Things I learned About Richard Nixon From the First 306 Pages of His Memoir.

The best memoirs tell you all of the things about the subject: the Writer Take, for one instance, this line from the great John Malkovich’s memoir: “We were young and committed and there was nothing we could not do.”

I have an erection now.

Here, now, gentle reader, is what I learned about Richard Nixon after reading the first 306 pages of his memoir. Just like the title of the post says. It should be noted that I am reading the complete hardback of his memoir RN. Don’t be afraid.

1) At lunch with Eisenhower in July of 1967: “We ate lunch alone on the screened-in porch overlooking the farm. We had chicken with noodles and a salad garnished with pickled water-melon rind, which he proudly said he (Eisenhower) had helped to make. “The rind wasn’t thick enough,” he said as he helped himself to more.” p 286.

2) I wrote down some “New Year’s Resolutions for 1965″: Set great goals. Daily Rest. Brief vacations. Knowledge of all weaknesses. Better use of time. Begin writing book. Golf or some other kind of daily exercise. Articles or speeches on provocative new interntational and national issues.” p 265.

3) It was frustrating for me to see as inept a candidate as Goldwater running for President. p 263.

4) We found a taxi and went to a restaurant where an excellent Hungarian orchestra played gypsy music. I was recognized, and after dinner I went up to the bandstand and banged out “Missouri Waltz” on the piano. p 249.

5) One day in 1938, Mrs. Lilly Baldwin, the director of the local amateur theatre group, telephoned me to ask if I would like to play the part of a prosecuting attorney in their upcoming production of Ayn Rand’s courtroom drama, The Night of January 16th. I took the part and thoroughly enjoyed this experience in amateur dramatics. p. 23.

6) He (Nixon’s high school football coach) used to say, “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” He also said, “When you lose, get mad–but get mad at yourself, not your opponent.” p 20.

Pat! Quick. Futurama is on. I love that show!

 

Magnes Love Movies!

Movies are great. The bee’s knees. The pajama’s meow, etc and so on. We I will be reviewing movies for whatever website this is. This is The Awl, right? Cause I don’t get out of bed for less than Splitsider.

Arp!

On Netflix instant, The World According to Arp! portrays a dog on a mission: to save his bestest friend in the whole world, and learn how to drive a sensible sedan. Also wear sunglasses. He should be wearing doggles, though. But that’s just nitpicking because I love movies! So much. Movies! Yeah! So, Arp, the titular character, must travel across the country in search of the diamond mine that he inherited from his father: an Austrian Circus Bear named Randy Newman, in a delightful play on the name Randy Newman! Arp does so and succeeds. Marvelously. His only obstacle is an ugly mean lady named Rhoda or something. So, John Updike probably wrote this movie because he hates ladies. Also there is a rape scene, but it is tasteful. Still, she comes across better than the ladies in Rabbit, Run Far Away!  In my conclusion I state that The World According to Arp! is a great movie-film. In fact, this reporter gives it two paws up, which is not a good review because I have four paws. So that roughly translate to two stars. Maybe there’s a part of a third paw up, but dogs can’t really raise a part of a paw. They don’t have fingers. Come to think of it, dogs can’t really raise more than two paws at a time. And that’s a fucking stretch. Oh man. So, go watching this movie! And read the adaptation from John Irving in your latest closed bookstore! This movie will have you arping for more! Enjoy!

More Dumb Search Terms

Well, there am be some change rumblings at The Review. More on that later. But first! Here are some more dumb search terms you’ve used to get here! Hurrah!

1) Julie Newmar Ass

For the record, let’s see what I can find on the Internet regarding this:

JULE NEWMAR’S ASS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! KEEP COMING TO THE PORTLAND REVIEW! WELCOME TO GOOGLE SEARCH RESULTS PAGE 89! MEE-OOOOW!

2) Getting Dog to Wear Doggles

Sarah Marshall was just asking me, Michael Magnes, the other day. Q: How do you getting dog to wear doggles? A: Practice! I mean. Carefully! I mean. Leave me alone!

3) Asshole Eat

I assume this is in reference to that time Anthony Bourdain ate a warthog anus on None of the Reservations. Or, you want to learn more about Kevin Smith!

https://twitter.com/#!/ThatKevinSmith/statuses/3537690616143872

4) Fresh Cum on Her Face After Nice Sex Spanish Sex Porn Sex Vid

No one likes spoiled cum on a face. Cum goes bad quickly… aw… hell… after nice sex? What about not so nice sex… ahh… I got nothing on this one. HEY! DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS PORNOGRAPHY ON THE INTERNET!?

