Portaged in Portland

I think that I've already made a Portlandia Dream of the 90s reference on my blog. So I'll skip that, even though I just re-watched the video and I still find the song to be quite catchy. Even after visiting Portland.

During my first visit to Portland, I came across a t-shirt at a tourist kiosk, it had a picture of Grumpy Cat, with the inscription “I went to Portland once, it rained.” Well, I went to Portland and it rained. All day. Cold, miserable, unending rain.

And we had no real plans or goals, beyond some vague intentions of finding interesting places to eat. So I suggested that we just get our day pass and see where the train would take us. That actually seems to be my standard answer to the question of “What do you do in a strange city?”. Portland's Max Light Rail has 4 lines. Red and Blue run mostly east and west. Green and Yellow are more north and south. Ish. All four meet in the center of town and share a lot of the same tracks. In all, they cover a fair portion of the city.

I was wearing my Jayne's Town shirt that day. As a quick description, because it comes into play, it has a picture of a Skull sporting a Jayne Cobb goatee and hat. Across the top there is the inscription “Heroes of Canton”. I love the shirt, as I love firefly, and wear it often.

Oh hey, one thing I found out, people in Portland notice your t-shirt. And strike up a fucking conversation. What the holy hell fucking fuck? I mean I like to let my geek flag fly, but my socially awkward ass doesn't want to interact, and I'm usually too polite to ignore people when they make an attempt to create a connection.

But interact I did.

My first oppressor was from Utah, as we took the train in to find breakfast, and he was a fan of Firefly. We had a chat about the show, and then he tried to sell me on owning my own business. Not sure if he was going to move into providing said business. I wasn't interested. Still am not. But hey, this would be the best conversation I'd have that day.

We found a small breakfast place that was nearish the train and trudged through the rain. Don't remember the name of the place, but I ordered plate Banana chocolate pancakes. And ate Most of them. They were so damn rich and sugary that finishing was impossible. It was a fair attempt on my part. But I was defeated.

Outside, the rain continued. That wouldn't change for the remainder of the day.

Our next stop was the Chinese Garden and Tea Room. I was cold and wet. But the beauty of the gardens still managed to shine through and allow me to forget some of my discomfort. We tried some of their tea. It was pricey, and I didn't really want to spend the money at that point, but peer pressure. The tea was interesting. If I were a resident of Portland, I might consider a semi-cyclical visit to sample more of their teas. I love tea.

My second Visitation of the Ghost of Portland Now came as we took the Red/Blue Line all the way out to it's westernmost stop. I shall call La Senorita Del Craneo. Known here out as Craneo. Mayhaps she was attracted to the strong silent type, of which I am, if you downgrade “Strong” to “Moderately Stable”.

Craneo noticed my shirt. See, I told you it was important. People in Portland pay attention to shit like that. Even the visitors. Must be something in the air.

She pointed at her head and said “I have one of those.” And I wonder to this day what would have happened if I had responded “Well I don't, someone stole my skull. Are you using yours?” But that wasn't even in the queue of potential responses. Because really, how often does a strange woman on the train start a conversation of which the crux is her having a basic bit of essential anatomy? I would like to know, as my brief experience in Portland leads me to believe that it is a daily occurrence, perhaps even multiple times a day.

I don't recall the full details of the conversation. I was too busy devoting my limited brain power to trying to find an escape route. Meanwhile, Sara and Adam were enjoying the show. Fucking Lannisters.

La Senorita Del Craneo finally broke off. Maybe she found my conversation to be less than inspiring. I did my best, but calculating the benefits of chewing through my ankle to escape was a bit of a distraction. But she wandered down the train to spread her good cheer to the other travelers. Praise The Sun!

Adam chose that moment to reveal his current passion, which happened to be for the works of Chuck Tingle. If you don't know who Mr. Tingle is, by all means look him up, his wikipeida page is a treasure to be cherished by all of Humanity, past, present and future. At the very least Google Chuck Tingle Books. I won't mind if you get distracted and fail to finish my tale. In fact, I will count that as a win.

Adam initiated us in the joy of Chuck Tingle by hipping us to the list of the man's writings that had been collected on the wikipedia page. High point of the day. How can you not read a name like “Space Raptor Butt Invasion”, or “Pounded in the Butt by the Existential Dread that you are a Character in a Chuck Tingle Novel” and not smile a little?

Chuck's antics helped to fill the train ride with much needed mirth. Walking around downtown Portland would grind away that little bit of happiness soon enough, as the damp blanketed us and drained our will. And Portland herself.

Back in town we zeroed in on the foodtrucks and scored lunch. I got some Indian. It was bland. A word that I usually don't associate with Indian food. Maybe I just had bad luck. And I didn't order the spicy option, as I was still feeling a bit wary. Really, the las thing I needed here was a repeat of my desecration of the Asian Art Museum.

