But a picture would.
Portlandia Prevails. As will we all.
Showing posts with label portlandia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label portlandia. Show all posts
19 January 2009
Vol. 2, Issue 2 | I'm (Still) With Sam.
Had a completely different rant lined up for today. Then I read the headlines. Wanted to put into words how I feel today, of all days. Realized words wouldn't do.
But a picture would.
Portlandia Prevails. As will we all.
But a picture would.
Portlandia Prevails. As will we all.
12 January 2009
Vol. 1, Issue 14 | Definitions, Part 4
Port•land
glit•te•ra•ti
Port•lan•der•at•ti
Portlandia... the original Portlanderatti.
- a seaport in NW Oregon, at the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers. 366,383.
- a seaport in SW Maine, on Casco Bay. 61,572.
- a town in S Texas. 12,023.
glit•te•ra•ti
- wealthy or famous people who conspicuously or ostentatiously attend fashionable events.
Port•lan•der•at•ti
- subculture of Portlanders distinguished by a ridiculous level of notoriety & seemingly ubiquitous attendance of oh-so-very-Portland events:
- “Why does that guy look familiar?”
“Him? Dunno, but I’ve seen him before too. Must be Portlanderatti.” - [Origin: Mary-Suzanne Lamkins, 2007; portmanteau of Portland & glitterati]
Portlandia... the original Portlanderatti.
Vol. 1, Issue 5 | And Now, A Warning
The days of Portland's passive-aggressive stance on passive-aggressiveness are done. I will, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, aggressively confront your passive-aggressive ways, fellow citizens. No more mollycoddling.
Oh, and just so that we're clear: Being Aggressive does not necessarily equate itself with Being Violent. It does lend itself well to Being Direct.
And yes, I am acutely aware that posting about confronting passive-aggressive behaviour in a blog is a form of passive-aggressiveness. Now that's irony.
Portlandia Prevails.
Oh, and just so that we're clear: Being Aggressive does not necessarily equate itself with Being Violent. It does lend itself well to Being Direct.
And yes, I am acutely aware that posting about confronting passive-aggressive behaviour in a blog is a form of passive-aggressiveness. Now that's irony.
Portlandia Prevails.
11 January 2009
Vol. 0, Issue 16 | No Better
For those who live here, you're aware that we have many, many wandering homeless folk in the city. Some of whom are, to put it delicately, in need of a mental health practitioner. By in large, it's this percentage of the homeless that approaches me. Not for a handout, but for actual conversation. As though they can actually detect that some part of my psyche allows me to comprehend what they want to impart.
Case in point...
I'm awaiting the train last night. I see an older man, bearded, looking much like Robin Williams in The Fisher King, wandering through the crowd of other people waiting for the train. He stops in front of me, smiling, head cocked to the side. Looking at me... into me. He doesn't want anything from me. But he does want to tell me something...
"No good. No good they say. Say I'm no good. No good!" Still smiling, but pained. He steps closer. "Don't harm no one. Don't harm no one. But I'm no good. No good! No good! Why? Why'm I no good? Don't hurt nobody. No good? Why no good. Who are you? Who are you to say? You say I'm no good, but who are you?"
"No better." I respond, thinking yet not thinking. His face, crinkled from age, wear & pain, relaxes. Eyes widen. His smile become a gape. And then he's beaming at me.
"Yes... yes, yes. No better. Yes." Laughing, he extends his hand, clenched. We touch fists, and then both board the train. He sits quietly through the entire ride, peaceful. Blissful of finding an answer he didn't expect. And I? I contemplated my reminder from the universe that I'm no better than the rest, whether they be kings or peasants.
No better.
Case in point...
I'm awaiting the train last night. I see an older man, bearded, looking much like Robin Williams in The Fisher King, wandering through the crowd of other people waiting for the train. He stops in front of me, smiling, head cocked to the side. Looking at me... into me. He doesn't want anything from me. But he does want to tell me something...
"No good. No good they say. Say I'm no good. No good!" Still smiling, but pained. He steps closer. "Don't harm no one. Don't harm no one. But I'm no good. No good! No good! Why? Why'm I no good? Don't hurt nobody. No good? Why no good. Who are you? Who are you to say? You say I'm no good, but who are you?"
