Powell’s Bookstore And Officer Jenkins For The Win

Posted on April 21, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

From the “Keep Portland Weird” Facebook Page.

MAN ARRESTED AFTER BREAKING INTO A FAMOUS BOOKSTORE ON BURNSIDE AT MIDNIGHT TO FINISH A BOOK HE “WASN’T GOING TO BE ABLE TO SLEEP WITHOUT”

Leonard “Lenny” Whitaker, 67, of Portland, Oregon, was charged Tuesday with breaking and entering after slipping into a closed famous bookstore on Burnside through a propped emergency exit at 12:10 AM—all to finish the final 47 pages of a thriller he had been quietly working through in the armchair section for four straight afternoons.

According to the report, Whitaker discovered the book on day one, read for several hours, carefully re-shelved it spine-out for easy retrieval, and returned daily like it was a part-time job. On day four, he was politely asked to leave at closing with 47 pages left—at what he later described to officers as “an absolutely unacceptable emotional cliffhanger for a man my age.”

Details from the police report:
Located the book in complete darkness using his phone flashlight in under a minute (“muscle memory,” he claimed)
Returned to his exact armchair like a seasoned professional
Came prepared with reading glasses, a granola bar, and what officers described as “focus”
Finished the remaining 47 pages in 1 hour and 14 minutes
Re-shelved the book properly (alphabetically, no less)
Found seated calmly with the book closed in his lap, staring into the middle distance like he’d just unpacked something personal
When officers asked if he was okay, Whitaker replied,
“Yeah… I just thought it was going somewhere else.”
He declined to elaborate.

Officer Jenkins noted in the report, “He didn’t run. Didn’t panic. Just… needed closure. Honestly, we’ve all been there.”

The bookstore has declined to press charges, despite the abandoned granola bar wrapper, which management described as “mildly disappointing but understandable.”
The book has since been purchased by three customers. Whitaker has not returned.

He came for answers. He left with… complicated feelings.

Postscript: Alternative Title, “Powell’s Bookstore, Officer Jenkins, And Whomever Left The Emergency Door Propped Open For Whitaker For The Win”

Shrinking Isn’t Even Remotely Believable

Posted on April 10, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

Charisandra Perez is forgiven for getting lost in the feel good Apple TV series Shrinking. For the exact reasons she outlines.

But, come on CP, as the Brits say, wake the feck up. The show should be labeled “fantasy”. It’s a cool show only in the sense that it’s hopelessly aspirational. Wouldn’t it be great if we could somehow, miraculously, throw a switch and suddenly rise above all the “bullshit that divides us”.

“Warm and familiar”? Kidding, right? Raise your hand if having an intensely diverse inner circle of especially close friends is “warm and familiar”. I think CP meant, “seductively strange and unfamiliar”.

Newsflash. We’re all insecure, in different ways and to different degrees, but insecure nonetheless; as a result, we surround ourselves with people who are more like us than different than us. People from similar backgrounds who tend to look, think, and mostly act like us so we don’t have to work too hard to get along.

At least we have one thing in common. We’re lazy, and when relationship building, almost always choose the paths of least resistance.

Miss Kaninna You Are Very Loud, Very Very Loud

Posted on March 17, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

You have problems, I have problems. But my greatest problem right now is way worser than yours. I’m seriously undertrained for next week’s circumnavigation of San Diego County.*

So today I did what most anyone would do when unprepared for a big exam, I crammed. In the form of a hard session on an indoor bike at the Plum Street Y. With a coach.

When I ride indoors I just can’t replicate the intensity of trying to keep up with ADub when he attacks at the bottom of one of his fave south Thurston County climbs. Or when BBuck does his patented two mile pulls. Or when MGriffin dials up his diesel on the flats and I’m doing everything in my power not to lose his wheel. Or when TMAT hits SkateCreek, turns, and says, “Get lost loser.”

But today, thanks to my coach, Miss Kaninna, I was able to dial it up. Puddles of sweat thanks to Miss Kaninna, a rising Australian First Nations singer-songwriter and rapper known for blending hip-hop, soul, and punk.