5) We Hate Cats

We sure do!

6) Fart Catcher

What, like a baseball mitt made to catch farts? Phew. I’ve been trying to make that for years. We don’t have the technology.

7) Rock

You know that you’re depressed if you find yerself searching for “rock” on the Internet. You know what the next most common search term is? Noose.

8) Watch Man’s Face While Getting Blowjob

So, you don’t want to get blow, you just want to watch a man’s face, a man who is getting blown? Way to live life!

Happy Thursday!

 

Dear All Seventeen of the Theportlandreview.com’s Readers

Dear All Seventeen of the Theportlandreview.com’s Readers,

Unfortunabadly, we are taking a break this week. We’ll be back next. Probably. In the meantime you should probably do whatever it is you do on the internet.

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(Did you know that Franken Berry cereal used to have a dye in it that the body couldn’t break down so your stool turned pink and that the pink stool syndrome was called Franken Berry Stool? Well. You probably knew that.)

Sincerely,

Your friends enemies at the Portlandreview.something or other.

The Dream of Publication

Many different people will tell you many different things about what they believe to be the cardinal rule of small press submission (and for that matter literary submission in general).  Some say it’s about having a snappy cover letter.  Some will tell you that, above all else, you need to read the magazine ahead of time and get a feel for what kind of material it publishes.  Some maintain that you need to be a “good” “writer,” whatever the hell that means.  And some think that simply being a writer helps, which we certainly agree with.  But above all else, we think the secret of publication comes down to four simple letters” DBAD.  Don’t Be a Dick.

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Don't be this guy.

To be fair, this is a somewhat difficult rule to follow because it’s much more long-term oriented than most of us would really like to bother with.  And I guess that, in order to segue properly into the DBAD rule, we need to first explore TDOP–The Dream of Publication.  (Also, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, this post will include an awful lot of acronyms.)

TDOP begins quite simply: the fledgling writer finishes off a story/poem/essay, and believes that, for all intents and purposes, it is flawless.  Note here that the fledgling writer is clever enough not to say that her story is perfect “for all intensive purposes,” but is still green enough to believe in the strange fever that descends upon her for the 24 hours immediately after a story/poem/essay’s completion, in which its problems will be rendered invisible and its strong points will seem clearly indicative of genius.  With trembling fingers and a rime of salt quickly drying on her upper lip, the fledgling writer sends her perfect story/poem/essay off to one literary magazine, the one whose pages she has dreamed of appearing within for months if not years.

The fledgling writer does not need to submit her perfect story/poem/essay–let’s call it “The Weight of the Moon, the White of Her Teeth,” or “WOMWOT” for short–to more than one place, because it is, after all, perfect.  The perfect magazine will read it and call up the fledgling writer that very day, saying that it has called its fancy New York publishing friends and that the fledgling writer now has the option of accepting a $500,000 novel option, with the strong possibility of a film adaptation following soon after.  The very words that the fledgling writer composed with clammy hands on a refurbished MacBook will fill the luscious mouth of Jeff Goldblum–not Jeff Goldblum now but delicious, halo-haired Fly-era Goldblum, because this is a fantasy and in the fantasies of fledgling writers Jeff Goldblum can be whatever fucking age you want, since none of the rest is plausible, either.

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The Fledgling Writer, Reenacted

And, just as the hopeful young Jeff Goldblum of The Fly steps too soon into his not-yet-fully-tested Telepod and accidentally splices his genes with those of a housefly, leading to a painful period of confusion, aggressive behavior, despair, destroyed relationships, and bodily disintegration, so too the fledgling writer is about to see TDOP’s dark side: The Truth About Publication (TAP).

(The Portland Review would take this time to mention that David Cronenberg’s The Fly is not just a damn near flawless horror movie but is also a remarkably good tool for explaining nearly every phenomenon of adult life, from puberty to existential crises brought on by grad school to the experience of buying car insurance.)

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The Fledgling Writer, 6 months after her glorious journey begins.

First of all, the hard truth is this: you will never write something that is perfect.  Never, ever, ever, ever.  We’re not saying this because we don’t believe in you, but because no one ever does.  Any published author who says they came up with that story or poem or novel you love with insignificant to no editing is almost certainly lying.  Writing is hard not just because you have to sit down in front of a computer/typewriter/legal pad/mud paddy and stick and somehow express the nebulous concepts floating around in your mind, but because, after your first crack at doing so, you have to go away for a while, drink a cup of coffee (or Tab, or Sanka, or Flavor Aid), do whatever it is that helps you relax (go to a whorehouse, a zoo, a lecture on geology, a movie theater), and then wander back to your writing and look at it objectively.  Then yohave to do that over and over and over again.