"No better." I respond, thinking yet not thinking. His face, crinkled from age, wear & pain, relaxes. Eyes widen. His smile become a gape. And then he's beaming at me.
"Yes... yes, yes. No better. Yes." Laughing, he extends his hand, clenched. We touch fists, and then both board the train. He sits quietly through the entire ride, peaceful. Blissful of finding an answer he didn't expect. And I? I contemplated my reminder from the universe that I'm no better than the rest, whether they be kings or peasants.
No better.
08 January 2009
Vol. 0, Issue 2 | In Local News...
I awoke this morning with the urge... no, the compulsion to write. I found this odd. Usually, my early morning compulsions are limited to (in no particular order) drinking my weight in coffee, fucking and/or masturbation, showering, smoking or art. Writing doesn't factor in. So, when I'm actually compelled to do so, write I must.
It has come to my attention (which I pointed out to myself yesterday) that I have succumb to the Sickness. More on that in a moment...
Much of my ranting today will center around local news. Think globally, etc. and all that. So, to start with, the story on the morning news is about the aftermath of early morning vandalism against one of corporate America's major icons.
Portland, for those not from here, has many quaint or themed neighborhoods (not themed like planned communities, but themed in an organic sense), the Seven Corners at the intersections of SE 20th & Division being one of them. Like many of Stumptown's neighborhoods, the Seven Corners is looked at as historical, culturally & socially important, and should therefore be shaped as the neighborhood sees fit. I look at the Seven Corners and think that perhaps the city planners could have used lessons in street layout, but I digress.
Into this quaint neighborhood saunters in Starbucks, or rather a franchise thereof. No big deal, right? Wrong. Today was to be the grand opening of the new 'Bucks, whose presence incited much heated debate. Many people simply think that such an institution commercializes, and therefore de-personalizes, the Seven Corners. Since the 'Bucks went in against the will of many, someone (or someones) from the "Fuck Starbucks" camp opted to make their feelings clear by tossing a couple of Molotov Cocktails (my personal favorite) through the windows. I'm sure those responsible were disappointed that their plan never reached fruition: The building stands undamaged (albeit with two broken windows), and will be serving ice-cold Frappacinos to the wanting public tomorrow.
Here's what I find amusing/bothersome/irritating/worth-a-foot-in-the-ass about the whole sick thing: The fuckers that bombed the place, and protested, and who are still whining about the 'Bucks... They'll be in line tomorrow. Friday tops. But there is something there in the Zeitgeist. Something that is demanding our attention, but in a coy fashion.
Under the same heading of NIMBY, plans to open up yet another adult toy, book & movie shop have members of a NE Portland neighborhood freaking out. It's certainly not because Portlanders aren't used to the sex industry. Portland boasts having more strip bars and adult entertainment stores per capita than any other city in the USA. (No really. We boast about it all the time.) And no one can fault the business owners who want to open the show up on the under-revitalization Interstate Avenue area. So... why are they bitching, you ask? The three most important things in business: Location, Location and Location.
Across the street from the impending sex shop is Ockley Green Middle School. Yes. Middle School. Full of middle schoolers.
Now, I'm not against sex shops. In fact, I'm all for them. But this is a really bad idea. Is it legal? Youbetcha. Is it tasteless? Yuh-huh. Should the shop think about locating elsewhere? Definitely. So why do you think they'd try and open up across from the school. There are several reasons I can think of. One, free press. Until they decide to actually set up across from the school or go elsewhere, they will be on the local news, ad infinitum. Two, they're taking a page right from the marketing strategies of the Tobacco Industry. How that? Future customers. Porn is definitely one of the most sought after items in a pre-teen boy's life. Least, that's how I remember my teen years. Dunno. Maybe teens & preteens today are running Fotune 500 companies or working to cure cancer instead. Real noble pursuits. Anyway... Three, well, it's legal.
That last one's a doozy. The neighborhood doesn't want the shop there, nor does the school, the parents, the teachers, or the students. But, as City Hall has pointed out, there isn't a lot that can be done. Nothing legal. Nothing above board.
