Sports Sunday

Posted on June 7, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

What on earth has happened to the eclectic humble blog? I know what you’re thinking, you didn’t sign up for this. DM for subscription refunds. Oh wait, the humble blog is free, so complain accordingly.

Today you had a smorgasbord of sports viewing options. Always a thrill, you coulda stood anywhere on Delphi, Waddell Creek, or Chein Hill and watched the boys and me go uphill at superhuman speeds. At least that’s how I remember today’s ride. Or you coulda watched the M’s lose in the 9th to the Tigers. Or Zverev finally break through in a major. Or, if truly enlightened, you coulda watched the pro golf playoff at Jack’s course.

Or you coulda watched the correct thing. Women’s professional golf. Specifically, the U.S. Women’s Open at Riviera, won by 27 year old Nelly Korda after her 2’10” final putt circled the entire cup before disappearing.

Korda is kool and I was very happy to see her win, but there were at least two other noteworthy stories you may have easily missed. But I got you.

Since time immemorial, women professional golfers have been playing for approximately 15% of what their male counterparts do because it’s been hard for the women’s tour to attract nearly as many eyeballs, and therefore, television sponsors. Today’s purse was a record, a whopping $12.5 million. On Wednesday, Korda will continuously check her checking account until her $2.5 million dollar wire hits. By the time she pays her caddy, other team members, federal, and CA taxes, it might be half of that, but I digress. The good news is that today the women played for more than the men do during a regular tournament week and for 62.5% of the fewer in number PGA Signature Events. That constitutes serious progress.

Second, dig this very short Gaby Lopez clip. Lopez is Mexican and finished one stroke back, tied for second. These days, when it comes to both cultural diversity and immigration, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by depressing news and to lose hope that we’ll ever thoughtfully and peacefully figure either one out. We would all be a lot better off if we just pressed pause and channeled Gaby Lopez’s attitude.

Postscript. Forgot this . . .

Paragraphs To Ponder

Posted on June 5, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

From YahooFinance.

“Before MacKenzie Scott signed the Giving Pledge and started on her path to give away her $36 billion net worth, she went looking for a paragraph in a book she’d marked up during her college years.

She opened her Giving Pledge letter with a memory of pulling Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life off a shelf of her old college books, where she found a passage that she had ‘underlined and starred.’ Dillard’s advice to writers was to not hoard your best material for some later chapter.

‘The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now,’ Dillard wrote, warning that otherwise, ‘you open your safe and find ashes.’ Scott took the writing advice literally and applied it to her massive fortune.

For the past six years, Scott has remained committed to emptying her safe, so to speak. She’s donated more than $26 billion across more than 2,700 gifts through her philanthropic organization, Yield Giving. Her marquee year was in 2025 when she donated an eye-popping $7.2 billion. (That’s more than Bezos and his wife, Lauren Sánchez Bezos, have given over their entire lifetimes, according to Forbes estimates). The publication also named Scott the third-most generous philanthropist in the world this year, noting she has given away 46% of her net worth.

True to the Dillard ethos, she gives fast and lets go. Her philanthropic style is stroking unrestricted checks with no applications, no progress reports, and almost no press.”

Absolutely certain it doesn’t mean anything to MacKenzie Scott to be named the “third-most generous philanthropist in the world” this year. In fact, I’m pretty sure if she had her way, pieces like this one would never appear in print. What a role model.

Don’t hoard. Don’t find ashes. Annie Dillard with one of the most amazing assits of all-time.

On The Sidewalk Ramp Above Deschutes Parkway

Posted on May 22, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

Last night I went for a beautiful sunset run. West Bay, Tugboat Annie’s flyby, and back to Cap Lake for a short out and back. I unplugged and started walking at the base of the sidewalk ramp beside the Fifth Street Bridge. And that’s where our story begins. A story I could use your help processing.

Halfway up the first switchback, just above Deschutes Parkway, a women was lying on a blanket seemingly going through her bedtime routine. All sorts of accessories were spread across her blanket which covered the entire width of the sidewalk. As I approached, she said, “You can go around the other way.” Haha, I thought to myself, I’m not taking the unnecessarily long route tonight.