The last time I had visited the food trucks was with my friend a few years back. She wanted me to experience the full magisty of the food truck experience. I walked around the block at least four times before I picked up some Thai. It was par excellence. Which seemed to be the theme of the trip. Sometimes it's better not to compare.

Powell's City of Books. If there is one place I'd like to take refuge during a zombie apocalypse, this is it. To hell with those kids and their fancy mall and their food and guns. Give me a bookstore that sits atop a full city block! It was like a maze of goodness, and I never wanted to leave. We left.

Powell's was bustling that night. Sunday in Portland and people were hanging around in a book store. I love Portland for this. A platonic love to be sure. We can be friends and hang out, we just will never be in a serious relationship. Which leaves me feeling a little sad. But there is always the one that got away.

Adam and I wandered around Portland going too and fro, up and down the streets, just getting a feel for the city. I think we made it as far as the 405 before turning back. We had no particular direction and just popped into various buildings that took our interest. Museums, shops, etc. I admired a statue of Theodore Roosevelt for a while, which left me gleefully surprised.

The Library called us, promising relief from the rain. In we went and wandered upwards towards the sound of music, to find a concert being played on the top floor. One largely being enjoyed by an audience of the homeless.

Seattle had a fair share of homeless people. Far many more than I am used to in the midwest. Strange that, a place that has a mild climate year round and a decent public transport system attracts the people who are forced to live on the streets. I think Portland is their Mothership. They crowd the corridors with colorful tents and crouch, hiding from the weather.

People ask for money left and right. I gave out much more spare change than I usually do. I wonder if that's how traveling affects me, with some extra sense of generosity. Though, I suspect that some of that had to do with the fact that I was actually carrying physical cash.

They were everywhere, and as an outsider I don't want to judge their performance against such a daunting task as feeding and housing such a multitude.

That brings me to the third and final t-shirt admirer. Adam and I took the Yellow line north. When we. Or rather I. Sat down across from a mildly homeless gentleman. He saw my shirt and he of course broached the subject. “You from Canton, Ohio?”

“Not I sir. Not I. But I am from the midwest.” And then I tried to explain the meaning of the shirt. He looked at me like the nerd that I am. Not with disdain, but more along the lines of boredom. We chatted some, he told stories, he liked Portland and Seattle and was intending to visit Alaska. He was from Buffalo New York(thus why he asked about Canton, as that would make us neighbors? Maybe. He said he knew members of the band Cannibal Corpse.

He offered to show us around Portland. I could see that in my mind's eye, following the dude to the end of the line to get a glimpse of the camp that was his home. And then the knifing. “I'm gonna be murdered!” was the reoccurring drumbeat in my brain. How the fuck is it that I can say stupid shit and alienate people I like, but be unable to use the full focus of my social awkwardness to stave off unwanted advances by complete strangers? What kind of bullshit personality flaw did I get saddled with? Roll to fail, natural 1.

Balls.

4 or so stops from the end of the line, and my taking my first steps in having my skin turned into a tent, Sara texted to let us know she was done with her chores. So, we never got out the the end of the yellow line. All without being turned into a sex-mummy in the woods.

Back together, we decided to head in the opposite direction, and ride down the Green Line. And it wasn't much better. We found ourselves seated next to some rather unpleasant folks, listening to their delightful tales of crimes and drugs and domestic violence. All the good stuff in life. We got off the train and headed back towards downtown.

I hit a low point in the trip. Being cold, hungry and otherwise miserable seems to do that. I wonder how well I would deal with venturing to soggy old England. Or true adversity?. One that left us wanting to just cut our losses and see if we could fly back early. We couldn't. Not without paying a rather large fee. So we stuck it out.

By dinner time we had already run out of inspiration for new adventures, so we stopped for pizza in a place called Sizzle Pie. It rated well and seemed easy. We passed by other fine tourist attractions that Sunday evening. The rain remained steady, even so Voodoo Donuts had a score or so people waiting in line. For donuts. On we went, not daring to fall into that trap. Not yet.

I was feeling a helluva lot better as digestion infused me with warmth. It was as if the rest of the misery was sluiced away in the rain as we hoofed it back to the nearest train stop. Along the way, we came across a hat store. And of course I went in. I love the idea of hats. The more absurd the better. I harbor a dream of one day owning a top-hat.

What foils me in this dream you ask? I know myself too damn well. I like the idea of hats, but not really the reality. I would never wear that top-hat, and thus it would be just a rather expensive souvenir. I ended up walking out of the store with a grey fedora looking hat. One that was water proof. I call it my Adventure Hat, and it probably makes me look like a complete and utter douche. No matter, I am a firm believer in truth in advertising.

In Between a Attled Sea and a Port.

