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The Rangers family is waiting. Still waiting.

Time and money are running out. There are bids on the table, but it’s anybody’s guess as to whether any of them will keep the club from liquidation. 

I cannot begin to imagine. I just can’t.

Thursday, they said. We should know something Thursday. Well, as I write this, Friday is dawning in Glasgow. Will we know something today? Or do we go into the weekend wondering if Sunday’s match will be the last for Gers?

I know, I know. I’m all doom and gloom. Rangers will go on. They will go on because they always have. 

Believe beyond reason.

We do a lot of that here in Portland. When it looks like there’s no possible way, when we start to freak out (as we are apt to do), one of us will stop, take a deep breath, and say the words. Believe beyond reason.

These are your marching orders, Rangers family, given to you from a member of the Timbers Army. Believe beyond reason.

Something happened a while back. I didn’t see it coming. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. I just know that it did.

My world became one divided. Two camps. Two sides, not necessarily opposed, but wary of each other. Unsure.

On one side, friends I’ve known for years, decades. People who knew me growing up, saw me through the awkwardness of high school, my seemingly never-ending college career and beyond. People who’ve seen me though touch times and epic adventures. People who truly, truly knew me.

On the other side, the Timbers Army. A ragtag patchwork of people from every walk of life. Artists and doctors and winemakers. Accountants and lawyers and kids not old enough to buy beer. Young families and retired folks and me.

Sure, there are a few from the first group who’ve crossed over to the second but, for the most part, they keep themselves separate. It seems to those closest to me the longest that the second group is completely out of character for me. And they’re right.

I’m not a joiner. I’m more likely to watch things from a distance than I am to jump in with both feet and get really excited about things. But there’s something about the Timbers and the TA and the links between the two and their extension out into the community that has drawn me in. I struggle to explain it to people who don’t get it.

Because I don’t get it, either. Honestly. I have no idea how this happened. 

I think I can track back to my first Timbers match in 2006. But it might have been 2007. I don’t know who we played. I don’t know what the score was. I know I had a good time. I know I was entertained (is bemused a better word) by the Army. But, at the time, I just didn’t get it. 

I went to a couple matches each year after that, usually knowing when the team had a winning or losing record, but little more than that. I watched from a distance as the first MLS rumors began. I watched from that same distance as the MLS to PDX movement grew. I got a forwarded email asking me to write to the Portland city council about funding the renovation of then PGE Park and I did.  I considered marching on City Hall when the votes were held (for which we still have not forgiven Amanda Fritz and probably never will), but, as previously stated, I’m not a joiner.

Joiner or not, I put down a deposit for MLS season tickets the first day they took them.
 

Even then, I didn’t get it. I recognized that this team, this club, had come to mean so much to that core group of people who stood in the North End and sang and danced long before each match started and long after the players had left the pitch. That? That I could appreciate: the ability of the Timbers to bring people together was magical.

With the move to MLS, the magic is still here. I think that’s what people who haven’t given the Timbers a shot are missing. They don’t see the magic. They see a team with a losing record. They gleefully ignore the team’s move to MLS and still refer to them as a “minor league” team. They sometimes go out of their way to get under my skin when I talk about my boys in green (which is often). Perhaps they’re still cranky about the loss of Beavers baseball. Well, you know what? I’m not apologizing for that anymore. You want to bring baseball back to Portland? March on city hall. See if you can get Amanda Fritz to vote for you. Best of luck.

I told someone the other day that I don’t often get super excited about stuff because, when I do, I seem like I’m completely manic. That’s how the Timbers make me seem to all my old friends. They think I’ve gone completely bat-shit-crazy. Maybe they’re right. But I’m not apologizing for that, either. 

I feel lucky to be where I am. I’m a Timbers season ticket holder at a time when Timbers tickets are the hottest ticket in town. I’m a member of the Timbers Army, an organization that donated over $40,000 to different charities in Portland over the last year and donated thousands of hours to the Oregon Food Bank, ACPortland and Friends of Trees, among others. 