There is no quick answer. You will be perpetually flawed.  You will grow old, and as the birthdays pass you by you will realize that you are speeding further and further away from prodigy territory, the time in your writing life when you are cute and cuddly and so preternaturally brilliant it just makes people’s teeth hurt.  Here’s the thing: some people manage to get very famous very young and do impossibly good work before they are old enough to rent a car, but that probably won’t be you.  And even for those people, the secret is hard work and an immunity to self-loathing even more profound than whatever raw talent they possess.  Don’t waste your time envying them.  Just get back to your goddamn work.

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You will also never be able to afford this car.

But–and there is a but–all of this is good news.  Sure, you want money. You all want money.  We at the Portland Review, and I, Sarah Marshall–of 1871 Park Avenue, Portland, Oregon, in case you were wondering where you could send any correspondence and possibly checks–want money.  That will continue to be a problem for most of us for all of our lives.  But if you take a group of people united in their creative pursuits–in your case and our case, a group of writers–all of whom are constantly losing just a little bit of hair each month because of anxiety about how they will pay for rent/coffee/tuition/internet/Wonderbread, something wonderful happens: suddenly, you have a community.

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A photo of the author of this post, Sarah Marshall (aka The Fledgling Writer, 6 years later), who luckily has a hell of a lot of hair. NOTE: the cup on display in this picture comes from Columbia River Coffee Roaster in Astoria, Oregon, an excellent place to hang out and work on your hundreds of revisions once you've put TDOP to bed. (Also note the look of terror in her eyes. She is looking at her future, and she sees a community college in Beeville, Texas.)

One of the primary joys of being a writer comes from the people you meet and the situations you get in because of your strange and unprofitable path through life.  If you go to an MFA program–which the Portland Review highly recommends–then you have an even greater chance of meeting people who are perpetually stressed, inspired, inspiring, rapturous, suicidal, fascinating, and just a little bit (okay, sometimes a lot bit) pretentious.  If you don’t go back to school–because of lack of time or money or convenience; just don’t go because you think “writing can’t be taught,” because that’s bullshit–you can still go to readings and festivals and house parties and fundraisers or just sit on the back of a city bus until an attractive person gets on and starts reading Richard Yates’ The Easter Parade, and you find a convenient time to strike up a conversation with them.

And all the while, you keep on writing.  You entertain even the most ridiculous-sounding ideas, because you won’t know what works until you try it on for size–stories are like jumpsuits that way.  (See what I just did?  I tried on that metaphor.  It may or may not have been awful.  I don’t really care.)  You become a slut for genres–poetry, prose poetry, flash fiction, novellas, novels, science fiction, romance novels, belles-lettres, journalism, humor, whatever.  You try things you’re convinced you’ll be bad at, just to prove to yourself you won’t be.  You submit to every goddamn scum-sucking black hole of a literary magazine you can find (including this one!), and then branch out even further.  You learn to love the act of writing, and not your ideas of the spoils it will bring you.  You learn the gift of seeing the world through a writer’s eyes: inquisitively, appreciatively, and tirelessly.  You learn the secret of oatmeal, which can fill you up for six hours at a cost of thirty cents.  You slowly build a resume, build a career.  And if your dreamed-of success finally comes to you–that novel, that prestigious prize, that film adaptation starring the doughy Jeff Goldblum of 2012–you welcome it with open arms and know that the last few years or decades have taught you more and brought you faster friends and better stories than success ever could.

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Actually, Jeff Goldblum is looking pretty good these days.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that the fledgling writer, upon submitting her fledgling “perfect” piece to one perfect magazine, will probably be rejected.  And that this may send her into a tailspin, but that it shouldn’t.  Self-doubt is useful to an extent,  but self-loathing is a waste of time, and it’s not the kind of emotion that a rejection should engender.  One of your duties as a writer is to not just get used to rejections but to thrive on them.  For the most part, you will receive rejections because your piece isn’t quite right for the publication you submitted it to, or because, though it is very good, the competition is so goddamn stiff that acceptance was well-nigh impossible.  Sometimes a story will be rejected because it’s pretty good or even great but whoever read it can tell that it’s not quite ready to make its foray out into the world, and often you’ll be told this in your rejection letter.  Often the subjective tastes of the editor–or reader–will impact your submission as well, and this may seem unfair, but–in the immortal words of the Dread Pirate Roberts–life isn’t fair, and anyone who says differently is selling something.

