Night Cabbie | Murmurs MORE STATIC FOR THE FUZZ Last Tuesday at about 9:30 am, police officers across the city could not communicate with one another, because for 10 long minutes, their radios went dead. The blackout came as no great surprise to cops. Police radio "dead zones" are sprinkled all over the city, particularly in East Portland. Inside the zones, police cannot call for backup--a situation that endangers cops and delays 911 response, officers say. The problem is so acute that the state Occupational Safety and Health Division stepped in this summer and fined the city $3,600. Now, based on last week's blackout, Portland Police Association Secretary-Treasurer Tom Mack has filed another OSHD complaint against the city's system. "Some days it doesn't work too bad--but those days are rare," says Officer Gary Manougian, who tracks radio problems for the bureau's safety committee. "We've had five or six times that people just through sheer luck haven't been injured because their radio didn't work. That's just the ones I know about." City communications czar Nancy Jesuale defends the system, saying that despite the blackout, "the backup systems functioned perfectly." The city is appealing the penalty, and "I don't expect us to be paying any fines." What really frustrates cops is that the city could improve the system with an antenna that has been gathering dust in a warehouse for years. In 1994, the city installed the $8.5 million system but failed to build a planned east Portland radio tower to save money. Today, Jesuale says the system actually needs two towers for a long-term fix, but City Council continues to flinch at the $7 million price tag. Jesuale says there is some good news on the horizon. The city is negotiating with Vancouver to build a tower on Prune Hill. It has spent $300,000 on more advanced antennas, which should be installed in a few months. And it's also expanding from 24 channels to 28--which should cut down on the number of busy signals. "It should be a huge improvement," says Jesuale. --Nick Budnick THE DAY THE MUSIC DIES In Finnish, November translates as "month of death." That autumnal month will certainly be a time of mourning for the Portland rock scene. EJ's, a bastion of original music and beer-spattered exuberance on Northeast Sandy Boulevard, will close by Dec. 1. Club insiders characterize the closure as an eviction, while the landlord says the music-scene staple simply reached the end of its lease. "I'm not evicting them," says landlord William Wright, who says he's signed on a new tenant. "Their lease ran out, and they chose not to renew it." But EJ's owner Etta Leonard says the club was served with eviction papers two weeks ago. She also points out that Wright hiked the club's rent from $1,400 a month to $2,200 this summer and offered a one-year lease instead of renewing the club's current five-year deal. "We've been here for 12 years," Leonard says of the strip-club-turned-music-venue. "Even after he increased the rent, we paid it on the first and we didn't complain. If he has a five-year lease to offer, why wouldn't he offer it to his current tenant?" Although he won't disclose the new tenant's identity, Wright says the place will no longer be a nightclub or restaurant--which will likely please a small number of neighbors who considered EJ's a threat to order, decency and the American Way, and who have barraged the club with noise and nuisance complaints and posted an anti-EJ's flyer. But Wright denies that the neighborhood complaints had any effect on his decision. "When it comes right down to it, it's just one or two people," Wright says. "The only phone call I got from that flyer was a couple who called to tell me that they supported the club and thought it was fine." Either way, the loss of EJ's will leave a gaping hole in the local rock and punk scene. Leonard says she's already been searching for a new location for the better part of a year, so far without success. --Zach Dundas ANOTHER ROADSIDE DISTRACTION Drivers cruising down Southeast 12th Avenue last week between Division Street and Sandy Boulevard were perplexed by an unusual series of traffic signs. Rather than warning of soft shoulders or deaf children, the signs blare distinctly unworkmanlike phrases such as "TUNE" and "LOVES." The signs are part of the new "In Situ Portland," a collaborative arts program sponsored by the Regional Arts and Culture Council and the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art. Created by artists Nan B. Curtis and Martin Houston, the temporary project consists of 52 signs narrating a young girl's journey. The artist's statement speaks of "using speed to explore scalar relationships between automobiles and pedestrians." But does it succeed? There's little love for the new project at nearby Anne Hughes' Kitchen Table. "At first, I thought they were signs that were going to lead me to a used-car lot," said owner and arts patron Anne Hughes. "Unfortunately, I don't find them interesting enough to make the walk down to Sandy." "I think they've chosen the wrong street," says graphic designer Amy Antonio. "12th Avenue is not a pedestrian street, and no motorist is going to park and get out every few yards." But PICA's Erin Boberg says people like the project. "We think the signs will intrigue people to pull over, get out and read the signs in full." The creators' goal of prompting debate about art is certainly working on one level: Some critics have resorted to scrawling graffiti on the signs. The project will be in situ until Dec. 18. --Steffen Silvis Wheels of Misfortune Critical Mass has become something of a Portland tradition. Combining social protest with a heavy dose of dada, the event celebrates bicycles while deploring "automotive culture." Specifically, Critical