Over the ear headphones were on full Miss Kaninna blast. As a result, I was producing Tadej Pogačar-like watts. I listened to enough tracks to develop a theory on why she continues to fly way under the radar.

There are three recurring themes in her lyrics. The first is aboriginal history and institutional racism which she hits way harder/better than egghead academics. The second is sexually explicit stuff that is just part and parcel of a young rapper’s art. The third is where the problem lies. In terms of Miss Kaninna crossing over to the (dis)USA in particular. There is a strong ACAB element to her lyrics. More to the point, my cycling coach raps about killing police. Do I need to say I don’t condone that?

For American concert producers that has to be a non-starter. My guess is Miss Kaninna is fine playing to and for her own people.

Personally, I dig half of Kaninna’s lyrics and ALL the beats. Introducing my cycling coach, Miss Kaninna.

You’re right, I will ride into shape right around the penultimate day. :)

Dear (dis)United States of America,

Posted on March 7, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

I’m off to Canada tomorrow. I know you will miss me. Gonna be rough, so many fond memories with Lynn. However, I am taking two friends. Seth Harp, in the form of his book, “The Fort Bragg Cartel: Drug Trafficking and Murder in the Special Forces”. And James Rebanks, in the form of his book, “The Place of Tides”.

Maybe I won’t run to Oak Bay. Maybe I won’t swim in the salt-based 25-meter pool underneath the hotel. Maybe I won’t sit in the steam room after not swimming in the pool. Maybe I won’t go to my fave restaurants or Victoria’s REI, MEC—Mountain Equipment Coop. Maybe I won’t go to “our” theatre. Maybe I’ll just cocoon with Harp and Rebanks. No outdoor equipment required for that. You know, just lean into the grief and Howard Hughes it.

If the Canadians look at my application for asylum, and conclude, “Oh, they don’t send their best.” I’ll be back midweek.

If I do have to return, I hope you will have used Monday to rethink your plan to completely disrupt the global world order and Tuesday to put it back together. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Paragraphs To Ponder

Posted on February 11, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

Becca Rothfeld on what the death of the Washington Post’s book section means.

Raye For The Win

Posted on October 30, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Infectious beat. Funny lyrics.

Baby (whoo-hoo), where the hell is my husband? (Whoo-hoo)
What is taking him so long (whoo-hoo) to find me?
Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?
Getting down with another? (Whoo-hoo, yeah)
Tell him if you see him, baby, if you see him, tell him, tell him
(He should holler)

Why is this beautiful man waiting for me to get old?
Why he already testing my patience?
I only fear he’s taking time with other women that ain’t me
While I’ve been reviewing applications
Wait ’til I get my hands on him, I’ma tell him off too
For how long he kept mе waiting, anticipating
Praying to the Lord to give him to my loving arms
And despite my frustrations

And he must need me (he must need me)
Completely (completely)
How my heart yearns for him
Is he far away? (Is he far away?)
Is he okay? (Is he okay?)
This man is testing me, uh-huh, uh-huh
Uh, help me, help me, help me, Lord
I need you to tell me

I’m doing lonely acrobatics, unzipping my dress at 2 a.m.
And I’m tired of living like this
He must be out there getting ready, tryna fix up his tie
Uh, huh-huh, uh, hello? This where your wife is
Wait ’til I get your heart going, I’ma turn it up too
For how much I’m ’bout to love ya, no one above ya
Praying to the Lord to hurry, hurry you along
Baby, I intend to rush ya

T-t-t-t-tell him I’m mm, tell him I’m mm with the mm, mm, mm
Tell him I’m kind, tell him I’m 5’5″
Tell him I got brown eyes and a growing fear
That if he doesn’t find me now, I’m gonna die alone, so can he
Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, hurry up here, sir?
Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, huh
I want it, want it, want it, want it, want it