All good things must eventually come to an end. I don't know who invented that phrase, but it has long since passed into the cliché bargain bin. If it were a movie, it would be Beastmaster 3. And I still can't resist picking it up and using it myself. Also like Beastmaster 3.

Our last meal in Seattle was I think one of the beast breaking of fast that I've ever had. I went with a roast beef hash that was the special for the morning. It was either that, or the Chorizo biscuits and gravy. For me, this was my Sophie's Choice moment, and that is without a bit of hyperbole. Not a jot. Big decision.

As a rule of life, if it sounds good, always go with the special.

We checked out of our hotel and I was reacquainted with how hill-infested the region actually is. And as I lugged my 50 pound bag the two miles between us and our destination at King Street Station,I kicked myself along the way for not bringing along a backpack. Nope. I had to opt for the duffel bag. Stupid. Fortunately my arms are big and muscular. Unfortunately the previous statement is a lie.

The train was late. Go Amtrak! Nothing else to add to that. We just got/had to hang around the train station for a couple hours longer than we had planned. Alls well, the décor was worth an extra gander and I got some good pics before they called us to board the train.

I had been looking forward to the train ride since booking the trip. A train seemed like an easy way to get out and enjoy the scenery, as it passed your window at 60 miles per hour. I was facing backwards, and the weather was overcast and foggy. Foggy and overcast. I don't need to make that tire ass Seattle joke do I? Because I will. No joke is too tired for me.

The very first thing I noticed as we made our final approach into Portland were the garbage streams. Not literal rivers of garbage, but streams of refuse that seemed to be flowing down hill. As if a landfill got all biblically gone done pulled a flood and then just projectile vomited its inner secrets unto the world. That was what the road to Portland looked like. Trashslides and rubbivulets.

Behold the beauty of the Pacific North West in all of its splendor!

The station we arrived at lacked the grandeur of the one we had left behind, it was much more utilitarian and pedestrian. Which in retrospect seems fitting and an apt metaphor for a comparison between the two cities. Odd, as Portland has somewhat of a reputation for being a wild and weird frontier city. You would expect their public buildings to reflect that more.

To be honest, Oregon as a whole struck me with a similar vibe. Like they had been a meeting point between hippie and cowboy and created some sort of self-hating mutant hybrid. Or maybe a pair of siblings that both thought that they alone should inherit the estate. Oregon is a weird place. I liked it.

The weather was sunny and beautiful. Which is exactly how I remembered Portland. The one time I visited. Three years ago. For about 1 day, before I shuffled off to Eugene to hang out with the one person I really wanted to fly across the country to see. Didn't see her again this time. I made missteps and things seemed awkward. I don't seem to have the social wherewithal necessary to unawkward the whole mess.

I am pretty good at regret though. And revisiting embarrassing memories. I'm tops at that. Shit, I should get a medal.

So yeah. Portland.

We didn't spend much time wandering around down town.  Only stopping briefly to pose for a photo near a giant eye sculpture.  A giant eye sculpture with a steering wheel and captain's chair.  Eye Eye Captain.

 Because fuck that. Remember the whole “I'm carrying a bag thing from earlier”? Yeah, touristing can wait. Once again, we hopped the train and rode the rails. All the way up to the hotel that I stayed at during my last visit. I recalled it was clean, near the airport, and a half block away from the Red Line.

The rest of the evening was going to be spent unwinding. Unwinding, on a vacation. It sounds stupid when I read aloud my words to myself. But that was what we did. We hung out in the room and watched Rifftrax on my phone, until we ventured out to eat.

The discussion followed the form of: “What about?” “No”. For a distressing amount of time. Until we chanced upon El Sombrero. What is El Sombrero you ask? Well that is a stupid question. But I'm really good at answering stupid questions, and usually with only a limited amount of condescension and sarcasm.

El Sombrero is a Mexican joint that serves “Basic no frills Mexican fare.” What I consider standard Mexican food. Combo plates that automatically come with sides of Beans and Rice.

Dude, I live in a city with a sizable Latin population. There are numerous taquerias. So I suppose that I can be argued that visiting a foodie Mecca like Portland to eat at a basic Mexican joint probably as blaspheme against some minor hipster foodie deity. And fuck that tight pants bearded asshole. Lets get us some Mexican! And not even fancy Mexican Fusion made from exotic blends of unexpected ingredients that elevates the meal from simple sustenance to an art form. An experience.

Nope. Just tacos and beans and rice.

And goddamnit was it phenomenal. If El Sombrero was here, it would be on my “Visit this place more often” list, as we bookended the day with amazing eats.

Foreshadowing and spoilers, but this was the best meal I had in Portland.

Puttin the Attle in Seattle, Part 1

You know things are going swimmingly when TSA pulls you aside to do a search of your bag. It's a good thing that I don't really take much stock in portents and auspices, because that would have cast a rather dim pall on the trip to come. And I had been looking forward to seeing Seattle for so many years. Now I was going with a couple of friends.