It’s 1 a.m. Hours ago, I was at Jeld-Wen Field, part of the 22nd consecutive sold out crowd since the jump to MLS. My voice is shot, I’m still cold and my shoulders are going to hurt for days from waving my giant Scotland flag like a maniac.

My club played well, but the game ended in a scoreless draw. That’s right, non-soccer folks, a scoreless draw. A few years ago, I would have left disappointed. Tonight, I left happy. Happy that my team played well. Happy to have spent a few hours with my beloved Timbers Army. Happy to have stumbled into an obsession that I don’t ever want to give up. 

So, if you don’t get it, and I certainly don’t expect you to, I urge you to take a chance. Keep an open mind, come to a match if you can get a ticket. If you can’t, come join us in one of the many (MANY) local bars that show the games. Heck, I’ll even buy you a beer. 

And if you can’t keep an open mind or refuse to take a chance, well, shut up and get off my lawn.  

I sat with a group of people tonight who will not be named as they told stories of events which we will not cover here.

What could this possible have to do with October?

The best, the scariest stories, the ones that haunt us are those we hear face-to-face. They’re the ones that keep us up at night, that make us double check that our doors and windows are locked and that no one is hiding in the closet or behind the door.

And the scariest of these stories, especially at this time of year, are the ones against which such precautions may make no difference and certainly will offer no protection.

So, I offer you some other protections as I’ve learned them from pop culture and folklore and, very simply, things people have told me over the years. These things may or may not work. Use at your own peril.

If you’re aware of an impending zombie attack, you can sprinkle salt on the ground and the zombies will be so distracted by counting the grains of salt that you’ll be able to get away.

Just in general, lay a line of red brick dust across your doorstep to protect yourself from people wanting to enter our home to harm you. I understand certain types of chalk dust work the same, but as I haven’t tried either, I can’t tell you for sure.

Want to rid your surroundings of malevolent spirits? Burn white sage. But be sure it’s WHITE sage as other types of sage will encourage spirits to gather around and might even lend them strength.

Have a vampire problem? Well, there are several schools of thought on this and they’ve all been confused by the recent emergence of such things as the Twilight series and its sparkly vampires. Almost universally, it’s believed that sunlight will dispatch your vampire rather quickly. Unless you live in Forks, Washington, in which case you’re pretty much screwed unless you can find a band of werewolves to help you out. Vampires are also supposed to cower at the sight of a cross or crucifix. Oh, and if you’d hung ropes of garlic at your doors and windows, you wouldn’t have had a vampire problem to begin with.

The surest way to get rid of your vampire is to drive a stake through his heart. Some say ash is the wood of choice, some say yelm or yew is the way to go. I’m thinking if you get a stake of any sort through his heart and he doesn’t automatically burst into flame, you’d be wise to have a lighter handy.

Werewolves, if they’re not the sort to help you with your vampire infestation, can only be killed by a pure silver bullet.

I think that about covers the big stuff. If you’re not sure what sort of monster/mythical creature/supernatural being you’re dealing with, it’s best to consult a professional.

(However, since the changes made by Vatican II, there are few professionals trained in the rites of exorcism. Some of the scariest stuff I’ve ever read on the internet comes from a Google search for “Where can I find an exorcist in the US”. Truly, truly frightening stuff. Read it with the lights on.)

More tomorrow.

Happy October.

Courtesy of a friend on Twitter who goes by the handle @DemonJuice, we have our first House of Crap for the season.

Click here.

There was some discussion as to whether it’s actually a Halloween House of Crap or if it’s just super early for Christmas but DJ is leaning toward those being Halloween lights.

They’re out there, people. You know who they are. There’s one on every block. They’ve got a basement full of holiday decor and they’re not afraid to use it.

These are the caretakers of the Houses of Crap.

It used to be, years ago, that these HOCs were only identifiable at Christmas when they filled their yards with elaborate illuminated holiday scenes. Who doesn’t love the light-up Baby Jesus? And who among us didn’t at least know someone with a three-foot-tall plastic Santa that lit up the night?