I have a hard time being convinced that anything happens as a result of coincidence. Back to back on the news, we hear of the events caused by the concerns of a neighborhood not being heard, and another neighborhood starting out in that direction. When (not if, and I'll put real money on this) the NE/Ockley Green community lays to waste the sex shop on the day it's set to open, remember that I said it would happen. And I'll also bet they'll say they got the idea from the Seven Corners/Starbucks incident. A city cannot ignore the voice of its people, its communities, its neighborhoods. It will eventually lead to the revolution. At least, I can certainly hope so.
In the meantime, I'm going to get some marshmallows for the roast.
I take back the bit about the Sickness. Not the having, but the discussing. Need to mull that one over. Be back tomorrow.
It has come to my attention (which I pointed out to myself yesterday) that I have succumb to the Sickness. More on that in a moment...
Much of my ranting today will center around local news. Think globally, etc. and all that. So, to start with, the story on the morning news is about the aftermath of early morning vandalism against one of corporate America's major icons.
Portland, for those not from here, has many quaint or themed neighborhoods (not themed like planned communities, but themed in an organic sense), the Seven Corners at the intersections of SE 20th & Division being one of them. Like many of Stumptown's neighborhoods, the Seven Corners is looked at as historical, culturally & socially important, and should therefore be shaped as the neighborhood sees fit. I look at the Seven Corners and think that perhaps the city planners could have used lessons in street layout, but I digress.
Into this quaint neighborhood saunters in Starbucks, or rather a franchise thereof. No big deal, right? Wrong. Today was to be the grand opening of the new 'Bucks, whose presence incited much heated debate. Many people simply think that such an institution commercializes, and therefore de-personalizes, the Seven Corners. Since the 'Bucks went in against the will of many, someone (or someones) from the "Fuck Starbucks" camp opted to make their feelings clear by tossing a couple of Molotov Cocktails (my personal favorite) through the windows. I'm sure those responsible were disappointed that their plan never reached fruition: The building stands undamaged (albeit with two broken windows), and will be serving ice-cold Frappacinos to the wanting public tomorrow.
Here's what I find amusing/bothersome/irritating/worth-a-fo
Under the same heading of NIMBY, plans to open up yet another adult toy, book & movie shop have members of a NE Portland neighborhood freaking out. It's certainly not because Portlanders aren't used to the sex industry. Portland boasts having more strip bars and adult entertainment stores per capita than any other city in the USA. (No really. We boast about it all the time.) And no one can fault the business owners who want to open the show up on the under-revitalization Interstate Avenue area. So... why are they bitching, you ask? The three most important things in business: Location, Location and Location.
Across the street from the impending sex shop is Ockley Green Middle School. Yes. Middle School. Full of middle schoolers.
Now, I'm not against sex shops. In fact, I'm all for them. But this is a really bad idea. Is it legal? Youbetcha. Is it tasteless? Yuh-huh. Should the shop think about locating elsewhere? Definitely. So why do you think they'd try and open up across from the school. There are several reasons I can think of. One, free press. Until they decide to actually set up across from the school or go elsewhere, they will be on the local news, ad infinitum. Two, they're taking a page right from the marketing strategies of the Tobacco Industry. How that? Future customers. Porn is definitely one of the most sought after items in a pre-teen boy's life. Least, that's how I remember my teen years. Dunno. Maybe teens & preteens today are running Fotune 500 companies or working to cure cancer instead. Real noble pursuits. Anyway... Three, well, it's legal.
That last one's a doozy. The neighborhood doesn't want the shop there, nor does the school, the parents, the teachers, or the students. But, as City Hall has pointed out, there isn't a lot that can be done. Nothing legal. Nothing above board.
I have a hard time being convinced that anything happens as a result of coincidence. Back to back on the news, we hear of the events caused by the concerns of a neighborhood not being heard, and another neighborhood starting out in that direction. When (not if, and I'll put real money on this) the NE/Ockley Green community lays to waste the sex shop on the day it's set to open, remember that I said it would happen. And I'll also bet they'll say they got the idea from the Seven Corners/Starbucks incident. A city cannot ignore the voice of its people, its communities, its neighborhoods. It will eventually lead to the revolution. At least, I can certainly hope so.
In the meantime, I'm going to get some marshmallows for the roast.
I take back the bit about the Sickness. Not the having, but the discussing. Need to mull that one over. Be back tomorrow.