Yes Seattle. For some reason that frontier town holds a special place in my imagination. I dreamed of moving there for a long time. It could one day happen. Only everything about reality stands in my way. But at the very least I wanted to go back West.

TSA pulled me aside and started digging through my bag. I had been asked if I had food, and replied in the affirmative. I had picked up a bag of Granola, under the assumption that I might run into some hippies and need a peace offering. I suppose that it was the Granola that tripped their alarms. Maybe they thought to find some of the sweet ganja as well, and “confiscate it for evidence.”

No dice.

The rest of the flight out was uneventful. We left early evening Eastern time and arrived on the West Coast late at night, only too relieved to crash in our ghetto hotel room with a stain that heavily resembled blood on the carpet. That was the plan, the late arrival, not the ghetto hotel room. Get there late, after a full day of work, and then enjoy the first day of vacation without a jot of travel to grind us down.

I know this is going to blow your mind, but Seattle was rainy as we arose the next morning. A cold misty drizzle that I suspect is common for the region. We broke fast at a nearby place called the Pancake Chef. I think I had the Stuffed French Toast. I know it was delicious. I would go back.

A note. Food will probably come up frequently in this rambling odyssey that would make Homer(Simpson) jealous. Food was as ever part of the reason to visit these two(Seattle and Portland) west coast cities. But since I'm lazy and am also writing 18 months after the trip, the details will be fuzzy or missing as I try to recreate the facts. You have been warned.

We jumped onto Seattle's public transit, because fuck cars. I don't want to sit in traffic, I want to see the scenery. And the train is a lot cheaper way to get from point a to b, no gas or insurance or getting lost. Though it does mean having to hoof it between stops. And Seattle is not only rainy, but also tends to be on the Hilly side. Walking up hills is for chumps. I spent a lot of time walking up hills.

The remainder of our stay in Seattle was at a hotel a half a mile from the famed Space Needle. Perfect location for a bunch of tourists, 2/3rds of whom had never been to the city before. Though it meant only getting anything like an in depth feel for that one small slice of town. Then again, we were only in Seattle for like 3 days. Barely enough time to scratch the surface of even one neighborhood.

Our first steps took us out to the Fremont neighborhood. I don't know much about it, hell, I've had to repeatedly look up the name between the first visit and my writing this. So, go visit the wikipedia page.

Fremont is speckled with sculptures, some of them fairly famous. And through our wanderings we came across some of these examples. Who doesn't like a neighborhood that randomly hosts a 16 foot tall Vladimir Lenin statue? Probably quite a few people actually, as they yell obscenities about dirty pinko commies. I found the statue amusing, and was surprised that it was there. This one doesn't do his research. But I did discover that the statue was purchased in Czechoslovakia after the fall of the communist state by a Seattle native, and then shipped back to Seattle, where he installed it. After several moves, it resides about 3 blocks away from another local landmark, the Fremont Troll(saw that too).

Iffin you have $250,000.00 the statue could be yours. If I had that much money to throw away, Lenin would be staying where he currently stands. To continue the tradition of make-overs and new paint-jobs that he regularly receives.

It was in Fremont that I developed a delightful game, one that you should all play when you travel. I call it Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That! The rules of the game are complex but I shall do my best to explain. Say you find an object/person/bit of scenery/abstract concept that you wish to take a photo of, but you also want to see how many times you can get your friend to pose next to revolving cast of things, until they tell you to go fuck yourself.

I got a good pic of Adam and Lenin. All the better to blackmail him should he run for public office. Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That!

We found ourselves at what my frumpy ass would describe as a Hippish Mexican restaurant in Fremont, I think it was called El Camino. It had a pleasant ambiance with an attractive hardwood interior. We were lead out onto the porch to enjoy what had cleared out to be some rather nice weather. I ordered a spicy sandwich, because I like spicy food. Sadly being used to the concept of Midwest Spicy, I was broadsided by a mac truck full of capsaicin. It was absolutely wonderful.

Back out on the streets, we caught a bus and continued our wanderings. The bus took us to the Capital Hill neighborhood, so that I might engage in the single solid goal I had for the trip. You see, most of my plans for the visit were rather nebulous see where the wind blows me type of adventure. With a single exception.

This goal was to find and visit the final resting place of one Bruce Lee. Yes, that Bruce Lee. He was born and raised in Hong Kong, came to America and somehow ended up buried in Seattle. I'm sure there is a rational explanation and good story, but fuck that noise, I'm just gonna say it's because of Aliens.

This may be a case of TMI, but spicy food tends to cause an adverse reaction throughout my innards. Think napalm enema.

The discontent started while we were on the bus, which is NEVER a good omen. And it lead me to the following meditation: Why the hell don't our cities have public toilets? Waste evacuation is an activity that every living creature on the planet engages in.