But, in recent memory, more and more Houses of Crap are advancing their agendas and branching out into other holidays. There’s (at least) one here in Portland that goes pretty much year round. A friend of mine is convinced that the caretakers there actually make up holidays to celebrate. I wouldn’t be surprised. In addition to the Big Three (Halloween, Christmas, Easter), they have managed to find illuminated leprechauns for St. Patrick’s Day. They have achieved a whole other level of Craptastic.

Also here in Portland is another fantastically Octoberesque locale: the Davis Graveyard. They’ve taken what was once probably just your standard yard display and have built and built and built until it is a landmark Halloween attraction. Elements of haunted house and creepy graveyard take over what is normally just a lovely house in SE Portland for a month each fall. Guess which month.

But it doesn’t stop there. They sell do-it-yourself items so you can build your own haunt as well as t-shirts and videos of past years’ events on their website. They offer classes on how to create some of the FX they use. And they sell refreshments curbside to spectators to support a local high school dance team. There’s a whole lot going on there. If you’re in the area, make sure you check it out.

Now here’s your call to action. I don’t think I’ve ever suggested this before, but this year I’m encouraging you all to go out and spend a little time creating your own house of crap. It doesn’t have to be outrageous or elaborate. Think of the coming trick-or-treaters. Give ’em a little yard decor theater. A ghost in the dogwood tree, a witch on the front porch. You can do this.

Okay, sometimes I’m a bit of a dork. Yes, I said “sometimes.” And sometimes the October Thought might not feel particularly October-y. You get what you pay for.

The first Monday in October is special in our system of government. The first Monday in October is when the Supreme Court convenes.

<<Insert witty Writ of Certiorari joke here.>>

<<Wait. Is there such a thing?>>

The Court is set to hear cases on any number of controversial issues this year. This is not anything new. The Court hears controversial cases every year. We may not always agree with the Court’s decisions but I, for one, am glad she’s there.

The Court is not perfect. She’s made mistakes in the past that took decades to correct. But she’s right more times than she’s not. And more often than that, she’s forgotten: the red-headed stepchild of democracy.

We spend a lot of time talking about the presidency, a position that may be filled by one person by four or maybe eight years. And we spend a lot of time talking about our senators and representatives who average twelve and nine years respectively. But a Supreme Court Justice? They serve for life. There are two sitting justices who’ve served more than two decades apiece, in addition to time spent in lower courts. Coincidentally, those two justices were confirmed unanimously by the Senate, something that can’t be said about any of the other current members of the court. I’m not sure why I find that interesting, but I do. Probably because I’m a dork.

The groom was nervous.

There’s no other way to put it. We’d pushed him right up to his breaking point. He was about to snap.

It was about 7 p.m. Friday, the night before the wedding. We’d all shared a meal and perhaps, collectively, had a tad too much to drink and the rehearsal was spinning dangerously out of control. The bridesmaids and the groomsmen seemed confused about where they were supposed to land after their long flight up the aisle. The flower girl was hesitant. The assorted assembled parents looked vaguely concerned. This was not going the way any of them had anticipated. We were close to a full meltdown.

I, an occasional wedding minister and veteran of many similar wacky rehearsals, was not worried at all. These things have a way of working themselves out at just the right time. The rehearsal is to get all the crazy out. Everyone settles down for the ceremony. That’s just how it goes.

And they did. And everyone stood in the right place. And the father of the bride elicited a cheer when he had to search for his glasses to give his reading. The flower girl waved a magic wand.

People will remember that the vows seemed to go on forever, though the ceremony was fairly short. I did that on purpose. Everything else goes so fast, it’s easy to forget that moment at the altar, when the bride and groom stand before family and friends, join hands and are about to embark on their journey together. Maybe, if we take an extra moment or two right there, that memory will be more firmly planted. At least, that’s my hope.

Because, before you know it, the ceremony is over, the party begins and the focus shifts to the line at the bar and when they’re going to cut the cake and who should sit where and if the deejay is any good.

The deejay was good, the cake got cut and I didn’t worry about a line at the bar because my last-minute date is very well-trained. All in all, I’d chalk that up as a fairy tale ending.

Congrats and best wishes to Jay and Sharese. And thank you for letting me be a part of your celebration.