Vol. 0, Issue 1 | Follow that Kilted Man
Downtown PDX: I'm coming out of... a Portland landmark, having reconnected with an old friend (this will be a later story, I'm sure), when I notice this guy walking along the street, wearing a Utilikilt (www.utilikilts.com). Now, I just happen to be in the market for the Utilikilt, so I stop and chat with him. I realize that he happened to be with another birthday party at the Alibi, the night I went out with my friend Lee for his birthday. He asks if I do First Thursday. I replied that I was going to do First Thursday tonight.
*From your Virtual Portland Tour Guide: “First Thursday”: On the 1st Thursday of each month, the galleries in the downtown area (specifically the Pearl District, in NW) host opening for their new exhibits and Portlanders do a walking tour of the galleries. A similar event, called “Last Thursday” occurs in the recently trendy (read: gentrified) NE Alberta Neighborhood, on (go figure) the last Thursday of each month. The second and third Thursdays remain culturally virginal.
Anyway, Kilt Man gives me an address and a time to show up at, mentioning something about a jet boat. I’m intrigued. I’ll go, though it is funny to me that I have no idea who this guy is (other than he shares a fashion interest) nor do I know where I’m going. But, what the hell. Could be interesting... We’ll see.
Parte the Seconde
Time finally limps its way to the 5'O'Clock; I close up the office and make my way to the Pearl District.
After a brief stop at Todai (gathering info for my upcoming dinner), I headed through downtown towards the galleries of the Pearl. My original plan was to visit Zeitgeist, a gallery that fancies itself being on the raw side of the art world. I just like it ‘cause I am enamored of the word “zeitgeist”, so what do I know. Zeitgeist is one of the many gallery/lofts of the Everett St. Lofts, designed with the independent artist in mind. When I arrived at Everett St, Zeitgeist was the only gallery NOT open. Heh. So I meandered around some of the other galleries. Most were fairly pedestrian, possessing pieces that would really only garner the phrase “Gee, that’s... Interesting” from me. Which is, for those unaccustomed to attending gallery opening with me, my way of politely saying that I think it’s crap. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that phrase from others when viewing my art, mostly from those who didn’t understand it or didn’t like it and were being polite. Perhaps, I’d be serving my fellow artists better if I just told them there art was pedestrian at best. Though they are a temperamental and moody lot, so perhaps not. I may not be the world’s best artist, but I do know when I’m looking at good and bad art, and when the artist is being sincere and when they’re just being pretentious. Damn it. I’m rambling again. Onward...
So, after my initial wandering through the galleries, I make my way to Flanders (the next street North), which is where I’m to find Kilt-Man’s loft. I should mention that the directions he gave me consisted of “Broadway and Flanders. Push the bottom button, between 6 and 7. We leave at 7 for the jet boats. Broadway. Flanders. Flanders side. Bottom button. Later.” Turns out that he also lives in the Everett St Lofts, on the Flanders St side. I pushed the bottom button on the call box, not sure what to say when someone answers, since I don’t even know Kilt-Man’s name yet. Fretting over nothing, the door just buzzes open, and up the stairs I go...
Parte the Laste
I get upstairs, to the roof courtyard, where I’m met by a young man (my parents’ rule: anyone younger than you, you may refer to as ‘kid’ or any variant thereof, so Nyah!) named Bryce, who turns out to be Kilt-Man’s son. He leads me past another roof party (and among the guests I see one of my professors... It’s one of those days...) to Kilt-Man’s apartment. At this point, I finally get to introduce myself properly, and learn that my host’s name is Kirk. Kirk gives me a brief tour of his loft, where all but a couple pieces of art are his, meaning he made them. Lots and lots of found object art. He’s currently putting together Plexiglas boxes with functioning transistor radio parts. Wish I had photos; his art is rather nifty. To afford the time/supplies for his art, he works as a production coordinator at Intel.
After the tour, I’m introduced to members of his... crew, I guess. I met Rachel (Kirk’s girlfriend, I think?), whom I discussed fairy tales and mythology with; Julie; Lisa; Todd; Tex; Fernie (short for Fernando); Kevin; Corey & Renee. There were more people there, but I never did catch their names. The plan was to go down to the river front, catch the free jet boat to an island in the Willamette, and visit a gallery out there. We managed to make it to the river front, but far too late to catch the boat. Instead, we wandered through downtown, making mayhem on our way back to Kirk’s place. Mayhem included taking open containers of alcohol onto public transit and climbing around on a statue, which turned out to belong to the federal government and was a big no-no. Heh.
