Portland Ghost Tour

A guided tour of Portland, Oregon for the Living-Challenged

Although links are provided to Michael P. Jones Shanghai Tunnel Tours, The Oregon Historical Society  and Old Town Pizza Company sites, the opinions expressed in this post are my own

In early 2001, I volunteered with a small group of friends from work, to assist Michael P. Jones and his organization, The Cascade Geographic Society, in excavating a section of the tunnels under the city of Portland. He is now leading tours through the cleared areas of the tunnel and hopes to open a Historical Museum to exhibit the artifacts we unearthed. I believe he is also writing a book, cataloging the experience and possibly validating claims that the tunnels were used during prohibition and beyond, to"shanghai" men and women.

My friends and I had volunteered for one night of digging, but a couple of us found it so interesting, we returned, week after week, to dig for historical "treasures" in the basement of Old Town Pizza. There was so much dirt in the basement, that even at 5'3", I had to duck under the pipes and beams that ran across the ceiling. With only work lamps and flashlights to illuminate the rooms, visibility was limited and the cleanup process was laborious and slow. But anyone with an eye for architecture would appreciate the masonry of the tunnel openings and archways. Some of the brick work rivaled that of the buildings above. Each week we sifted through and filled five gallon buckets with the dry, powdery dirt. We carried the buckets up the narrow stairway to the street level, where we transferred the dirt to heavy duty contractor bags that were then loaded into a truck and moved to an area where it could be examined more carefully, under better lighting.

The large artifacts we found were carefully brushed off and secured in a small room in the basement. Some of them reminiscent of the brothel that existed in the upper stories of the building over 150 years ago. Other items seemed to confirm the tunnels jaded past, stories of men who were possibly drugged and imprisoned, and ultimately sold into involuntary servitude as sailors aboard sea vessels docked along the Willamette River waterfront. The most convincing of these, for me; were the trapdoor, a dead-fall, located next to the bar above; and the small brick prison cells built into the interior basement walls. We also found several small glass pharmaceutical bottles, piles of men's shoes and broken shards of glass scattered throughout the basement.

Before working in the basement, we were given a quick tour of the Pizza parlor above and told the seasoned story of a young woman named "Nina" who had died there. I enjoyed the story, but thought it to be nothing more than urban legend.

As the weeks passed, I became more at ease, the physical labor a formidable distraction from the legends and fears of the supernatural. One night, when only four of us were working in the basement, something happened that would make me call into question my beliefs. The quiet of the empty basement gave the dry air an eerie feel, so we made an effort to enter and exit in pairs, but were occasionally left alone in the darkened rooms. At the sidewalk entrance, we sometimes made a "bucket brigade," I passed my bucket up to the street and returned alone to the cleared basement room where the prison cells were. Although it seemed some of the shoes and medicine bottles had been moved, I dismissed the thought. Maybe someone was looking at them and set them down somewhere else.

It was getting late. The intensity of the labor, compounded by the difficulty of getting in and out of the basement made us decide to call it a night. We were standing together near the cells, relaxing and talking about our most recent finds, when suddenly, I was pushed from behind. I stepped forward to regain my balance, turned to look for someone behind me, some prankster, trying to spook me... nothing. I looked up at the pipes above, had something fallen? No. I wasn't hit, I was pushed, firmly and with such force that I lost my balance. The others asked if I was okay. I was fine, if only slightly unsettled, wouldn't you be?

On my drive home, I decided to stop and meet with friends at a restaurant. We gathered in the lounge area for a few rounds of karaoke. I snapped photos of my friends singing, finishing off the roll of film in a disposable camera I had been photographing the Portland basement with. I was anxious to see if I had captured a "presence" on film. Especially after my unexplained encounter earlier in the evening. When I got the film back from the pharmacy photo lab, I hurriedly thumbed through the prints. Pictures of me digging in the basement and holding artifacts, but mostly, pictures of what I believe to be hundred-year-old dust. It wasn't until I got to the photos of my friends at the restaurant that I froze. I pulled the negatives from the envelope to verify what I was seeing. Knowing the human brain is programmed to recognize familiar shapes in nature, I could swear I was looking at a human female figure next to my friend on stage. Nevertheless, I'm calling it an unusual pool of cigarette smoke, even though it seemed more dense, oddly shaped and nowhere near anyone who was smoking. I can't explain it. I'm not sure I want to. I haven't been back to that basement or the karaoke lounge in over a decade.