As well as a certain kind of hurried shuffle that must have given me away as a maniac who was on a mission. That mission was to locate some relief before I ruined my own vacation with the magic words “I'll have that spicy sandwich”. Which is going on my tombstone. Self-inflicted pain is the best kind.

My companions used their own brand of magic to locate relief. I believe that they called their twin spells 'cell phone' and 'internet'. Whatever. They pointed and I marched. They made jokes and I responded “Look me compadres, I am going to soil myself in a most memorable fashion if we don't get to some shelter soon.” They shut up and walked faster. It was an uphill walk, meandering somewhere between one and thirty-seven miles. The passage of time and space grows unreliable when you're battling the clock. But alas, we finally arrived at my salvation.

To the Seattle Asian Art Museum, I offer my deepest thanks. If I were a praying man, you would ever be remembered in scrolls of my internal monologue to my deity. But I'm not. And I did evil in your restroom. So I bought a ticket instead. And again I must thank you, for the beauty held within. Were you a woman, I would ask for your hand in marriage. But alas, you are not, you are a museum, so It can never be.

The Seattle Asian Art Museum sits atop a hill, and I was greeted with a rather beautiful view as I returned to the sunlight. More to the point, we were right next to the cemetery in which his most notable self resides.

Another round Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That! Netted me a picture of a rather peeved looking Adam standing next to a large cottonwood tree. All as we found the outer edges of our destination.

Here's where desire to achieve a goal runs face first into a more powerful force. One that I call “Ah Shit, I'm Sick of Walking.” I'm pretty sure that it is a fundamental force of the universe, only slightly behind Entrophy in overall effect, but with more regret. So I didn't actually get to see the final resting place of Master Lee, but I did see the graveyard in which he was interred.

That's something right?

The walk back to the hotel in the fading afternoon sunshine was long and winding. Stop and go as we crossed streets and descended down out of the hills. We passed by grand houses and cool neighborhoods. The two high points that I recall from the trek were that of a graffitied road sign, most impressive because it was hanging 20 feet over the highway. That took an extra dose of frontier gumption that did.

The second sight was somewhat simpler, a pretty girl wearing a Bungie Software shirt.  Historically two of my favorite things. I didn't talk to her. I tried not to stare, but I admired her as we passed.  Should I have passed her by while I was in college, nothing would have been different. As is my habit.

Too much Figgy Pudding this holiday season!

They say that one should never go grocery shopping while hungry.

In November my maternal grandmother succumbed to a sudden illness and died.  It was expected.  She was old and in poor health.  A couple years ago she took a tumble down the stairs - and though she didn't break anything, she lost a lot of blood and developed further issues with her heart.  After her son, my uncle, died in January, we've been expecting her to go. 

The death was especially hard on my mother and her sisters.  It has been a rough year for the family, a rough week even as my cousin's estranged daughter also passed on the same day.  This is the only time I recall that I've ever seen my mother seven sheets to the wind, as she and one of my favorite aunts took comfort in each other's company and with the help of a couple bottles of wine.

She was buried on what would have been her 82nd birthday.

So I was called to be a pall-bearer again.  And again experience the Lutheran Funeral Rites.  I must say, I appreciate the Lutheran Funeral.  There is crying, but most of the ceremony is about remembering the good things, as well as the message of hope.  I don't agree with that last, but hope beats despair and joy is preferred to sorrow.

The aftermath of which was that we finished clearing out her house, a job that was only begun after my uncle's funeral.  And when I say 'we' I mean my relatives.  I had to return to work.  Alas!  I regret this as I would have liked to get a photo of the afore mentioned porn collection.  I wanted to see how high it would stack and document this great personal achievement of my uncle's.

The natural result of the cleaning is that once again everyone picks through and claims the nicknacks and what-not that used to be part of our relative's everyday life.  Some for sentimental value, and the rest for practical purposes. (My cousin sprinted off with a Jesus clock).

I came away with this magnificent piece of art:

 *Eagles and Wolves are natural enemies*

Can you see that?  Majestic!  The artists really captured the truest spirit of Nature herself.   Oh what to do with this fine thing?

Earlier I learned that a good friend is set to inherit his father's firearms collection.  His father being a Yooper, who himself has inherited several other collections, is leaving behind a sizable legacy for his son. I've not actually seen it, but I like to picture it being locked in a basement rec room armory the likes of which what would drive Bert Gummer into a state of orgasmic bliss and sticky trousers.

This being said, as far as I am concerned the grand prize is the hand-made muzzle loader that his father built.My reaction is entirely to the concept.  His dad built a gun.  So, I am enthusiastic for this idea.  This is a fantastic combination of MacGyver and Yooper, down to the death grip on the mullet.   Plus, my friend and his father are a fraction Native American!

