WASHINGTON — In what experts are calling “the first immigration policy that requires a physics degree,” President Trump has apparently issued a sweeping order demanding all time travelers cease operations immediately, citing an “unacceptable accumulation of chaos gremlins” across the national timeline.

“Look,” Trump said, rubbing his temples like a man trying to remember which decade he’s in, “we’re tired of these time machine guys coming back, giving us fake news from the future. They pop up too freely. They leave behind chaos gremlins. I haven’t even been getting sleep.”

The President announced strict tariffs on temporal imports, including “future money,” “prophetic memes,” and “one weird USB stick labeled ‘DO NOT PLUG IN 2029.’”

In a controversial escalation, ICE has reportedly been instructed to apprehend anyone who looks “sci-fi suspicious,” a category that currently includes:

people wearing mirrored visors indoors, anyone who says “in my timeline” unironically, men named Kyle carrying glowing briefcases

“Most of these guys,” Trump added, “are coming back from Mexico and they don’t have visas. It’s a futuristic way to cross the border. Very unfair. Very… time-y.”

Skeptics Respond

Not everyone is convinced time travel is real. Frank from Hell, Oregon offered a simple counterpoint:”Anyone ever think they’re lying?”

Frank then returned to his job of yelling at clouds—which he maintains are also government-funded.

Wall Street reacted predictably, immediately attempting to short the past, while economists warned that disrupting the timeline could cause severe market instability, including: retroactive inflation negative interest rates in 1997, and the re-release of Ed Hardy fashion at scale

At press time, one alleged time traveler was seen sprinting through a parking lot yelling, “YOU CAN’T ARREST ME, I HAVEN’T BEEN BORN YET,” before vanishing into a shimmering portal behind a Spirit Halloween.

Officials confirmed the portal has been rezoned into a luxury condo.

By George Pierre Thorne V, reporting for Glitter & Grime — where civic optimism goes to get chewed up and spit out into a mason jar.

Portland is hosting a month-long buffet of DIY “self-sufficiency” workshops—repair skills, woodworking projects (blanket ladders, birdhouses), sourdough, gardening prep—an official-looking campaign with the unmistakable scent of institutional anxiety and fresh sawdust.

It’s very: If society collapses, at least your shelves will be straight.

Not “Mad Max,” more like “Sad Max in a beanie,” taking notes on joinery while the world whirs softly into the woodchipper.

You can feel it in the air, downtown. That strange mix of rain, espresso, and emergency planning. The city isn’t saying THE END IS NEAR—Portland never says things cleanly. Portland hints. Portland suggests. Portland offers a workshop with a $12 materials fee and a calming font.

The workshop list reads like a love letter to control freaks who’ve stared too long into the abyss and decided the abyss should at least have a properly installed towel bar:

This isn’t crafts. This is soft survivalism. This is civic therapy disguised as lumber.

Naturally, I tried to speak with the Mayor.

Not because I expected answers—because I crave proof that the Mayor exists outside of rumor, fog, and Pioneer Square.

I did a street survey. One out of ten people could identify the Mayor. The other nine responded with variations of:

And then—like a myth stepping out of the haze—he appeared.

The Mayor.

Or at least a man claiming to be the Mayor, frequently seen talking to invisible pioneers in Pioneer Square like he’s negotiating a treaty with the year 1847.

He wore a damp trench coat that looked like it had been issued by the Bureau of Unfinished Conversations. His eyes were bright with the kind of conviction that makes you check your pockets.

He leaned toward me and spoke in a voice that sounded like a public records request.“Listen,” the Mayor said, pointing at the bricks like they were a map to the underworld. “We’re not preparing for collapse. We’re preparing for inconvenience. Collapse is dramatic. Inconvenience is Portland’s brand.”

The workshops are popular because Portlanders are exhausted. Not just by politics and weather and rent and the slow-motion surrealism of modern life—exhausted by the constant feeling that everything is fragile. So they’re building things. Fixing things. Planting things. Kneading dough like it owes them money.