So your intrepid reporter stepped over and around her with one of my dogs landing smack dab on her blanky. Which set her off a bit. “I’m going to say you raped me.” Unable to process that, I kept walking. And then, “Faggot.” That got me to u-turn and engage. Feel free to deduct points at this point.

What I should’ve said is “Homophobic much?” Instead, I asked a question, “Why don’t you think people should be able to walk on this public sidewalk?” Brown skinned, maybe even indigenous, she said, “Because it’s my land.” To which I said, “Well, thank you for letting me use it tonight.” Close curtains.

Come on, you have to give me back the points you previously deducted for the smoothish ending.

This story is either a run-of-the-mill anecdote or an important case study about class differences, urban life, and how we will or won’t get along. Or something in between, I’m not sure.

The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know my neighbor’s story. Nothing could explain away what she said, but I’m disinclined to castigate her more generally for being troubled and impoverished since I have no idea how she ended up going to sleep on the sidewalk ramp above Deschutes Parkway.

How Am I?

Posted on May 7, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

Three weeks after ejecting from my roadbike and skimming across Center Street, I feel somewhere between two-thirds to three-fourths of the way back depending upon how much I’m asking of my bod. I don’t cry when choking on pistachios anymore. And I’m walking a lot, cycling a little, and I ran all of two miles yesterday even though I couldn’t breath very deeply at all. And I’m hoping to get the gills wet Monday at Masters swimming. Thanks to everyone who has checked in. Your texts and calls have meant a lot. They have made me feel a lot less alone.

More importantly, how is my soul five months after Lynn’s passing?

The second hardest adjustment has been the near complete loss of the connectedness to everyone who showed up for Lynn so consistently until the very end. Everyone, of course, quickly returned to their normal lives. I understand that, but it has still been disorienting. The house is so dang quiet.

However, the single hardest adjustment has been the loss of Lynn’s constant love, which as it turns out, I grew more dependent upon than I realized. As an introvert who digs solitude, I always fancied myself as fairly independent and resilient. LOL. In the immediate aftermath of her dying, I felt like the guy in the opening of MadMen.

Despite MSA’s slow motion devastation, I was unprepared for what, at the very end, felt like the pulling of a trap door. Which compelled me, two months ago, to go on a couple of dates which really upset my daughters whose well-being is as important to me as my own. And so now, as a result, I am disconnected from them. So disconnectedness upon disconnectedness.

Within that larger context, there have been what we in the Pacific Northwest call “sunbreaks”. Moments in the week, when the clouds separate just enough for warm, healing light to briefly shine through. When Steve calls during one of his Camino training walks to see how I’m doing. When Kevin calls. When MARN calls. When Lou, from high school, reaches out. When Mark invites me to walk. When Kris reaches out and comes over and listens to me ramble like the wonderful counselor she is. When Lil’ Chris sends a heartfelt card and note and invitation to a community event. When the college roommates write to see how we’re doing. When Marybeth sends this card.

Damn, that’s what everyone said, “I’m so happy I met Lynn.” I miss the KChrises, the roommates, Marybeth. Lynn’s people.

More sunshine than a sunbreak, I am not dating anymore because I’ve met someone special. Someone incredibly sensitive to my grieving and the family’s. Someone who watched Lynn’s memorial service on YouTube and said, “I wish I had known her.” Someone who gives me confidence that I will be alright. Especially when my daughters can accept my free falling self and we reconnect.

Sunday, Mother’s Day will be especially hard for A and J. Here’s what I want them to know. I turned on Lynn’s phone recently and there were 99 text messages. One dated 12/16/25, the day after she died, was piercing. Lisa, her boxing coach texted, “I love you Lynn. No more pain. Rest in peace.” Followed by a purple heart and strong arm emoji.

I want them to find solace in their mom’s legacy. So many people loved her. So deeply. We were very fortunate to be among them for as long as we were.

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”

All The Feels In The VAC

Posted on March 9, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

The Victoria Athletic Club is a smallish, but nice fitness center underneath the Hotel Grand Pacific.

My first widowed travel decisions have left a lot to be desired. Trip two is turning out to be like cognitive behavioral therapy, real belly of the beast grief shit. Last night, on the way to the Fish Market for a halibut burger and very large fries, I kept thinking of all the restaurants that dotted the way that the GalPal and I ate at.