We all made it back to the lofts, and meandered around several more galleries. One gallery was actually an auto repair and body shop. They were displaying works by an artist with a decidedly Rastafarian muse. I wandered off on my own for a bit, venturing into a gallery I’d missed before. The artist was a photographer who’d lived in Japan, Osaka specifically, for four years. I could be totally off, but I believe he said that in that time, he’d shot 800 rolls of B/W film. Could be all the interaction I’ve had lately with other Japanese, but the photos really struck a chord with me. His name is Frank Miller, which is the same as a rather notorious comic book writer/artist, which again gets back to my comment on fractal patterns vs. coincidences. He and I talked for quite a bit, but the discussion was cut short, since he was hosting his opening. I’ve his card, so he told me to email him and talk with him again.
I ended back up at Kirk’s briefly, to check in with him and thank him for his hospitality before I headed home. His response was to make sure I’d be returning for the next First Thursday event, and to tell me that I was one of them now. Thus, my words of wisdom for the evening are: Follow the Man in the Kilt. You never know where you’ll end up, but it’ll be fun.
A postscript: Rather than walk several blocks to my usual bus, I catch the Burnside line, since it’ll drop me near home too. A stop later, a young man and woman board and sit near me. They’re engaged in lively conversation. Scratch that. She’s engaged in lively conversation, he’s entranced. I unintentionally eavesdrop on them; she’s so animated that it’s hard not to, and the guy’s name was “Jason” (my best friend's name) and he had the symbol for “Ohm” tattooed on his forearm. Again, hard not to be intrigued. As he’s getting off the bus, she mentions to him that her band plays at Ohm, a bar downtown. I tap her on the shoulder and ask her the name of her band. She introduces herself, Jen, and tells me her band is Dahlia. A couple weeks ago, my coworker Cleann saw her show and raved about it. Jen encourages me to come out to see the show next Tuesday. My birthday. So, now I know what I’m doing after the sushi feasting. As she gets off the bus, I hand her my ad hoc business card. Which, presently, bears the “Ohm” symbol on the back. Hurm. Patterns converge, and I’m left wondering what the hell the universe is trying to tell me.
So then, the lesson is: If you see a man in a kilt, say hi. You never know where the day will take you.
*From your Virtual Portland Tour Guide: “First Thursday”: On the 1st Thursday of each month, the galleries in the downtown area (specifically the Pearl District, in NW) host opening for their new exhibits and Portlanders do a walking tour of the galleries. A similar event, called “Last Thursday” occurs in the recently trendy (read: gentrified) NE Alberta Neighborhood, on (go figure) the last Thursday of each month. The second and third Thursdays remain culturally virginal.
Anyway, Kilt Man gives me an address and a time to show up at, mentioning something about a jet boat. I’m intrigued. I’ll go, though it is funny to me that I have no idea who this guy is (other than he shares a fashion interest) nor do I know where I’m going. But, what the hell. Could be interesting... We’ll see.
Parte the Seconde
Time finally limps its way to the 5'O'Clock; I close up the office and make my way to the Pearl District.
After a brief stop at Todai (gathering info for my upcoming dinner), I headed through downtown towards the galleries of the Pearl. My original plan was to visit Zeitgeist, a gallery that fancies itself being on the raw side of the art world. I just like it ‘cause I am enamored of the word “zeitgeist”, so what do I know. Zeitgeist is one of the many gallery/lofts of the Everett St. Lofts, designed with the independent artist in mind. When I arrived at Everett St, Zeitgeist was the only gallery NOT open. Heh. So I meandered around some of the other galleries. Most were fairly pedestrian, possessing pieces that would really only garner the phrase “Gee, that’s... Interesting” from me. Which is, for those unaccustomed to attending gallery opening with me, my way of politely saying that I think it’s crap. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that phrase from others when viewing my art, mostly from those who didn’t understand it or didn’t like it and were being polite. Perhaps, I’d be serving my fellow artists better if I just told them there art was pedestrian at best. Though they are a temperamental and moody lot, so perhaps not. I may not be the world’s best artist, but I do know when I’m looking at good and bad art, and when the artist is being sincere and when they’re just being pretentious. Damn it. I’m rambling again. Onward...
