5/8ths is better than half.

Getting unplugged is always something I look forward to. Finally that stupid pest of a pump is someone else’s problem and I no longer have to worry about the hose getting caught up and yanked from my port. Finally I can start to flush out the poison. Finally the pain and discomfort can start to clear up.

Four days of constipation followed by a couple of normality and then finally a storm of diarrhea. Still it beats the last time I visited Portland and got food poisoning. That was a fun trip. Except for that first day in Portland. And the week or so of cramps and shits.

You know what I fucking loved about Portland? Powell’s books. A book store that takes up a full block. And it was packed on a rainy Sunday. For that Portland, I will forgive you for all the conversations I had to endure with strangers.

Maybe it will help that my dosage has been cut by about a fifth. I’m not really noticing much of a difference in my daily symptoms. Moderately cold things still hurt to the touch. And let me better define cold. I don’t mean the depth of an arctic winter level of cold, where your hands would freeze, blacken and drop off. I mean this thing came out of the fridge, normally I could handle it for hours with not a jolt of pain – now my hands and throat are stinging.

Hey, that room temperature water that is so blandly tepid? That is going to make your throat feel like it is seizing up. And you better let that yogurt sit out for a while before eating it. This week, amongst others, I was set across from a Vietnam vet. We didn’t interact, but you get to overhear things about other people’s experiences regardless. I’m bitching about discomfort when it comes to the cold, but he had the total package, fatigue mixed with loss of appetite.

Hard to complain about my stomach pains as he fights a bigger fight. I am relieved that my path isn’t that much more difficult. I don’t know how much willpower I possess to force myself to eat when I really am not feeling up to it – not if our positions were switched.

I had a conversation in my off week with a fellow partaker of the chemo drugs. We swapped symptoms before my nurse returned and passed on the platelet counts. Or, if it doesn’t fade, this could be my life from here on out. Forgot to ask if his eyes really hurt when he sneezes, but on the whole we had a venn diagram of shitty experiences to compare and contrast. I could be facing two years of sensitivity to the cold. Two years before it might fade.

Permanent nerve damage indeed.

We had storms over the weekend. Storms and hot weather. Hot and humid weather. The kind of weather that made me happy that my roommate had plans that meant not being in the apartment, leaving me free to lie about in front of a fan in me undies. Yeah, that is almost a brand endorsement.

The miasma of weather did a fine job of robbing me of what little sleep I managed to claim. Friday night, fifteen minutes after falling asleep I awoke to discover that heart racing against the incoming storm. Adrenaline rush. But it did manage to get me up in order to close the windows.

Get me up and then keep me up. That is the worst. Not being able to get back to sleep. Come Monday I am usually exhausted. I don’t feel physically fatigued. Maybe a little less stamina than before. But for the weekend of and a few days after chemo, I’m nearly dead to the world as my brain fogs up.

Did we have plans on sunday? A true pity for I shall be sitting about listlessly whilst napping.

I’ve finally shaved my head. I had grown tired of it looking like our national forests after the Republicans auctioned off all the timber rights at a bargain price. Looking at myself in the mirror at work, where I have “better” lighting, was just depressing. Vainly attempting to keep something from slipping through your fingers seemed a mite pathetic to me.

This is the first time in my four decades of existence that I have ever had my hair this short. Now I look like a cut-rate Lex Luthor. Though I am slowly getting used to the sight. Maybe this year I’ll dress up as Henry Rollins for Halloween. Though I’m going to need to do a lot more push-ups to get something like his physique.

How am I? I’ve had better years.

But I find that I’ve had worse years. But Epicurus said that even in the depths of illness, pleasure outweighed the pain. I find this to be true, but I do have manflu cancer and chemo.

No, I’ve had a couple worse years. The second to the contender being a few years back when the company I worked for expanded drastically, while refusing to take on more help. I spent so many 12+ hour days working open to close to help keep up. And failing. I made six grand in overtime that year as my days were: get up shower and then eat, go to work, and then come home eat and go to bed.

Taint much of a life. But I did manage to make a dent in my student loans.

I spent a year being angry at our management for not doing something to rectify the situation, Why would they ignore that problem? Sometimes it still pisses me off. It is in my nature. But I have learned to quickly let it go. It doesn’t mean anything.

The worst year of my life came after I graduated college. Not that first 12 months, but the twelve following. The first year after graduation I spent most of my days writing. I would go to bed in the morning excited for the coming day, and then get up excited to get back to work. It. Was. Awesome. After I got my morning’s writing done, I would usually go for a walk. Summer or winter, the same. Then come home and write some more.

I was going to be a professional millionaire novelist.

Except that never happened. I put in the hundreds of hours of work to create this thing. And nothing ever came of it. One of the two biggest disappointments of my life, one that I’ve whined about more than once here. And will probably bitch about again.

After that grand year of hope, I ran straight into the wall of nope. I moved away from the city that I had lived in all through college. I found myself in a place that I didn’t in the least care for. Do you want to publish my novel? No. Do you want to publish my novel? No. Slowly that dream was just wrenched out of my hands as I realized I was never going to be able to afford to write full time. There was no escape.