This morning, sitting atop a bike in the VAC, I see visions of her in the pool area. Then remember our lap swim routine where she’d start out swimming in the lane next to me, but then lay in wait under the lane line waiting to see what she could grab as I went by. The second or third time, I’d pull up and say, “DUDE, STOP! I’m trying to workout!” And. She’d. Flash. Her. Smile. Which was her way of saying, “You know you like it.” No more VAC horseplay. No more smile. Ever.

Silver lining. At this rate, I’ll be done grieving in no time, and be fine. Right?

The bike I rode was parked right outside the glass encased squash court. While spinning, I watched a woman, guessing early 70s, do the most badass core routine, on a mat, on the empty squash court, I have ever seen. Pushups, every dead bug variation known to humankind, bridges, and on and on. She’d get up, walk out of the court, over to the pull up bar and rip off a bunch of pull ups. Grab a dumb bell, return, and get after it with more core exercises. This went on and on. I was so intrigued I wanted to chat her up, but there was no way, she was locked in! Each time she approached the door, I thought to myself, okay, this is it, she’s gonna make eye contact. Wrong.

I think to myself, it’s really not fair that a 70-something woman can be THAT fit when, what seems like yesterday, I was pushing 64 year old Lynn around the Plum St YMCA weight room in her wheelchair. Helping her on and off machines and giving her 2.5 pound dumbells to do bicep curls.

Fortunately, no one noticed the anonymous American cyclist tearing up on the bike. Which was good because crying would inevitably sink my application for citizenship. This is a country where people bodycheck one another against the boards. Routinely. I think the official national policy is, “No crybabies allowed.”

Foo’s Carmel Chicken with Asian Greens for the win.

Arrows Here, There, and Everywhere

Posted on February 15, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

I hit the road last week for the first time in 20 months. Drove a long, long ways. Overdosed on podcasts (Epstein Files, Artificial Intelligence, MF Doom–look him up). When the car came to a stop, I got on my bike and road it uphill in warm sunshine.

When my bike came to a stop, I titled a document, “What I’ve Lost”. It’s a shit inventory. If you’ve been reading me recently, you can correctly guess parts of my “What I’ve Lost” notes, but you would not guess this part, “Lost connection to PLU students—lost meaningful service, exercising unique skills, youthful exuberance.” I decided to stop teaching a year ago, but didn’t make it formal until a few months ago.

My timing on pulling the plug on work isn’t the best, but there would never be an easy time to let go of something that’s been so rewarding for so long. I hope the university will be okay.

Alison and Jeanette seem to be experiencing grief similarly to me. In waves. Or maybe, more accurately for me, waves of piercing arrows.

Something as simple as going out to dinner while on my inaugural road trip proved surprisingly fraught with unsuspecting arrows suddenly materializing out of thin air. Order a pizza. Then pass time in an eclectic shop next door. One that has very nice Valentine’s cards. Arrow One. Lynn called me the “Card King”. Like the flowers I’d get her, she always, always liked my cards. She kept most of them. “Now,” I think to myself as I start to get woozy from the loss of blood, “I’ll never get to buy her another.”

After pizza, gelato. I get a large cup with four different flavors. Arrow Two. “One more thing Lynn was right about,” I can’t help but think, “blackberry is the best”. I’ll never get to share a blackberry gelato with her again.

In the later parts of a recent bicycle ride, I got blindsided by Arrow Three. Never even saw the archer, but somehow stayed upright. Lynn and I had a silly ritual whenever I got home from a group ride. She’d excitedly ask, “Were you the Alpha Dog?” She’d be genuinely happy and proud whenever I said “yes” and incredulous when I’d say, “Some days you’re the hammer and some days you’re the nail.” Now, when I get home from a group ride, there’s no one to ask me how was the ride, who was there, what did you see? If no one asks about an activity, did it really happen?

Recently, Jeanette lamented, “I just don’t know where she is.” I offered that her mom was in our hearts, to the degree we emulate her. But, as these remarkably unremarkable stories illustrate, she’s almost always in my head too.

Reverse Psychology

Posted on January 9, 2026 by Ron Byrnes

This morning, on my final Lynn CaringBridge post, I wrote, “Lynn’s memorial is going to be lit.” The truth of the matter is I’m dreading it.

