You know those plans you canceled so you could #stayhome and do your part? Buckman Journal brings a taste of Portland's art and culture to you. On the couch. Where you've been for weeks. Being a responsible member of the community.
- Short stories
- Anthology realness
Buckman Journal brings together Portland's exceptional talent and presents them to the greater world. Delivered with grit and cutting visuals, the printed medium is very much alive in Buckman.
Buckman Journal 002
PRODUCT DETAILS: 135 pages. Full color. Perfect bound, large paperback.
Letter From The Editor by Jerry Sampson
Our Man in D.C. by Rich Perin. Artwork by Stephen O’Donnell
Mail by Nicky Nicholson-Klingerman. Photograph by Andrew Smith
The Little Landlord and His Wife by Sara Kachelman. Painting by Oliver Kautter
Twas the Night Before, the Night Before Christmas by Kelley Baker. Illustration by Emily Kepulis
I Am Not Your Fairytale by Jessie Kwak. Photograph by Omar (earthly_decay)
Poetry by Liz Lampman. Artwork by Jessica Poundstone
Kickdown by Rebecca Clarren. Illustration by Forest Wolf Kell Closing
Time by Shilo Niziolek. Painting by Aiden Kringen
Tea Apron Fire Corn Beer Fish by Stacy Brewster. Painting by Joshua Flint
Onwards & Backwards by Andrea Gonzales. Photograph by Sarah Kue
Teeth by Daniel Dagris. Illustration by Moon Patrol
Bim Ditson On Now Interview by Raechel Wolfe. Photograph by Todd Walberg
Time to Get Up by T.S. Leonard. Artwork by Alexandra Becker-Black
A Practical Guide to Getting Over the Guy Who Broke Your Heart by Leslie Knight Wells. Photograph by Michelle Lepe
Singles by Rich Perin. Painting by Sade Beasley
The Mango by Kate Gray. Photograph by Lyudmila Zotova
House of Vacuums by Sara Kachelman. Artwork by Chrissy Ortez
Honor Roll Sketchy People by Jack Kent
SIZE: 9.25″ x 7.5″
MEET THE MAKER | BUCKMXN JOURNAL
JB is gonna let the writers tell you about themselves in their own words.
Welcome to the Buckman neighborhood.
FIRST AND LAST LETTER FROM THE PUBLISHER
I’m one of those who nods a good-day to strangers while strolling through the neighborhood. There used to be more of us, but our numbers are thinning. The theory behind this act of polite acknowledgement is simple and basic. We want a friendly community, peaceable and kind; all the aspects that exemplify the better side of human nature. These qualities do not arise from standoffish aloofness, attention buried in a phone.
It’s how I met the actor Steve Buscemi, back in the mid-2000s, right here in the Buckman neighborhood of Portland, Oregon. He was walking out of the original Hal’s Tavern on SE Morrison, looking flummoxed, steps stuttering, right eye twitching. People often appeared in this state walking out of Hal’s, especially new comers.
“Good evening,” I said with friendly smile.
“I just lost fifty bucks in shuffleboard against a geriatric,” Buscemi replied.
I stopped, figuring my presence might offer condolence.
Buscemi continued. “He’s been drinking for 15 hours. The guy can’t pee straight, but he slides pucks as if he has a power over them, like they’re his goddamn shaman stones or something. Jesus. One minute he was using his right hand then the next he’s using his left. He’s so old and drunk that he doesn’t know if he’s left or right handed.”
“That’s Dan Dobbek,” I said. “He used to be a professional baseball player, major league. Was on the 1960 all-rookie team. Batted left, threw right.”
“Somnabitch,” said Steve Buscemi. “I thought he was some sort of shuffleboard idiot savant.”
“Well, that’s how some graft. They come on pathetic.”
“I should have seen it coming. I am ashamed of myself.”
I asked, “What are you doing here, anyway. Some sort of Coen brothers movie?”
“No. Nothing like that. I have an uncle that lives here.”
“I’m sorry you lost money,” I said. “There’s a small bar around the corner. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink, Buscemi.”
“I’ll take you up on that but what are we, in the army? For christsakes, call me Steve.”
I took Steve to a dive bar that is no longer a dive bar. This was before the indoor smoking ban. Inside, layers of haze and condensated breath from brown lungs rose and fell like a polluted lava lamp, distorting the definition of people. Steve loved it. We rolled dice and he made some of that fifty back. The locals and bartender didn’t mind losing to him. Steve was happy, their genial mood brought out his best qualities, and he cracked jokes, told epic tales of 1980’s New York that entertained everyone well after closing time.
It was late, around 4am, when Steve eagerly accepted a challenge to wrestle Tad Chi, a carpenter who is half Korean, half Iowa redneck. Tad said Iowa concrete rassling was tough. Steve said that back in the day he was a ringolevio champ on the streets of Brooklyn, and there’s no tougher wrestling than that. When I left, they were both on the floor in each other’s head-locks, twisting to gain leverage. Steve’s face was red, the tendons of his neck taut, and even though his teeth were grimacing, there was a devilish smile in it.
Yeah, Old Portland was great, but I don’t expect it to remain. Life doesn’t work like that. I may hold sentimentality for the past, only because I use it to craft the future. That’s what the past is supposed to be for, all that 20-20 hindsight has got to be worth something.
BUCKMXN is an accumulation charging into the New Portland living room. Some will say moose on the loose. Others liken it to the dash and leap of gazelles. Whatever, the presence of BUCKMXN is a wild force disrupting the boring sameness infiltrating our society. Put down the phone, remove the standoffishness. Hello. Good day. Come on in, the neighborhood is fine.