We really have no reason for including this picture, but aren't you glad it's here?

So get used to rejection, because it will be your most constant companion in your life as writer.  It’s not personal.  If you maintain a healthy attitude about it–and really, you don’t have a choice–it can make you a stronger writer and a stronger person.  Conversely, if you act immaturely about it, you will merely violate the cardinal rule of publishing.  That’s right: DBAD.

This morning, Portland Review Editor Sarah Marshall (i.e. me) woke, yawned, stretched, poured herself a cup of subpar coffee and put the kettle on to boil water for her oatmeal, and went to check her email.  She–I, whatever–should note here that the standard rejection letter that the Portland Review uses goes as follows:

“Writing is like hunting. There are brutally cold afternoons with nothing in sight, only the wind and your breaking heart. Then the moment when you bag something big. The entire process is beyond intoxicating.” 
— Kate Braverman 

Dear [WRITER’S NAME]
Thank you for sending us “Title “. We appreciate the chance to read it. Unfortunately, the piece is not for us. 

Sincerely, 
[STAFF MEMBER’S NAME]
The Portland Review 

In case you haven’t racked up literally hundreds of rejection letters so far (and, trust me, I have, and I’ve had my share of hurt feelings about it besides), you should know that this is pretty standard both in length and sentiment.  We’d like to send out a personal rejection to every writer whose work isn’t right for the magazine, but we have a full-time staff of three people and have to send out about thirty or forty rejections a day.  If we were to write personal notes to everyone, we would pretty much sacrifice the time we need for our writing, our school, and our other jobs.  Also, unless you’re submitting to a few very high-profile magazines, you should know that this kind of arrangement re: staff and the time they have is pretty much standard.  We are, in the words of Bilbo Baggins, butter spread over too much toast.  We love our jobs at the Review, we love that we get to read your work and sometimes publish it, and we love that we get to play a small role in the fabulous literary community that’s flourishing in this particular moment of the digital age.  And this is another deviation from TDOP: the people who read your submissions are only human.  We wish we weren’t, but we are.  And so we send out form letters, just like nearly every other magazine of our size and resources.  It’s unfortunate, but it’s the way things are.

Here is a picture of the inside of my brain.

Which brings us to what I found in my inbox this morning, which was sent as a response to our standard rejection letter, and which read:

Wonderfully generic response. Perhaps the copy and paste quote aspect to your refusals might strict some as pathetic. Thanks for your words. 

I’m not going to reveal the name of this author–because that WOULD violate the DBAD rule, which also applies to small press publishers–so I’m just going to tell you: don’t do this.  Ever.  EVER.  Even if you feel you’ve been wronged, even if the rejection seems to come out of left field, even if, for whatever reason, you had put all your creative eggs in this particular basket.  I can tell you right now that we will never publish anything by this submitter, unless it’s of utterly unimpeachable brilliance (a possibility that “stricts” me as somewhat impossible).  The person who wrote this missive is not just rude, but hostile to the small press community in general, and apparently sees it only as a delivery system for their own career advancement.  This kind of attitude leads to dickishness, but it is also self-defeating and limiting.  Don’t allow yourself to go down this path.  It will only lead to unpleasantness for everyone involved, and it will only allow you to continue to be a baby when you should take every possible opportunity to grow.

This is hardly the first response of this kind that we’ve received, and it certainly won’t be the last.  But I’ll be leaving my post as editor soon, and it seems imperative that I give you some parting words, and above all the other things I’ve learned about writing and being a human being, this lesson seems the most important: Don’t Be a Dick.  It’s the one piece of conventional wisdom that will never fail you.

The Lost Roles of Orson Welles

Orson Welles was the bestest and most famousest American Actor ever since that guy who played Eddie in Eddie and Some of His Cruisers. Orson Welles made the entire state of New Jersey think that aliens were attacking it, which shouldn’t really isn’t that impressive in retrospect. He also ate a lot of ham, was a famous burnout, and made a bunch of good movies. His last American film was the Transformers movie (the animated one for all of you creeps who are under twenty-five). He died in 1980 something. I would look it up but does the internet have a database for the birth and death of actors and other such useless information?

Orson turned down a lot of roles. Here’s a few of them. Also, this: Orson Welles almost made a Batman thing and this was entirely real and not an April Fool’s joke at all. 