What does this matter?  Well a few years back I gave said friend the starter set of a Post Apocalyptic survival kit, and have been adding to it since.  This year I was going to run an experiment in protective armor, but I'm still contemplating the specifics(read this as procrastinating) of the build. 

He was going to get a gun rack worthy of his Family's greatest and most impressive heirloom!

*May they cherish it forever!*

With fast broken on a bowl of cereal, we set out to our local big box hardware store.  though I am not particularly handy, I love hardware stores.  They are an alter to the realm of possibility.  Under that roof is about tool or material any imaginative and skilled person will need to make their dreams a reality.  For those of us who lack the skills necessary, the contents within take on a darker shade as they will only lead to sadness and humiliation as a large pile of wasted scrap(Or, maybe it just looks that way -Abstract Sculpture is hard to read).

We spent at least a half hour rambling across the concrete floors and through the steel canyons of the store.  We were met along the way by bi-lingual signs and helpful employees.  I must say, Walmart this was not.  In the end, I found an approximation of what I thought that I would need.  Plus a few things extra just in case.

I blame all of the previous collection of coincidences on what terrible events were about to unfold.

Supplies in hand, we moved onto the weekly grocery shopping.  Even as the nutritional and fuel value of that lone bowl of raisin bran had long been exhausted.  Just in time to wander around a vast storehouse of tempting manufactured foods!

Hey!  You know that package of hotdogs that I would normally try to avoid eye contact with as I shamefully recalled past trysts?  Come on baby!  Get in that basket!  You and daddy have a date!

As I don't make a list, I am usually forced to wander back and forth, zigg-zagging about as I try to recall everything I need to buy.  This isn't all bad, I get out and get exercise.  This isn't all good either, especially when I'm in a whimsical or absurd mood and happen to feel like sampling some new bizarre find that I come across. So I wandered up and down and up and down, until my eyes landed on the Holy Grail! Bright pink she was, unnatural one might say.

Balderdash and poppycock!

*I call this self-hate in a cup!*

$.89 or a package of 4?  Doesn't need to be refrigerated?  And a mixture of artificial banana and strawberry flavorings? Stop talking and sign me the fuck up!

Later at home I cracked open a cup.  The pudding tastes like...   Well you know that flavor that 'food' manufacturers, especially those in the line of making candy, have concocted.  "This is Banana!"  They declare, though it doesn't really taste like any banana ever grown that I've ever eaten.  I know this, because I've had bananas.  I ate one today.  Neither the bouquet nor the taste match.  Really, all it has in common with actual bananas is that both substances are comprised primarily of molecules and the dreams of children.

It works in the same way that red Koolaid is Cherry drink rather than Cherry Juice.  It has the memory of cherry.

But still, the powder flavoring some how ends up in candy(now and laters) and drinks (Slurpees) and about everything else that is tinged yellow and packaged with an abstracted version of the fruit in question. Yeah, that flavor.  The foundation of the long defunct Banana flavored Nesquik, which I assume has been dumped, and acquired on the cheap by the makers of this modern delicacy.... Wait, Banana flavored Nesquik still exists?  I feel ill.

I do not know what the exact definition of pudding is.  In England it generally takes the place of Dessert.  Here in the States pudding is a sweet custard sort of food.  I guess that in the way the food industry operates, those four cups of flavored slop can be labeled pudding.  That's just how things seem to work.

I was offered home made pie today.  I declined.  I have pudding cups.

This is why I shan't survive the apocalypse.

An oddly busy weekend.

This weekend was actually full. Fuller than I usually like. There after all is something about staring at a wall for the length of a Saturday afternoon and squandering those precious heartbeats one has on this earth. But that can't be helped now.

Where to start? Well, first there was the gathering of Hipsters. Darn they're neat. So much so that I've decided to become one. Anyone know where I can get a Hipster starter kit? I of course will need to get an iPhone and skinny jeans. And is it too late to mock Hipsters? Has that become passe?

I honestly bear Hipsters no real ill will. I have at least one friend that I suspect is a Hipster. How bad does that sound? Wow. Mostly I just buckle to the usual social pressures to gripe about this sub-culture or that (twihards) to struggle for something relatable to say. We live in an us vrs them sort of world.

But no, Hipsters just kind of are as they're out there living their lives and doing their thing. They bother me far less than people who watch reality tv, or sports fanatics. Hipsters are at least(in theory) living their lives and experiencing new things first hand. Good on them as far as I'm concerned, and may they get over the fad with those stupid skinny pants.

Our local hip neighborhood hosted a street faire this weekend. Food, art and live music they promised. We had other plans, but stopped by one of the local eateries that we favor for breakfast. The place is always packed, so we decided to wander around the faire as we waited. It was about as expected. The highpoint was the street poet dressed in what we figured was Hipster motley as he recited verse. Though he could have just been a crazy homeless guy ranting about the moon demons. Either way, I didn't make eye-contact. I get enough face time with the crazies at my job.

