The Long Goodbye

When I moved to Portland in 1977, a segment of the city's literary scene was centered around the Long Goodbye, a cafe/bar in the heart of what is now known as the Pearl District, an upscale enclave of restaurants and apartments at the edge of Portland's city center.

In 1977, the area was a run-down district full of crumbling, turn-of-the-century warehouses. A few craftsmen and artists lived there on a dime and a dream, satisfied with its inexpensive rent and plentiful solitude. At night, it was eerily dark and quiet, with long shadows, dim streetlights, and a foreboding noirish feel.

The cafe's owner, Richard Vidan, must have felt that vibe when he opened the place, naming it after Raymond Chandler's noir novel.

The Long Goodbye was a music, theater and poetry venue, in the enduring fashion of fifties and sixties era New York coffee houses, a place where poets looked like poets.

I haven't owned a beret in years, but I know I had a black one back then, and I'd usually don it for Monday night open mic, when the poets gathered. I carried my precious poems in a leather shoulder bag and kept a G harmonica in my tweed sports coat, just in case. At times, I wore a beard, or I'd trim it back for the Beat feel. The place was marked with genius, I knew, because I was one of them. (Actually, I never really believed that. I was too insecure to be a genius, and wrote sub par poetry to boot.)

However, my friend H. Home really was a genius, and so was another friend, Mark Wilson. Walt Curtis (pictured) would become the unofficial poet laureate of the streets, so he definitely qualified. So did Katherine Dunn, before breaking out big time with Geek Love, and John Shirley, the sci-fi writer.

Shirley's energy shredded the cafe in the name of pure genius.

Jay Rothbell, who later ran with Robert Sheckley, sometimes dropped by to read something funny and outrageous. There were many others.

At times, the aura of genius in that place kicked my ass. I didn't really belong there, except I enjoyed the scene because it was an hilarious entertainment. And once, I whipped out my harmonica, improvising a scorching blues solo, which made people smile and gave me a jolt of confidence.

I had started a poetry supplement to the monthly newspaper I worked for at the time. I called it Cold Eye, named for Yeat's self-penned epitaph from Under Ben Bulben:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

The lyric always struck me as a righteous way a man might look at life and death--coldly. Not unfeelingly, but realistically. If one is fortunate enough to live for many years what else is there? In the Irish tradition, celebrate, laugh at the end. Be as cold about death as life itself. I mean really, what the hell else are you going to do? Sit around and feel bad that you're about to die? That would be a waste of precious time, it seems.

Running that little supplement, I managed to find a few poets at the cafe who gave me their work to publish. That is why I went there to begin with. I was looking for material. I assigned friends, such as H. Home (David Sevedge), to score interviews with the poets. Home befriended Dunn, and called his interview with her Portrait of the Genius at 33. He had read her books, Truck and Attic, and I hadn't, so he was the man for the job. The interview read like a kind of private joke from outer space, a couple of extraterrestrials shooting the breeze. Vaguely comprehensible, and definitely a big score.

See, the aura was indeed there.

Walt Curtis was a favorite of mine in the scene. His friend Mariam Wheatley did an interview with him for my supplement. Walt was a performance artist. He made me laugh uproariously, but many in the audience found him unbearable. I haven't seen Walt read of late, but in those days he was obscene and so determined to take things over the edge that he became self-parodying, which he knew. He thrived on it.

Laughing at his own stuff, appalled by it seemingly, he would break off a verse and apologize for its putrid nature--then plunge on, describing an enthralling moment of sexual love he'd had, extolling his Mexican lover's penis, or describing some other unspeakable act, some other undaunted emotion.

"This is awful!" he'd shout, protesting himself like a member of the audience, flailing his arms and running his fingers through his deliberately unkempt hair, before returning to his text and the next outrage he had in store for all.

Then, surprisingly, but not really surprisingly, Walt might turn a stunning phrase. Something that made profound sense and transcended the vulgarity of his act. And his readings were always theatrical. Always about Walt throwing off convention. I liked the act. But not everyone did.

H. Home despised Walt's exaggerations. He stormed the stage one night, knocking Walt's mic over and shoving him to the floor. Home's hat flew off punching, his shirt ripped open, and he took Walt to the floor sprawling, sat atop him and told him what he thought of Walt's dirty art.

Damn, that was a funny moment.

My other good friend from that time, Mark Wilson, hated Walt, too. He and Home just couldn't handle the assault on good taste that Walt provided every time he took the stage.

Like I said, I found the scene hilarious, as much for my friends' reaction to it as for Walt's alledged sicknesses. Something in me simply wasn't adverse to people unleashing their peculiar demons on stage.

My time in the Long Goodbye scene eventually dimmed and faded away. I left the monthly paper, fathered a girl, and went to work in the corporate world as a scriptwriter. I didn't miss the poetry scene at all, probably because I never really enjoyed reading my stuff out loud to begin with. I was always too self-conscious and uncertain about my work. I realize that about poetry now. You know when you've done it right.

I think in the months I went there, I read twice. To mixed reviews.

I haven't been to a reading in years. I 'm not certain I have what it takes to sit through one now.

Whatever that is.


What Can We Do?

at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, murder.

Charles Bukowski


TS