1) Willy Wonka

Internet. Please stop using this picture.

I know I know. I thought this wasn’t real either, but apparently Orson demanded that the chocolate river be real chocolate (which doesn’t look like chocolate on screen. It looks like bats.), instead of caramel (which looks like chocolate), and that he be able to drink it.  Everyday. That’s not too unusual, drinking a chocolate river everyday, but the really weird thing was that  he demanded that it be refilled each day at seven a.m. Sigh. I really wish this wasn’t real. I mean, it just seems so vulgar… oh well Orson Welles was fat so of course all he did was eat and make weird demands for food. If it looks like a duck then it must eat like a duck….. anywhom. Here are some more better ones.

2) The Bat in The Bat Book Man: 

No. This has nothing to do with the superhero. In 1956 a man named Michael Magnes published a book on bats titled: The Bat Book: The Book on Bats by Michael Magnes. The book was the runaway best seller in 1956 and was full of lots previously unknown information on bats. For instance, bats are mined in caves like cheese. Bats are inter-dimensional creatures that only appear in our dimension in brief blips, and you have to have a special inter-dimensional net to catch them. Bat meat is poisonous when combined with bread.

Orson was set to adapt the book into a Beautiful Mind type deal. He was going to play all of the roles, including the bats. Eventually, in 1958 it came out that Michael Magnes was a fraud, didn’t know anything about bats (but did know everything about shoes), and was found dead in a field with his throat cut. Needless to say the project was abandoned, but if you search hard enough you can find footage of Orson in a bat costume going, “screeeeeeeech!” and flapping his wings.

3) The Paul Newman Story

This picture makes me feel..... funny

In 1972 Orson Welles became convinced that Paul Newman had drowned in a train crash. The fact that Paul Newman was still acting in films, despite his death, greatly disturbed Orson. He knew, just fucking knew, that Paul was a hologram. The first hologram in the world. The stuff of science fiction made real. So Orson was all set to shoot a movie about that when uh… this happened:

Paul Newman

Uh, Orson. Can I talk to you?

Orson Welles

My God! Yeees.

Paul Newman

So, uh, I hear that you’re working on this movie called the Death of Paul Newman.

Orson Welles

I know I know. I should have talked to you, but I wanted my documentary to be untainted  by your point of view. I would have fallen for your lies.

Paul Newman

And the movie

Orson Welles

Documentary

Paul Newman

Whatever

Orson Welles

No! Not whatever! Call the spade the ace and the ace of the spade!

Paul Newman

Yeah, whatever. Your movie is about how I’m dead and how the government made a hologram of me and using that to support genocide across the globe and elect more republicans into office.

Orson Welles

And to deplete the world’s ham supply.

Paul Newman

And the bat supply. In fact, there are a lot of bats in this script as well.

Orson Welles

I once read the book on bats:  The Bat Book: The Book on Bats: By Michael Magnes. I have been enchanted by those delightful creatures ever since.

Paul Newman

It says here that I’m trying to corner the market on the bat pelt industry, as a hologram, and that one bat pelt is worth 1500 hundred bucks.

Orson Welles

Well, adjusting for stagflation that should be higher. Or lower. I’m not sure.

Paul Newman

Well, regardless.

Orson Welles

Irregardless.

Paul Newman

I’m not dead.

Orson Welles

Yes you are.

Paul Newman

No. I’m very much alive. And not a hologram. And a democrat.

Orson Welles

Lies!

(Punches Paul Newman in the gut in an attempt to pass his hand through Newman’s torso)

My God! He’s a man now! They’ve perfected cloning!

(Orson Runs away)

This turned into F for Fake

4) Larry in Hello, Larry

 Hello, Larry is the official sitcom of Portland, Oregon. It’s about a radio shrink who moved from L.A. to Portland because he was too much of a failure. In Portland, he had a call in radio show (ala Frasier), a morbidly obese sound engineer (replaced by Meadowlark Lemon), and uh… that’s about it. A pretty bitchin’ theme song.

Anywhom. Orson didn’t seriously consider this. He heard that there was this place in Portland called Voodoo donuts where they make regular donuts and then put unappetizing things on them like tires, condoms, and stale cereal. Orson was quoting as saying, “Portland should be wiped off the face of the Earth.”

5) Fred in The Flinstones

In 1978, fresh off The Deer Hunter, Michael Cimino was prepping an adaptation of The Flinstones. “Orson (Welles) is Fred,” he said in an interview to the Portland Review. “I will only make this film if Orson is aboard.”