Mass riders block traffic while running red lights at rush hour. Acting on a last-minute tip that last week's ride might degenerate into a showdown between cops and protesters, I decided to observe the event--on bike, of course. As I hopped on my trusty steed and joined more than 200 pedalers on Friday's rush-hour ride through downtown Portland, however, I began to question the wisdom of my decision. The event itself was a reporter's dream: cyclists dressed as clowns, penguins, ducks and Vikings pedaled ghoulish contraptions of every size and description. Whenever they encountered a red light, the protesters simply barreled through in a cacophony of bells, horns, war-whoops and even a coronet. But how was I going to take notes? Every time I stopped to scribble in my notebook, I straggled behind. A frantic burst of pedaling would bring me within sight of the swarm, only to fall behind again because I was too chicken to run a red light without the security of 200 lawbreakers to protect me. At one point, after an ill-fated attempt to take a short cut down a side street, I lost the group entirely. I panicked--what would I tell my editor? "Sorry, boss, I couldn't find a couple hundred bicycles blocking downtown traffic." By the time I finally caught up with the ride, on Northwest 21st Avenue and Lovejoy Street, I was in a sorry state--my white shirt soaked with sweat, my pants leg stained with grease, my legs burning and my lungs aflame. "So--have--you--ever--done--this--before?" I huffed to a passing protester, balancing my notebook on my left thigh while trying to steer with my right hand as we sailed into the path of 100 tons of Detroit steel. "Cheer chr cross td hitz," she replied. "Thxr iz r clme not." Covering the event by bike did produce one useful insight: despite their protestations to the contrary, the riders thrive on confrontation. When the red-faced driver of an Oldsmobile SUV at the intersection of Southwest 4th Avenue and Salmon Street started honking his horn in frustration, cyclists swarmed around his vehicle, whooping and raising their fists in the air. "Thank you for waiting," shouted one protester. "Bikes are more fun!" Another rider bounced his mountain bike up and down like a pogo stick. In the end, I ditched the notebook and surrendered to the inevitable, dropping all pretense of journalistic objectivity, and simply enjoyed the ride. The bicycle may be the ultimate urban vehicle, but it has limitations as a journalistic device. --Chris Lydgate MURMURS WHAT EVIL LURKS IN THE HEARTS OF MEN? * This just in: Word has it that Bill Clinton will hit town Sunday, Oct. 15, to raise some cash for U.S. Rep. Darlene Hooley. No details are nailed down, but Hooleyites are reportedly looking for a place that can hold 500 people. * Murmurs hears that the latest entrance into Portland's grocery wars will be Austin-based Whole Foods, a Nature's-like megachain that is currently finalizing negotiations to open a store in the Brewery Blocks development in the Pearl District. * With more than 30 years of local broadcast experience between them, Portland's dueling reporting team of Walden Kirsch and Marilyn Deutsch is switching off the microphone. Kirsch, a pit bull (in the best sense of the breed) over at KGW-TV for 17 years, signed off one last time Sept. 29 and headed to Intel to manage worldwide news for employees. His wife, who logged nearly as many on-air years for KOPB, KINK-FM and KPTV, puts in her last day at Channel 12 Friday and plans to spend more time with the family. * Speaking of media wars.... The pillaging continues at Pamplin World HQ: Bob Pamplin's still-unnamed downtown paper hired Ardys Reed, a sales rep at The Oregonian, as well as production and administrative staffers from The Business Journal. * Speaking of Oregonian departures.... It's splitsville between the O and its longtime "relationship" columnist. Jann Mitchell was sent packing following a tiff over her response to some errors in a feature story. Mitchell's proposed farewell column to readers got spiked last week, but it somehow landed in cyberspace, where we snagged it for the Murmurs section of our website. * The Portland New Party, a coalition of progressives and minority activists, has added some heft to its lineup. Among the candidates it is backing for the spring Portland Public School Board election is Lolenzo Poe, director of Community and Family Services for Multnomah County.   Night Cabbie BY Willie Milkis willie_milkis@hotmail.com WHAT DO an Englishwoman, a Kiwi and two Turkish guys have in common? Well, they're all in my cab this beautiful Sunday evening. I pick them up from a cargo ship docked at Swan Island, and they want to go downtown to an Irish pub, or maybe to an Indian restaurant, or maybe Thai food. They aren't sure. I like having an international clientele in my cab. Makes me feel less trapped, like I'm still out in the world. The Turkish guys are from Istanbul, so I tell them I used to live there and we start remembering our favorite bars. I guess we have different tastes in bars though, because we can't come up with a single one we all know. Since they can't decide where they want to go, I turn off the meter and play cabbie tour guide for awhile, telling them about Portland, driving up 23rd gawking at the yuppies, down Burnside checking out the life down there, and around downtown. I tell them my favorite Turkish joke, about an Istanbul taxi driver and an imam (priest). They don't laugh. We end up on 2nd, and the Turkish guys go into Kells and the Kiwi and Englishwoman go to the Thai place across the street. That's pretty much the last I see of them. It's going to be a good night. I can feel it. I park at a place I like above the river and watch the sun go down behind one of the bridges. I love this city.