I had witnessed other phenomena that night, but I can only speak to my own physical experience.
    1. I was alone in the basement when the items were moved.
    2. I was pushed.

No One Puts Katie In A Corner

     I've often dreamt of owning a non-profit lakeside campground for under-privileged/disabled children. The lake is stocked with native trout and fed by a tributary allowing the occasional wild salmon to appear. The log cabins that line the shores are tucked into the treeline, so that the only man-made structures visible are a few boat docks and fishing jetties. A general store, horse stables and main lodge are located near the campground entrance. On the far side of the lake the cabins are farther apart for privacy and are made available for patrons who frequent the campgrounds. Last night you were among the few guests gathered in the main lodge. I leaned over and whispered "as a resident of the camp, I am authorized to provide you with anything you might want [from the kitchen]," to which you replied, smiling, "How about some Patrick Swayze?" Without skipping a beat I said, "I'm sorry, we're fresh out, but I'll let you know as soon as more arrive." Back in the kitchen, looking through the pre-packaged snacks, I realized they were movie themed and every one of them had a screenshot from a different Patrick Swayze film on the wrapper: Dirty Dancing, Ghost, Road House... etc. 
    Another distinguished guest this evening, was His Holiness, The Dalai Lama. On arrival, he approached me and taking both of my hands in his, he looked downward, deep in thought for a moment, then looking directly into my eyes he spoke, "you have all of the tools you need, you simply haven't used them to your full potential." 
     I woke up humming "She's Like The Wind."

Reminiscing

Before I even learned to read, I was perusing the ancient tomes of the used book stores, in early 70's Petaluma, California. Entranced by the musky bookstore aromas of cedar, vanilla and patchouli, I watched, seemingly unaffected, as lengthy discussions unfolded between my Father and Grandfather.

At the front of the book store, stood a small chewing gum vending machine with the word "FORD" printed on a sticker on the glass. A shiny penny from Grandfather produced a handful of "Chiclet" type squares of gum, each with the word "FORD" on them.

In the parking lot outside several tables were set up for a flea market, a kind of community garage sale where neighbors could buy and sell used housewares. On one table, in the shade near the building, a portable phonograph was playing Hank Williams Sr., to the right of the table a small two wheel bicycle stood on it's kickstand. I turned to tell my Father, and after a moment of panic, realized he was just a few steps away at a neighboring table, where a man was selling electrical parts and cables. With a glance, he told me it was time to go.

Climbing into my Father's white Fairmont sedan, we headed back down the two lane country road that led to Grandfather's house.

The gum lost it's flavor quickly, I spat it into my hand and handed it to my Grandfather, then leaned back in the seat and daydreamed as I stared out the window trying to see what lay beyond the trees that lined both sides of the road.

The trees formed a shadowy tunnel, filtering the sunlight into stripes that crossed the road every few yards, transforming the view through the car door window into a Super 8 moving picture.

Squinting into the flashing sunshine I could see the vineyards that stretched to the low rolling hills floating in clouds of fog in the distance.

My Father stopped the car along the side of the road, where the tall trees and faded hills were now replaced with a field of clover, near a small orange grove. We got out of the car and walked into the field toward a stack of white wooden boxes. There were a handful of them placed randomly across the field. As we approached them my Father motioned me to stay back, put on his white beekeeper's hat and continued with Grandfather to the boxes. Grandfather held a can that poured smoke on the hive as Father gently opened it. He removed a screen filled with honeycomb, cut off a piece, placed it in a mason jar, then carefully replaced the screen and hive cover.

When we returned to the car, he handed me a small chunk of honeycomb. The sweet smell alone made my nostrils flare and my mouth water. I held my breath as I bit down into the soft wax. The smooth warm honey coated my tongue, and I slowly exhaled as a smile spread across my face.