So Orson signed on. It was all dandy until Michael saw the set of Bedrock. It didn’t have enough rocks in it, so he made the crew tear the set down and rebuild it, but rebuild it exactly the same, with the same material, but with three more rocks. They did so. That cost the studio seventeen million dollar. And then Orson said he would only work with “live dinosaurs.”

Michael Cimino

But Orson. Dinosaurs are extinct.

Orson Welles

Pah! And the next thing you’ll be telling me is that Paul Newman is alive.

Michael Cimino

I could have the studio build me a time machine.

Orson Welles

Do it! And bring me more bats

Michael Cimino

You know. I read the book on bats, The Bat Book: The Book on Bats By Michael Magnes and you really shouldn’t be eating bread with that bat. You’ll die in 1985.

Orson Welles

Feh! That book was all hocum and no pocum. I’ll be fine. Why, if I die in 1985 I’ll eat me hat.

And then he did! Eat his hat. Also, die.

In “Bagelgate,” Portland, Ore., burns to ground

MFA students at PSU prime suspects.

April 5, 2012

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Portland, Ore.—”MFA?” said a confused Portlander. “Why would anyone want to go to school to be an asshole?” He paused, thoughtfully. “Well, I guess if you wanted to be a professional asshole. Need the degree I suppose.”

Other Portlanders were more hopeful. “I am hopeful,” said one named Cameron, “that an artisanal artisan cart will open up so that they can charge at least four bucks per bagel,” Cameron said. “I hate spending less than four bucks on a single bagel. Plus,” he added, “they can start putting unappetizing things on my bagels like Voodoo donuts does, tires, or used condoms.”

“I hate getting bagels and having to put the unappetizing things on them myself,” he continued. “Those used condoms start to smell if I don’t keep them in the refrigerator, and I share my refrigerator with four other dopes who need to keep their vegetables and Tab cold, so I’ll be glad once the artisanal artisans start putting the unappetizing toppings on the bagels for me.”

Others, however, are less hopeful. “I am less hopeful,” said another Cameron. “Undoubtedly, people will hear of this new cart and it will be ruined. Like when everyone started listening to Chromatics because Pitchfork gave their new album ‘best new music.’ Bagels should be underground. I am willing to pay at least eight dollars for a single bagel,” he said. “If you pay fewer than that you don’t showcase your disposable income,” he added, “and white entitlement. Did you know I got my degree from PSU and I am very bitter about that.”

Portland State MFA students have declined to comment on the record, but one, speaking on condition of anonymity, said she was “proud of this righteous act of revolution,” and those left in the city can expect to see more actions similar to this in the future. “Until we have our underground, overpriced bagels back, or a suitable replacement that is even more underground and even more overpriced, we will continue along this same trajectory,” she said. “Our disposable income is not to be ignored.”

‎”Also,” she added, “I’d like to remind everyone that I was highly displeased with the results from my MFA program, but,” she said, “thankfully it was due to my sour attitude.”

A rep from Kettleman’s responded, “I now have the disposable income with which to purchase many ridiculous bagels and look forward to the day when stale Kettleman’s bagels will be placed on normal bagels, which would make them artisanal artisan bagels.” In the coming weeks, slightly used Kettleman’s bagels are expected to rise in value, according to economics expert Ryan Eichelberger.

‎”Bagels are a particularly hot item in today’s market,” Eichelberger said. “White people with disposable income are flocking in droves to buy them. Yesterday’s bagel sandwich was a bagel, sliced in half, filled with meat or vegetables. Today’s bagel sandwich is a bagel, sliced in half, filled with a bagel.”

Reluctant Portland resident and former New Yorker Mike Grey had this to say, “West coasters don’t know what a bagel means,” he said while purchasing thirty-six-dozen poppy seed bagels. “I’m going to make a killing with this,” he said. “Do you remember that show Ducktales? With that old duck who had that bin full of money, and it was so full of all of the money that he was able to swim in all of the money? Well, these slightly used bagels will enable me to do that.” Asked what would happen if he couldn’t sell the bagels, Grey responded: “Then I will have a lot of bagels,” he said. “I can swim in those.” He took a bite out of a bagel to make it authentically slightly used. Slightly used bagels need that bite mark to be authenticated by local bagelologists. Right now, according to the Bloomberg index, one slightly used Kettlemans’s poppy seed bagel is worth fifteen dollars.

As of press time, Grey was wrestling with an MFA student outside the remains of the NE Broadway Kettleman’s, smoke rising from the ashes behind them.

By Mollet & Magnes