I got a job making a cut above minimum wage for a pharmacy with a high turn-over rate. Seriously it was around 20% at the height of the fucking depression. I spent my days taking boxes out of boxes, putting stickers on them. Taking those stickers off of the boxes, and applying new ones, putting them into other boxes and then putting different stickers on the other boxes. I worked in shipping. The job was absurd and boring and pointless. It ate at me. I was making just enough to survive as my student loans crushed my soul.

They say to take what you want and pay for it. It took me ten years to pay for college. It may have been worth it.

I became the head of my department. Not through skill but more by winning through default. Al that meant was I got $0.32 more an hour and bitched out by management that ignored me when I made requests to make the job easier.

I was depressed. A lot. And fell back on my drug of choice, MST3k. That always made me feel good again.

Hail the crew of the Satellite of Love.

#PDXNPC

We were on our final day, by which time we had just given up on searching out new experiences. We went to Elmer's for breakfast. Elmer's is a west coast chain. The food is decent, standard American cuisine. Meals that you can get anywhere in the country. No better or worse really. It is the kind of restaurant that your boring aunt and uncle would treat themselves to for their anniversary. That's what sort of dire straights we were in, as my two foodie companions were

After Elmer's we went about singing our final note in Portland. Donuts. A high note indeed. Hat ready, let's go!

My suggestion was to visit Voodoo Donuts, a famous Portland standard. I'd been to the Eugene annex in 2013. I'm sure that people out there will roll their eyes and call them overrated. Who fucking cares. You can't overrate donuts. Donuts are a gift from Heaven. They're fried dough covered in sugar or sugary sauce. If that's not your definition of a donut, then you're doing it wrong.

Voodoo donuts made their name in the competitive deep fried dough covered in sugar world by creating concoctions of unusual donut pairings. Donuts with unusual, often breakfast cereal, ingredients. Creations like the triple chocolate donut covered in coco puffs, or the voodoo doll, a jelly filled donut in the shape of a person with a pretzel stake plunged into it's heart. I enjoy the gimmick.

Hey, they also sell a coffin shaped box full of donuts. I don't know for what sort of event anyone would ever require such a good/service, but I do know that If I lived in Portland, I'd buy it at least once. Hell, I'm going to make it a provision that coffin-donuts are to be served at my funeral.

Adam is firmly lodged in the camp where Voodoo Donuts is considered to be rather kitsch. That didn't stop him from buying and enjoying several donuts. But it did compel him to try a couple of the competitors. Who were also good. Because donuts are fucking delicious and difficult to screw up(looking at you Krispy Kreme). So blah blah blah, other donut shops that don't sell coffins full of donuts. Phooey and P'shaw.

When lunch approached, I wanted a burger. I'd been searching google for suggestions the entire trip and settled on a food truck that was described as the best burger in Portland.

I love a good burger and fries, and make a note to try and find a good burger joint in any new town. I settled my hopes on a food truck somewhere on the north side. We jumped back onto the yellow line north in search of lunch and beer.

The foodtrucks were parked in a lot that was owned and operated by a bar. Sweet gig for the owners of that bar. You order food from the trucks and then goto the bar and eat. Lots of food options that require absolutely zero extra work on the part of the landlord. I might have to start my own bar and follow that line of business.

We sashayed on in. Sara and Adam had their own preferences, and I left them to it. I wanted my burger.

And the fuckers were closed. On a Monday. Who closes on a Monday? I guess it makes a little sense, as much as being closed any other day of the week. But Monday closings seems to be common in Portland, and by common, I mean I noticed it twice. Stupid Portland.

I had Korean Fusion instead. Fuck you burger joint! And fumed as I ordered Cider at the bar and enjoyed my liquid happiness. After a while, I began to grow bored and restless with the sitting. I dislike bars. And since Adam was still intent on trying more beer, so we paid up and sallied forth to find a nearby brewery. I think it was Widmer Brothers.

Upon sitting down in the brewery, our server set down several small glasses of beer before us gratus. “Here,” he said, “This is our new award winning brew.” Well, I was buzzed when I walked in and I had finished the beer sample that they gave me, and it was the best beer that I've ever had, hands down. I don't like beer at all. I have tasted scores upon scores of beers to confirm my bias. So I tried this beer too, since it was free and I was buzzed. I liked this beer.

After we got our round, our server returned and said he “The cook saw your shirt, and he'd like his quest.” Yep, I was wearing my NPC shirt.

“Well fuck yeah!” I declared in intoxicated enchantment. “Have yourself a seat!”

“Where to start? Well the first thing the cook is gonna need to do is located and defeat Steven Seagal. Mind you, it's old dilapidated Steve, where he has the evil looking goatee slapped onto his potato shaped head. After that, he should be allowed into the tournament, and here's how that's going to go, he'll be fighting through Eighties action movie heroes, you getting all this down?”

“Sorry, I'm not going to remember all of this.”