The Dream Job

Just woke from a morning nap and a vivid dream. I was watching Leverage on my laptop, when Nate sensed Eliot behind him and asked if he was mad, Eliot just balled his fists, then attacked Nate from behind Ninja style after morphing into a creepy "Ghost" demon-like Batman, it startled me awake [still dreaming] to find my son opening a package he had taken delivery of while I slept. He's not allowed to answer the door to strangers, so I quickly looked up the company using the internet access on my cell phone. A glowing map appeared and started to navigate me through the streets of NW Portland to the neon blue outline of a high-rise building. Each floor had electronic billboards showing the ads of it's corporate inhabitants.
Inside the package was a six-pack carrier holding reusable sno-cone cups, filled with blue, shaved ice. I wondered why they weren't melting but insisted we put them in the freezer.
Suddenly I was inside the office building, exiting an office on one of the top floors. In the map, I had noticed that along with the Sno-Cone Company, Leverage Incorporated also occupied one of these penthouse offices. Back in the hallway a pastoral painting had come to life and a horse looked into the hallway as if he were looking out a barn's dutch door. A woman with short brown hair brushed the short hair on his neck slowly as she spoke of her own horse, "It's his birthday today" she said. I smiled and replied, "was there cake?" thinking a carrot cake would be a great treat. She said, "no, he's ill and we can't get him to eat."
Then I woke up, for real this time. And knowing that most dreams progress in real time, was confused to see that only a few minutes had passed.

Soul Pancake

"Where's the strangest place you've ever laid your head?"

I can sleep anywhere, through anything. Last night, I slept through a barrage of illegal fireworks that would have made a war in the middle east sound like a 4th of July Celebration in the Barrios of the United States, wait...
Apparently, it's genetic. Last Spring I took this photo of my son, peacefully sleeping next to me.

...meanwhile, nearly 20,000 fans around us cheered and sang along as John Mayer performed on stage during his "Battle Studies World Tour". In my son's defense, I believe the song was a beautiful love ballad called "Comfortable". Here's a photo of John, his silhouette breaking the 'heart' formed by the lights onstage.

I left the Rose Garden Arena with my heart in tact, knowing whenever I hear this beautiful music, I'll remember sharing it with my son, well, most of it. :)

Bryan Adams - 2011

Please Forgive Me*

A Bare Bones Tour Perspective

Wednesday, April Thirteenth, Two-Thousand Eleven, just after eight o’clock Bryan Adams and pianist Gary Breit /brīt/ took the stage of the Historic Elsinore Theater, an eighty-five year old Tudor Gothic structure in Salem, Oregon. What follows is an account of my personal experience in that Theater on that evening.

As this was my first visit to The Elsinore, I tried desperately to take it all in, to commit to memory the grandeur of the evening

The exterior architecture of the building was amazing but stepping inside was like walking through a portal into Sixteenth Century England and Hamlet’s  Kronberg Castle: Tall, arched, colorful stained-glass windows, large murals depicting "Romeo and Juliet" and a modified "Macbeth's Witches", woven tapestry, medieval age-ed stone walls and grand staircases leading to elaborate balconies, all visible from the center of the mezzanine.

It was so overwhelmingly beautiful, I scanned the room looking for signs of familiarity. Was I in the right place? Was this the Bryan Adams Concert?

Relieved to find merchandise vendors prominently stationed between two sets of red velvet curtains draped across the entryways to the ‘sanctuary’, I reminded myself to...

Breathe.

My eight year old son Joey was by my side. I took a sip from his water bottle and another deep breath. Glancing around I noted the average age of patrons to be around forty-five, and throughout the evening, we saw only one other child. Joey seemed to take notice as well, and quickly adopted an attitude of respect and maturity befitting a well-bred young squire.

We stayed in the grand lobby taking pictures until fifteen minutes prior to show time, when I sent a final message on Twitter as Joey ate the last of his junior mints.

Inside, the sanctuary had become hallowed ground. Security guards continuously paced the room in an effort to enforce the NO CELL PHONE USE RULE broadcasting over the loudspeaker and posted on signs near the entrances.

We quietly took our seats near the center of the audience, Joey in the row in front of me. I’d like to say this was a conscious intentional decision on my part, so that I could attend to him without turning my back on Bryan. As it happened, those were the only seats available.

I stared intently at the high ceiling and medieval architecture hoping I could burn it into long term memory. Looking up to the two balconies behind me, I took note of the battens, one running the length of the second balcony and two positioned vertically on each wall. Attached to the battens, a row of lighting instruments were carefully directed toward the stage. Most were of the versatile ellipsoidal type, but up high on each of the vertical battens I noticed what appeared to be a Fresnel and Parnel flooding the stage with light. The houselights had the appearance of wrought iron exterior fixtures and were mounted high on the walls along the outermost aisle on each side of the theater.