I watched a man sand a plank with the intensity of someone trying to erase the concept of uncertainty. A woman tested a drill bit like she was prepping for war. A couple argued about measuring tape in a tone usually reserved for divorce hearings. None of them looked especially happy—yet. But they looked real. Present. Focused. Like their brains had stopped spinning long enough to occupy their hands. And that’s the trick, isn’t it?

When the world gets weird, humans don’t just panic. Sometimes they build a birdhouse.

A city spokesperson—clean, calm, suspiciously well-lit—insisted the program is about community, sustainability, cost savings, and self-empowerment.

Sure. And casinos are about architecture.

This is not a criticism. In fact, it might be the first intelligent thing I’ve seen a city do in years: teach people to be useful again. The rest of the country is arguing about reality while Portland is out here making sure your pantry shelves can withstand the future.

Insiders claim next month may include:

In the meantime, Portland will be in classrooms, garages, makerspaces—learning to fix, build, bake, and plant. Maybe it’s denial. Maybe it’s resilience. Maybe it’s just something to do while the big machine makes that grinding sound again.

Either way, the Mayor is still in Pioneer Square, speaking to pioneers nobody else can see.

And if he’s right—if chaos really does hate competence—then Portland may be doing the most radical thing possible:

quietly becoming harder to break.

And because Portland refuses to face reality without a soundtrack, Portland’s Folk Festival is back at the McMenamins Crystal Ballroom for a two-day folk/Americana blowout.

Break out your inner Woody Guthrie or Zimmerman cosplay and prepare to feel feelings you didn’t order.

Basics

Typical timing

Tickets

Outside the venue, we found a man strolling around singing “The Battle of New Orleans” like he was being paid in invisible apples. We asked if he was excited for Folk Fest. “I’ve been wanting to see Johnny Horton since I was a bean sprout,” said Mitch from SE 82nd and Foster. ‘It’s Folk Fest Every night at the Springwater Trail.

We do not endorse wandering the Springwater Trail at night hoping to catch the ghost of Johnny Horton. Also: Johnny Horton has not been alive for some time. But we didn’t want to crush anyone’s soul. Portland has very few left.

If you only catch a chunk of Saturday: Glitterfox → Family Worship Center → Johnny Franco & Dom.

Spotted: Pioneer Square Behavior: speaking to invisible pioneers and a very patient squirrel Outfit: damp trench coat, “municipal prophecy” energy

I conducted a survey: 1 out of 10 people knows who the mayor is. When asked about the city’s DIY obsession and the return of Folk Fest, the mayor reportedly said: “Look… when the systems glitch, you’ll want two things: skills… and songs. People can’t eat a playlist, but they cab survive a week on sourdough starter and spite”

Then he tried to shake hands with a statue and vanished into the crowd like a man who has been elected by pure confusion.

PORTLAND — Portland, a city famous for being weird, vegan, and emotionally attached to kale chips, has birthed a new civic tradition: Adult Hide-and-Seek, now trending locally under the official name “Catching Traction.”

With so many empty buildings downtown, the game has gone viral—because when commerce leaves, playtime moves in.

Players say it’s simple: instead of paying rent, you pay a subscription, and for $19.99 a month you get:

discovered by a realtor with haunted eyes

“It’s a game people loved as kids,” said Sage Love, speaking from an undisclosed air vent.

“Might as well bring people together. There’s community in being terrified and crouched behind a condemned Jamba Juice.”

In a surprising international twist, China—known for its half-built “ghost cities”—has reportedly adopted the pastime as well, making this the first cultural exchange program powered entirely by abandoned infrastructure and collective boredom.

“We’re in talks to host a nation vs. nation challenge,” Sage Love added.

“We have the buildings. They have the buildings. It’s basically diplomacy.”

The Mayor Responds

The mayor issued a statement, though no one could confirm the mayor’s identity, location, or whether the mayor is currently hidden inside a decorative planter outside City Hall. “We support civic engagement,” the statement read. “Also, if you find me, please don’t.”

Officials say it’s unclear who the ultimate Hide-and-Seek champion is. Mostly because… no one’s ever found them. We’ll report more as this story develops—assuming we can locate our reporter, who has not been seen since entering an empty WeWork in 2021.