I would like a ring, I would like a ring
I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger
I would like a big and shiny diamond
That I could wave around and talk and talk about it
And when the day is here, forgive me, God, that I could ever doubt it
Until death, I do, I do, I do, I-
Is he about it, ’bout it, ’bout it?
This man is testing me, uh-huh, uh-huh
Uh, help me, help me, help me, Lord
I need you to tell me

Baby (whoo-hoo), where the hell is my husband? (Whoo-hoo)
What is taking him so long (whoo-hoo) to find me?
Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?
Getting down with another? (Whoo-hoo, yeah)
Tell him that my grandma said it, tell him grandma said it
(Your husband is coming)

I would like a ring, I would like a ring
I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger
I would like a big and shiny (ooh) diamond (yes), diamond (yes)
Diamond (yes), diamond (yes), diamond (yes), oh
Where is my husband? (Ah)

She’s A Poet, Does She Know It?

Posted on August 26, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Yes, of course I’m all caught up on the Taylor Swift-Travis Kelce engagement story. Here’s my fave part of the paper of record’s story of the impending nuptials.

“I’m just there to support Travis,” she said of her trips to the games in the interview with Time. “I have no awareness of if I’m being shown too much and pissing off a few dads, Brads and Chads.”

Sentences To Ponder

Posted on July 25, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Happy Gilmore 2 edition.

“Like the first film, the sequel proves moronic, witless and relentlessly vulgar. Which is to say, Happy Gilmore fans will love it.”

Believe it or not, I have not seen the original, but being in desperate need of comedic relief, I’m in no position to be finicky. So go ahead, queue it up.

Postscript. Approximately 6 minutes of the first 60 were smile, if not, laugh inducing. After that, it became unwatchable.

Sarabande from Bach’s Fourth Cello Suite

Posted on July 19, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Zachary Woolfe, the classical music critic of the New York Times, offers this enticing invite. “In Just a Few Minutes, This Music Will Change Your Day“. The subtitle reads, “Calm and graceful, this cello piece by Bach slowly dances through hopefulness, longing and introspection.”

Is there anyone in more desperate need for calm, grace, and hope than me?

I listened. And I don’t know if it changed my day, but it did make me think that classical music could be a pillar of my eventual recovery.

Dig Woolfe’s conclusion.

“The cello suites were probably written around 1720, when Bach was employed by a German prince. He spent much of his career working for churches, so this was a rare period in which he got to focus on secular works. There was no need for his music to be about anything, to have any practical use. He could simply celebrate instruments and the full range of what they could do, quietly pushing them to their limits.”

Beautiful. Bach’s sarabande and Woolfe’s framing of it.

Paragraph to Ponder

Posted on June 25, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

Via LOliver by way of JByrnes:

“There is so much to tend to, hold, be with, feel. May you find so much gentleness for your own process. May you let your humanity unfurl, over and over again. May the grief and hurt wrapped up in facing the world be held by your own willingness to look. May love soften the hard edges. May light soothe the dark places. May you return to your own heart’s knowing and trust what it whispers to you. May you let yourself do all of this so imperfectly, that imperfection a reminder that you are a human being, figuring it all out for the first time. I’m with you.”

Early evenings, like a lot of the time that I care for Lynn, I’m on the move. Making dinner, getting her fed, eating myself, doing dishes, cleaning the counters, taking out the trash, vacuuming the hardwood floor.

Activity blunts the grief. But I pressed pause Monday evening and it rushed in.

I stopped cleaning to dance. In the reflection of the oven, I saw the real dancer watching me. When I try dancing, she just smiles.

And now, the dancer pushes her wheelchair away from the table so that she can move toward the pretend dancer.

“You want to dance, don’t you?” Bigger smile. I expedite things by wheeling her into the kitchen. Where I help her up and embrace her. We slow dance like first-time junior highers slowly swaying back and forth.

But dammit, it’s The National singing “I Need My Girl”.

The refrain rips through. “I need my girl. I need my girl. I need my girl.”

My girl has no clue I’m crying.

May love soften the hard edges. May light soothe the dark places.

Pressing Pause

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