Joey was anxious for the show to begin. Even as I magically transferred root beer candy from one hand to the other, I couldn’t distract him from repeatedly asking me the time. I covertly checked my phone, as I no longer wear a wristwatch, and was showing him the current time when he alerted me to the approaching security guard by saying, in a sing-song voice, “you’re going to get us kicked out, Mom”. I smiled back at the couple next to us and made a remark about how the exposed ‘heart’ of the Wurlitzer Organ, its stage mounted pipe ranks, when combined with the stone walls and coats of armor made me feel like I was in a Medieval Church.  But the lone microphone standing next to a grand piano on stage told me tonight’s service would be dedicated to the Gospel of Bryan Adams.

And the people rejoiced.

Nothing could have prepared me for what came next. The audience was reserved and stoic, they seemed strangely sober after drinking from their oversized solo communion cups. I wanted to join them but even though our friend Sarah had driven us to the venue, I abstained out of respect for my young moral compass, dedicated-parent induced sobriety, for the win!

Although shocked at first, I soon came to appreciate that they, like me, were holding their breath as the house lights dimmed and Bryan appeared from backstage adorned in top hat splendour. He tipped his hat bowing to the audience and placed it on the stage in front of him. The crowd greeted him with a warm round of applause, as if to say “Welcome home.” If you could drop a note into that hat, what would it say?

Warning: At last, the spoils.

First of all, as a student of technical Theater, I’d like to show my appreciation for the lighting design of this “Bare Bones” acoustic show.

Each song, nae, each phrase, a new scene was painted onto the canvas of the stage, in every style.  From brightly colored backlighting that left Bryan silhouetted against the stage mounted organ pipes and barren stage wall, to a warm illuminating spotlight that appeared from above the wings transforming him into a Rembrandt painting. When Bryan played he looked down at his acoustic guitar with reverence, and as he turned, the light reflected off of her strings, in perfect aesthetic harmony with the melody.

The newer songs, were so beautifully woven in, you’d swear they were

Classics.  And so naturally, the reinvented Classic Songs were infused with fresh energy and vibrancy.

Know this, in this ‘acoustic’ performance, the audience did their best to fill in percussion, backup harmonies and groupie positions. Bryan fielded the latter propositions with his well-known sense of humor and unmistakable charm. Swoonage commencer.

The acoustics in the Elsinore were unequal to any I’ve ever experienced, anywhere.  You could have heard a pin drop each time Bryan fell into a gentle guitar solo, or a whispered lyric with such amazing clarity. Breathtaking.

A formidable nod to Gary Breit, who began with an innocent Schulz’s Schroeder tempo, that soon escalated into a full spectrum offering of musical expression, climaxing with attacks so powerful, even the still organ pipes burst into song.

Run To You [audience on percussion]

How Do You Feel Tonight

Back To You [piano, harmonica]

Here I Am [piano]

I’m Ready [piano, harmonica]

Do I Have To Say The Words? [piano]

Let’s Make A Night To Remember

Can’t Stop This Thing We Started

You’re Still Beautiful To Me [piano]

Heat Of The Night [piano]

Not Romeo Not Juliet [piano]

(Everything I Do) I Do It For You [piano]

The audience rewarded Bryan/Gary with a standing ovation. Which they humbly accepted.

Cuts Like A Knife [a bagpiper accompanied Bryan and the audience on

the ‘Na Na Na’ Bridge while walking down a main aisle toward the stage, across to house right and back up to the entryway where he paused to bid us farewell, much to the delight of everyone in attendance]

[brief personal intermission, feel free to tell me what I missed in graphic detail, I have a feeling based on previous set lists, it may have been "Alberta Bound"]

Please Forgive Me [piano]

“I remember the smell of your skin, I remember everything”

my favorite verse, countryfried, added the comic relief I needed to stifle impending tears.  I love this song so much, I would have bawled like a baby.  No one wants to see that.

Summer of ’69 [piano]

Whatever you think happened at this point, you’re probably right. There was laughter. [note: I wonder if Bryan uses GHS Strings?]

Walk On By

Heaven [piano] Audience once again on their feet, an inspired performance.

The Right Place [piano]

The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is You

          Anyone who’s ever attended a rock concert knows, the last song of the set is never the last song of the evening. A few audience members left but only after offering a standing ovation, whistles and cheers, and synchronous clapping that quickly accelerated into a roar, at which point, Bryan and Gary reappeared, once again the people rejoiced. This time in an anxious, liberated fashion more indigenous to a crowd listening to an artist of Bryan Adams caliber.

ENCORE

Somebody [piano]

[Bryan rewarded the audience by inviting us to the stage, continuing to sing..]