Largely because almost all of Lynn’s most special friends will be there, but she won’t be. What she would give to be able to look each person in the eye, smile, and hug them one more time.

If you’re at the memorial and wondering what I’m thinking it’s, “I really, really wish Lynn was here to see everyone whose lives she touched and to enjoy their company.” Remember, she loved parties.

Last night, Alison asked me how I’m doing. I explained that it all depends upon the level of distraction. Like most people these days, I’m pretty damn good at distracting myself from the permanence of the loss that I wrote about previously. Landman, estate executor details, Facebook reels, UCLA portal comings and goings, U.S. imperialism and related bullshit, etc.

When someone thoughtfully checks-in, like Ali, and I’m forced to stop and remember all that’s been lost, I’m immediately overcome by emotion. I cried in the kitchen.

For me, Saturday afternoon will not be lit. Absent any distractions, I will be a complete and total mess.

I’m approaching the event mindful of what basketball analysts say an offensive player should do when going against a fearsome shot blocker/rim protector. The inclination is to opt for finesse, maintain a safe distance, and lob something high arching up and hope for the best. Counterintuitively, the advice of the best basketball minds is to negate their strengths by driving right into them. Or as the kids say, “Getting up in their grill.”

That’s what everyone coming together Saturday afternoon is going to help me do. Get up in the grill of grief. Jumpstart it. Press “fast forward” on the process.

Prob, so much so, I’ll be fine Sunday morn. Right?

It’s Happened

Posted on November 17, 2025 by Ron Byrnes

A large part of the rationale for the move to the Adult Family Home three months ago was that I could recover, and therefore Lynn and I could heal and get in sync, and spend whatever time is left as positively and peacefully as possible.

I am not in a good place, but a much better one. Way, way less stress. FuFu, Alison, and Jeanette, among many others, have saved me.

As a result, for the last two months, Lynn and I have enjoyed my visits. We look at photo albums. We listen to music. I tell her about my day. We loop the hood.

Most of all, we touch. I hold her hands and massage her calves. She hugs me tightly as if she’s not going to let go. We press our foreheads against each other. I caress her head as she falls asleep. We kiss.

It’s how we communicate.

I’ve never partnered with someone who is dying, so I’m improvising. All the time. What to say?

Last week I kneeled on the floor next to her hospice bed as she cried before napping. I told her I loved her and that she was okay, which of course, was untrue. Then I told her how sorry I was for what she’s experiencing. And that she’s been fighting it every minute she’s been awake for a few years and that was why she was completely exhausted. And that I wanted her to Rest even if that meant being alone. I told her how much I am going to miss her. More tears.

Then I told her she wasn’t alone and wouldn’t be alone. That she is bearing the fruit of having built such a caring and loving family.

We have had a much more intense relationship than you would probably guess. Intensely good most of the time, intensely bad some of the time.

I told her I was skimming an old Apple Note I wrote from when we were in marriage counseling five or six years ago. And how my one regret is all the time we wasted being mad at each other. I asked her to forgive me for being so stubborn and selfish. More tears.

I suspect she wanted to say something similar, but I was okay with her not being able to because I wanted to take most of the responsibility for our epic, sporadic struggles.

Even though we wanted to at times, I told her we never quit, and that was something.

In hindsight, we probably wasted 10% of our time together being too mad at each other to thoughtfully interact. Even though we learned to repair things, 10% of 38 years is almost four years! What we would do to have four years back.

More than Lynn, I accepted that we were never going to coast conflict free like some couples seemingly do. That the heartache was part and parcel of the intense intimacy. Again, in hindsight though, I wish we had far fewer, less intense conflicts. Fewer days where we couldn’t even talk to one another.

My unsolicited advice. Don’t take whatever committed relationships you’re in for granted. Be as proactive as you can. Trust one another enough to talk about what lies below the surface so that resentments don’t build up. Learn to listen and get more comfortable probing your partners’ feelings. If possible, by yourself, or together, enlist the help of a professional to learn to have fewer, less intense conflicts.*

Most of all, don’t assume you have many years and decades left, because you may not.

*LOL, I’m gonna get slammed for that wee bit of hypocrisy. :)

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)

Pressing Pause

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