Recently a woman here in Portland ridiculed me for living near Gresham, a suburb that Portland’s indie-alpha culture finds repugnant.
“Why do you live there? she asked. “Is it because of the close proximity to all the great cuisine and culture?”
Or something. She thought she was being smarmy-yet-cute. But unbeknownst to her, the former greatly diminishes the latter.
So I told her:
GIRL…
The Ham of Gresh is made of stern stuff, it is the most purely triplicate articulation of the Godhead anywhere.
Like you, I am a mere commoner of Southeast Portland. But unlike you, I live scant blocks from the hamlet of Gresh.
I like misunderstood places.
I like coal piles.
I like coyotes, I like scorched engine oil.
I like places where the snow gets dirty.
I like places far removed from emergency renewable energy fairs, yoga parlors, Sleater-Kinney, bike shops, microbreweries and C.h.u.n.k. 666 Tweet-ups.
I like unpopular places.
I like the face-smacking winds of the Columbia River Gorge. I like Kevlar-bottom boats I can smash around the Sandy River with. I like places where ultimate fighting trumps roller derby as the key fringe sport of interest.
I like places that force themselves on the landscape.
I like blight.
I like whatever urban planners hate.
I like vacant lots.
I like wide-open places.
I like places where elk hunters outnumber pansexual dilettantes 100-1.
I like places with grease, gunfire and burning tires.
I like Gresham.