So I walked into their faire with my eyes open. It was hard to tell where the Hipster stopped and the Hippie began. Are these two sub-cultures closely related? It would seem to me not really so much. If one ignores the seeming cross-pollination. Where do Hipsters stand on free-love? Cause if that answer comes back positive, I'm off to get my iPhone and skinny jeans today!

Back to the faire, though I don't really know why I bother. It was a couple dozen tents of crafts and what-not, with people of all ages about. At one end there was a band that we were desperately hoping would be packing keytars(maybe even dueling keytars!) But neither of us stuck around long enough to find out.

I walked through later – I've been walking a lot lately, power-hikes through town trying to hit up as many hills as possible. My best distance yet was just over 7 miles, with 5.5+ being about average. Takes about an hour and a half, a large chunk of free-time that I could be using to write. But my ass needs to be firm when the zombies arise! - where was I going with all that? Oh yeah, I returned. And nothing really seemed to change. I just wanted to talk about my exercise routine. Suckers.

Have you ever been to an engagement party? Is that even a thing anymore?

My boss has just become engaged, and many congrats to her. She invited a few of the employees to the shindig. How utterly awkward is this? I don't like hanging out at bars. Period. Spending countless hours with strangers, or co-workers whom I partly know is somewhat stressful. I have very little in common with my fellow employees, less with my employer.

Not showing up seems like a poor life decision, as the boss was kind enough to offer the invitation. So I went. I put on my semi-finest black pants and dark shirt and spent some of the evening trying to fade into the black leather couch that was so conveniently located in the out-cast section. Huzzah for dim lighting and dark clothes.

Neither seemed to work in my favor. I attracted some attention.

After the small talk was made with the people I did know, I spent most of the evening trading stories about the wacky encounters with crazy patients that we've all had. Oh Pharmacy, you certainly do attract the crazy. As I'm sure that anyone who has read past posts know. Many of those very stories were rehashed at the party, and the list gets longer and longer each day.

I was actually asked by a complete stranger what my nationality was. Yeah, really strange that. I'm American, from this very state sir, I replied. But the gentleman in question claimed that I had an accent. Mind, we were in a bar with conversations buzzing all around and I had only spoken a couple sentences, and he was older (I'm implying that he might be a bit hard of hearing – for those who didn't read that far in. *wink wink*) man as well.

I really don't know what to say to that, as even my best Cockney would make Dick Van Dyke cringe in offended horror. But I have a rather plain mid-western accent. Nothing sexy. Unless you have a fetish for those things, then Hello.

This was about the extent of the evening. Free food and awkward chit-chat with coworkers and complete stranger. And far more the former than the latter. The food was very tasty. How's that for an adventure?

Finally there was the Irish Music Festival. We had to travel for this one, something I hate doing on my weekends off. Something about driving every night makes me inclined to avoid cars on the weekend. Oh well. I was invited on the outing, and didn't see anything else happening so I jumped at it. I've not been to a music festival before. So why not?

The layout consisted of fairgrounds on the lake shore and three large pavilions for the acts. A couple tents for the shopping stalls and the usual food vendors that one finds at a summer fair. Most of which had an Irish tint to it. The crowds were light and there was plenty of open space. Not to mention several different displays showcasing glimmers of Irish history – most notably the Irish Wake.

The gift-shops were selling vaguely Irish crap, most of it did not appeal. You know the kind, as it has been distilled and twisted by pop-culture to represent the Irish culture in the States. Bland caricatures and abstractions with their catchphrases.

The word of the day was green, as everything seemed to be awash in every shade of the color. Though looking back I should have gotten myself a kilt. They had some rather solid models on the relative cheap at one of the booths. I still want to get a good kilt.

I am not a fan of Irish music. By this I don't mean that I dislike the genre, I rather enjoy the Gaelic sound, it just isn't part of my daily life. My tastes are generally very broad, and extremely shallow. Does this sound Hipstery? I'm practicing as I await the answer to the above question. The music was enjoyable, the one band I listened to for any length of time. Strange, we drove an hour to get there, and paid $15 at the gate to get in, only to stick around for a couple hours.

Honestly, I went for the same reason I've gone to most of the other festivals, faires and conventions that I've written about. People watching. The pretty girls in their summer clothes really warm the blood of an old man like myself.

The Irish Music Festival was a lot like a comic convention. Though the mix of people was a bit skewed. At the latter, there are about 10 smelly male geeks for every person carrying 2 X genes. And the former? It was overweight, middle aged white people. A mob of them! The pretty girls in their summer clothes? Not so much. 10 to one against. Sad day.

