:11 pm and is filed under All, Community, Culture, Pretty Things, Travel, Work and Play. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Running across the Burnside Street Bridge in Portland last week, I came upon this graffiti message spray-painted in purple, letters a foot high, on the sidewalk bordering the vast Willamette River:

CALL YOUR DEADBEAT DAD. HE STILL LOVES YOU.

It was Father’s Day weekend. My mind started whirling. Did a specific dad write it to a long-lost child? Or was it more universal? A manifesto of sorts for all neglectful kids who haven’t stayed in touch with their dads? And did the suggestion tug hard enough to result in any action?

Couldn’t say. All I knew is this was Portland and the public call to action fit this city perfectly.

Also on the waterfront, scores of names of dead service men and women who died in Iraq were scrawled in chalk. “The Names Project,” said the message chalked on the sidewalk at the start of the long list.

Portlanders seem to live their lives out loud — at least many of those who reside in and around the city limits. I saw two anti-war protests on city sidewalks while there, and people gathering petition signatures downtown for an open space initiative, membership in Greenpeace and lord knows what else. I’ve visited there at least a half-dozen times in 10 years, usually for business, so I seldom get out to the suburbs. I’m pretty sure the Portland suburbs are like anywhere else, though — a gone-to-shit wasteland of chain restaurants and car lots. So I choose to stay in my little comfy urban bubble and it serves me just fine.

A group of City Weekly staff members attended the Association of Alternative Newspapers there. We worked during the day but played hard at night. The second night in, I’d had enough of crowds and loudmouths bragging on their newspapers, so I lit off on my own to Northwest Portland, AKA the Alphabet District. I walked from downtown for about 1 1/2 miles until I ran into a series of great bars, sidewalk cafes, coffee houses and nightlife like I never see in Salt Lake City. The host at the little Italian place where I chose to eat and sip Oregon pinot noir gave me the history of the district: a one-time working class area populated by longshoremen and their families. “It’s got the distinction of being the most densely populated neighborhood between San Francisco and Seattle,” he said, obviously proud of that little tidbit.

It’s easy to dismiss downtown Salt Lake as a decaying, even dead place because of its prehistoric liquor laws and clunky approach to nightlife. But it’s more than that. We cling to a culture here that a thriving nightlife is a little too much, a bit too excessive, showy and inappropriate. You see this even among those restaurant and club owners who are trying here: With the exception of the bigger, successful private clubs, too many bars are dark and dank, buried in basements with little or no light. Dirty.

It’s like going there makes you feel criminal, and I can’t believe city leaders want to put that message across.

And then there are the politics of Portland. I always get the distinct sensation when visiting there that speaking out is a public duty. People have opinions and they don’t shrink at sharing them. It’s a stark contrast to my hometown here, where so many people back into a position, or feign politeness or silence at the risk of offending or alienating someone else.

And of course, I do love the green and the clean air. We live in a high desert here in Salt Lake and I love that for its own exceptional qualities. But clean air? Now that is our challenge. I feel certain the next 10 years and the way we go about working on air quality will make or break Salt Lake as a livable and enticing city. I hope we haven’t started too late.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 19th, 2007 at 4:11 pm and is filed under All, Community, Culture, Pretty Things, Travel, Work and Play. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.