First and most-pressing: The Blood Moon demands tribute, Oregon.

It's Tax Day. Pay the Arts Tax.

A friendly reminder from the Oregonian: When the new light rail bridge's name (Wy'East? Abigail Scott Duniway?) is revealed on Wednesday, that poster you got your dad last Christmas will be outdated.

The plight of the long-shot: The Tribune has a brief look at the lesser-known candidates toiling away for your vote.

California transplants draw a lot of rancor in these parts, but it's easy to see why they've fled. On a list of most-unaffordable cities to rent in, the Golden State dominates.

Ukraine has decided it's no good simply inveighing against violent pro-Russian protestors. It's sent troops to carry out an "antiterrorist operation" in the east part of the country—something of a gambit, given the Russian army parked just across the border in case of trouble.

While Seattle politicos, business types, and workers hash out what a $15 an hour minimum wage should look like, the activists pushing hardest for the policy have filed to put a measure before voters. Just in case, they say.

One of the worst things you can find in a garage is a cache of seven dead infants, six of them strangled shortly after taking their first breaths.

The Chinese are determined to find the missing Malaysia Airlines jet. Which would be admirable if they weren't hampering the whole search process.

Silvio Berlusconi, the disgraced former prime minister of Italy, was initially sentenced to four years for tax fraud. Turns out he's just going to work in an old folks' home for a year or so.

In southwest Missouri, where I lived for two years, Frazier Glenn Miller is a well-known local racist. (I called him up after his son, Jesse, murdered a motorist who'd stopped to help him on the side of the road in 2008. He didn't answer.) Now, Miller's accused of killing three people outside of two Jewish community centers yesterday, and shouting "Heil Hitler" upon arrest. The Northwest is not immune to these types, but I'm glad I left Missouri.


Until yesterday, Erik Henriksen had never heard the haunting tale of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Is that symptomatic of growing up in the West? Or is my intense familiarity with the tragedy symptomatic of growing up near the Great Lakes? Either way, it's maybe time you heard about this.