You’ve Been A Friend To Me [piano]

Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman? [piano]

Miss You A Little Bit [piano]

Straight From The Heart [harmonica]

          I wish there was a way to share the experience of singing with the Bryan Adams audience choir; three and four part harmonies, that feeling of a shared love of music and a desire to show our gratitude for the commitment Bryan has made to his fans. There are still several shows to come in The Bare Bones Tour, if you’d like to feel it for yourself. In my son’s words, “It was Awesome!”

The most amazing revelation came to me during the moments Bryan was alone on stage, alone he sang with the voice of a choir, and alone he played his acoustic guitar yet became a resounding symphonic orchestra. At any given moment, someone is singing their favorite Bryan Adams song, he’ll never truly sing alone.

Epilogue:

I feel compelled to say these words as well:

*If my use of the phrase “Please Forgive Me” is in violation of copy write

laws, it also happens to be my favorite Bryan Adams song.

If you think I talk too much, use too many words or offend in some way,

I agree, I’m a music lover, not a writer.

If I got the set list wrong… let me just say, it is an incredible super-human

          power to be able to sing that many songs for so many nights in a row.

If I neglected to mention the Pipers name was, I couldn't find him, if you know him,

tell him, he ROCKED!

‘Bryan Adams’ is my drug of choice.

(and by 'drug' I totally mean this)

 What I Left Out: Elsinore We Are Not Alone

art: Kathleen Arvidson, "Bryan Adams at the Elsinore" and

      "Bryan Adams-Portrait", oil pastels, 2011

“Please Forgive Me”

Tintinnabulation

Edgar Allen Poe "The Bells", my favorite poem as a child, the irony has not escaped me. As chronic bilateral tinnitus has become my nearest companion, filling the rare silent moments of my life with crystal glasses caressed by moistened fingertips. Many people suffer temporary tinnitus after listening to loud music, machinery or after head injuries. No one knows exactly what causes the incessant ringing of chronic tinnitus. Something in your diet? Chemical imbalance? Inner ear damage? Emotional shock? Physical trauma? Prescription Medications? Heredity? All of the above?
Whether physiological or psychological, here's what I've found:
Elevated blood pressure, caffeine intake, OTC pain medication all make the ringing more noticeable. Distraction has been the key to my sanity, whether it be the "white noise" of a fan, a television, playing video games or reading until my eyes feel like balls of jello, I can actually tune out the ringing and forget it for a while.
Oddly enough, when it rings loud enough to give me a headache. loud music has become my favorite cure. At first I assumed the tinnitus had over-ridden my ability to hear, that I was simply listening around it, but after multiple CAT scans, MRI's,
Blood tests and a full audiological screening "WE" still don't know why my perfectly functioning ears are not sending comprehensible messages to my brain.
After suffering through the grief of my hearing loss and subsequently losing my job and career plan, I threw myself into the deep end of the Musical pool, taking a Musical Literature class at school to study the History of Rock and Roll, revisiting my favorite artists through video documentary: Bob Dylan, Jerry Lee Lewis, Brian Wilson and Bootsy Collins. Since then I've attended as many Live music concerts as possible, starting out at The Trails End Saloon with many of the areas best Blues Musicians.
Then John Mayer came to town, and in many ways, his was the most inspiring concert I've ever witnessed, especially when, late into the evening, John sang a ballad that simply lulled my young son to sleep in my lap. The "Battle Studies" record seemed to speak to me on a personal level. Then with the television series "Leverage" back in town, I found a new addiction in the music of "Kane". I can't really pin them down to a genre or a particular sound. Which is probably why I like them so much. From Steve Carlson's hypnotic rhythms to the ethereal sound of Ryan Baker's drumming and Christians wide, yet expressive vocal range, rounded out by the solid and sometimes playful bass of Will Amend and topped with an extra helping of face melting guitar solos by lead-guitarist Jason Southard. What more could I ask for? They play to feel it.
On a recent literary binge, I learned about Tibetan Singing Bowls [Dr. Mitchell L. Gaynor's "Sounds of Healing"], hand-hammered metal bowls used in meditation and more recently as a form of therapy. Circling a wood or cloth covered dowel around the top edge of the bowl creates a harmonious yet discordant sound, combined with the vibration of the bowl in your hand it is unexpectedly pleasant and soothing, and amazingly not unlike the ringing in my ears. Further exploration will prove whether the singing bowl can keep my brain in tune with the World around me or simply distract me from myself.
Tinnitus: Nature's healing sound?