But the music was good. And so was the pizza the the buffet that we stopped at on the way home. Fuck paying faire prices for food.  In the end, I felt quit exhausted while having actually accomplished so very little.

My half-assed adventure in Agriculture.

An update! How exciting!

The problem with writing an adventure blog, even ones that are rather lame, is that you need to actually go on adventures for material. Obviously, my definition of 'adventure' is rather broad in that I write about any experience that is new or at least unusual for me. Which is why I've been holding off on my half-assed adventure in going to the super-market, as that would sink into the realm of no-assed. If you've been reading along and paying any attention, it is likely that you've come to the conclusion that I am an exceedingly boring person.

Congratulations Captain Obvious.

Well, back to the adventures, and the general lack there of. Back in January of 2010, I quit a job that I hated and proceeded to delve into the ranks of the unemployed. I did this during a recession, with no other prospects lined up. Dumb, I know. I usually don't leap like that, and my reasons were stupid. But I still feel it was one of my best decisions.

August of 2010 saw me re-employed but worrying about the age of my car and replenishing some of my spent savings. March 2011 saw my job disappear once more. Yep, no more driving to Ann Arbor to drug mule for the ungrateful crazies, or the patients. Amid a steep incline in gas prices(currently up over $4.00 a gallon) All in all, it's been a light year for traveling and adventures.

So, I've not done much and I've traveled less. Not too much different from when times are good!

In short, to summarize my motives in a couple sentences: The apocalypse is coming. When it does I'm pretty sure that grocery stores will have long lines. I hate waiting in line.

I am fascinated by the self-sustained and self-reliant lifestyle. I would like to experiment with growing my own food and generally living off the land. Ideally, I would set up a studio to work making pottery. I'd like to take up black-smithing. And then sell my creations. All with my beautiful wives Rosario Dawson, Emma Watson and Cristina Hendricks. I'd like. I'd like. I'd like. Problem here is that I don't see a way to make this sustainable. Unless I went the hot robot wife route.

I call this Kicking it Thoreau Style. (The hooking up with three exceedingly hot movie stars aspect of the Walden Experiment was in one of the lost appendixes).

Anyhow, all of that rambling is to set up this simple statement. I planted a garden. This combines steps 1 through 3 in my mind. Step three isn't big profit. Actually, 'big profit' and 'farming' seem to be mutually exclusive. 'Bankruptcy and despair' seem to fall in line more with 'Farming' these days.

I've never grown vegetables before on my own initiative. My folks have put in a couple gardens when I was growing up(Between ten and fifteen years ago). My grand-parents grow their own vegetables. And supposedly I come from farming roots on my Mother's side. So, I've been exposed. But sitting back and watching is different than setting off on your own.

The first problem is of course, my lack of experience. Secondly, we live on the second floor of our house and don't have any land. That means the garden has gone into planters(buckets that came full of cat litter) and hiding behind windows. Great, we don't have to worry about wild birds and animals ganking our bounty. We just have the tame cats instead.
I've been contemplating this for a few months now actually. So hopefully it works out. If not? Well, then I've learned something along the way.

Step 1: Getting the supplies.



We went to Home Depot and spent at least an hour wandering around as I only had a rather fuzzy idea of what I wanted to 'accomplish' with this entire mess. Thus the Underpant Gnome reference. First there are the basics: Pots, soil and the like. The common denominator that every gardener needs to grow plants. We grabbed a 2.5 cubic foot bag of potting soil, which is a lot of dirt. We already had some containers that would work as pots.

All this leaves was deciding what kinds of food we wanted to attempt and grow. First on the list was a handful of herbs. Basil, Oregano, Thyme, Sage and Rosemary. Just a bit of Parsley short of a grand day at Scarborough Faire. For the actual veggies, we rocked with pole beans, snap peas, tomatoes, peppers, and finally lettuce. Yep, we're rocking for salad. Might make us healthier in the end. Or we'll have a lot of dead plants on our hands.

Step 2: Bringing all that shit home and hauling it upstairs. This is a step by itself.

Step 3: Plant garden. We opted for a mix of seeds and seedlings. Seedlings when we could get them, and pure seeds when we couldn't. I spent the morning transferring soil to the 'pots' and trying to recall what I remembered about transferring seedlings and planting seeds. It doesn't help that the instructions on the seed-packets were less than helpful. Or I TLDRed it before I got to the helpful part. What? The packets are bright and colorful and very distracting. And I got to play in the dirt, something I've been missing since graduating.

since we're indoors, and we have cats, we've needed to devise a way to keep the plants off the floor and get them closer to what little sunlight gets through the windows(eves really kill direct sunlight). This is my biggest worry, killing the plants with shade. Right now I've opted for an old bookshelf. Will need to modify it later. Good thing I have tools and little sense.

So ends part 1. According to the packets, There should be some movement on part of the sedds within two weeks.