So, after my initial wandering through the galleries, I make my way to Flanders (the next street North), which is where I’m to find Kilt-Man’s loft. I should mention that the directions he gave me consisted of “Broadway and Flanders. Push the bottom button, between 6 and 7. We leave at 7 for the jet boats. Broadway. Flanders. Flanders side. Bottom button. Later.” Turns out that he also lives in the Everett St Lofts, on the Flanders St side. I pushed the bottom button on the call box, not sure what to say when someone answers, since I don’t even know Kilt-Man’s name yet. Fretting over nothing, the door just buzzes open, and up the stairs I go...
Parte the Laste
I get upstairs, to the roof courtyard, where I’m met by a young man (my parents’ rule: anyone younger than you, you may refer to as ‘kid’ or any variant thereof, so Nyah!) named Bryce, who turns out to be Kilt-Man’s son. He leads me past another roof party (and among the guests I see one of my professors... It’s one of those days...) to Kilt-Man’s apartment. At this point, I finally get to introduce myself properly, and learn that my host’s name is Kirk. Kirk gives me a brief tour of his loft, where all but a couple pieces of art are his, meaning he made them. Lots and lots of found object art. He’s currently putting together Plexiglas boxes with functioning transistor radio parts. Wish I had photos; his art is rather nifty. To afford the time/supplies for his art, he works as a production coordinator at Intel.
After the tour, I’m introduced to members of his... crew, I guess. I met Rachel (Kirk’s girlfriend, I think?), whom I discussed fairy tales and mythology with; Julie; Lisa; Todd; Tex; Fernie (short for Fernando); Kevin; Corey & Renee. There were more people there, but I never did catch their names. The plan was to go down to the river front, catch the free jet boat to an island in the Willamette, and visit a gallery out there. We managed to make it to the river front, but far too late to catch the boat. Instead, we wandered through downtown, making mayhem on our way back to Kirk’s place. Mayhem included taking open containers of alcohol onto public transit and climbing around on a statue, which turned out to belong to the federal government and was a big no-no. Heh.
We all made it back to the lofts, and meandered around several more galleries. One gallery was actually an auto repair and body shop. They were displaying works by an artist with a decidedly Rastafarian muse. I wandered off on my own for a bit, venturing into a gallery I’d missed before. The artist was a photographer who’d lived in Japan, Osaka specifically, for four years. I could be totally off, but I believe he said that in that time, he’d shot 800 rolls of B/W film. Could be all the interaction I’ve had lately with other Japanese, but the photos really struck a chord with me. His name is Frank Miller, which is the same as a rather notorious comic book writer/artist, which again gets back to my comment on fractal patterns vs. coincidences. He and I talked for quite a bit, but the discussion was cut short, since he was hosting his opening. I’ve his card, so he told me to email him and talk with him again.
I ended back up at Kirk’s briefly, to check in with him and thank him for his hospitality before I headed home. His response was to make sure I’d be returning for the next First Thursday event, and to tell me that I was one of them now. Thus, my words of wisdom for the evening are: Follow the Man in the Kilt. You never know where you’ll end up, but it’ll be fun.
A postscript: Rather than walk several blocks to my usual bus, I catch the Burnside line, since it’ll drop me near home too. A stop later, a young man and woman board and sit near me. They’re engaged in lively conversation. Scratch that. She’s engaged in lively conversation, he’s entranced. I unintentionally eavesdrop on them; she’s so animated that it’s hard not to, and the guy’s name was “Jason” (my best friend's name) and he had the symbol for “Ohm” tattooed on his forearm. Again, hard not to be intrigued. As he’s getting off the bus, she mentions to him that her band plays at Ohm, a bar downtown. I tap her on the shoulder and ask her the name of her band. She introduces herself, Jen, and tells me her band is Dahlia. A couple weeks ago, my coworker Cleann saw her show and raved about it. Jen encourages me to come out to see the show next Tuesday. My birthday. So, now I know what I’m doing after the sushi feasting. As she gets off the bus, I hand her my ad hoc business card. Which, presently, bears the “Ohm” symbol on the back. Hurm. Patterns converge, and I’m left wondering what the hell the universe is trying to tell me.
So then, the lesson is: If you see a man in a kilt, say hi. You never know where the day will take you.
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