“Not to worry, neither will I, but it ain't our quest so not our problem. Anyhow, one by one he's going to take down the action stars until he finally gets to the final boss, Jean Claude Van Dam. Or should I say bosses, Jean Claude Van Dam and Jean Claude Van Dam. They're twins like in that movie that they were in where they played twins. Do you remember.”

“I don't know that...”

“Parent Trap. Jean Claude Van Dam plays his own twin in Parent Trap. They're separated at birth and all that something or other, I'm kinda fuzzy right now. There's a tournament. And your man is going to have to take both of the at the same time.”

“What's all this for?” Asked he.

I shrugged my shoulders. If I knew that I wouldn't be here. Most of that was true. I finally got into the Portland talking to strangers spirit, and all it took was throwing a fair quantity of booze in a short amount of time. Now we see why it's called social lubrication.

The cook saluted me as we left, I returned the salute. #PDXNPC

We filled the remainder of the day with aimless wandering, notable only for the one sidetrip to the airport where we took pictures of the surrounding countryside from the roof of the parking garage.  Several of the surrounding volcanoes were visible.  We took our standard crappy tourist pictures.

Until we finally returned to our hotel room to wait out the rest of the trip.

Dinner was at the Jim Dandy Drive In. Because it was across the street from our hotel and had a cool name. The burgers were good enough. They offered a bacon shake, which Adam of course ordered, but alas they were out of the ingredients. Pork teases. The cook also liked my shirt, and stated as much, because Portland. I was starting to grow used to the quirk of the city,

Portland gifted me with self-discovery and understanding. Before I stepped back on the plane that would take me home, I realized I must be their messiah. And then I was pulled aside once more for TSA to check my bag. Stupid fekking Granola. I had forgotten about it. Fortunately it didn't attract any hippies.

As a note, I ended up with a week's worth of a really nasty case of food poisoning. Don't know where I picked it up, but I was the only one to suffer the Wrath of Lewis and Clarke.

Ah well, I suppose any messiah has to suffer.

Until next time Portland.

I'm running out of Portland puns

You ever seen Charlie the Magical Unicorn? It's a animated story that has made a home on the web and in my heart. I introduced Adam and Sara to Charlie after we returned to our hotel room from the dark recesses of Portland.

Every adventure needs an inside joke, or so they say. Charlie was ours. Charlie kept us level. Charlie kept us amused. I renamed Adam to Charlie in my phone. They're soul mates. Blu-loo-loo-loo-loo. We quoted Charlie for the rest of the Adventure. Charlie. Charlie. We're on a bridge Charlie.

Day two dawned nicely in Portland. The weather was beautiful. Stunning. Perfect. Praise the Sun. Back in Seattle Adam had lauged at me for having brought cargo shorts. He taunted me for my optimism. In Portland, he was cursing his lack of vision.

Fuck pants!

Opened the day with a German pancake. It wasn't bad. I was expecting a different recipe than what was placed before me. I was first introduced to the German Apple Pancake in South Bend Indiana. It quickly became one of my favorite foods. It was big and fluffy and full of cinnamon apples. Fucking awesome. Apparently Portland didn't get that memo when they adopted the German pancake as their breakfast of choice.

Then it was back on the trams. Yep. Portland has trams. Trains, trams, buses. You name it, we rode it.

Lunch was Ramen. Sara is a huge Japanophile and she insisted. My only previous experience with ramen had been of the instant variety. I ordered the spicy Miso, because of course I did. I enjoyed it immensely. But I think this bowl of noodle-soup was the most expensive meal that I ate on the trip. I'm not a huge fan of soups by themselves. They don't satiate.

To work off our foodie debauch, we decided to head up to Washington Park. This time, taking a bus! Goddamn, we are wild. A bus to a park. See the International Rose Test Garden, visit the Japanese gardens. Thats some Vegas shit there son!

Back under the power of our own feet, we began to explore a rather large and semi-natural park. Among the attractions that I just listed, Washington park is also home to the Vietnam Veterans war memorial. Oh, and an archery range, which I think was the single most unexpected thing I came across on the trip. Just an open field with archery targets set up, as if this were a common enough hobby. Which it must have been since there were several people practicing at the time.

Portland has been nicknamed the City of Roses since the early 1900s. I don't want to go into the back story, but part of the pay off is that in 1917 the International Rose Test Garden was established in Washington Park. You know, late October might not be the best time to go and see a rose garden.

Leaving the park, we split up for a while, planning to reconvene for dinner. What did I do? I took the Blue Line to it's Easternmost point. Yeah baby, gotta keep those plans intact! Really, riding the trains is just a way to see the city and do some people watching, as the tens and hundreds of fellow riders come and go with their own affairs.

Good times.

We heard tell of a new pop-up pod of foodtrucks on the east side of town. So we hopped the green line once more. This time the train was quiet. No loud conversations about how many times this rider kicked that one in the head. We had had our fill earlier in the day when two hostile crazies had a yelling contest, which involved altered iterations of “Don't follow me!” and “I'm not following you!”

I turned to Sara and Adam and proclaimed “I don't really feel like walking through this neighborhood in the dark. It wasn't awful. But it wasn't welcoming. They agreed with my assessment and we then bravely ran away.

We ended up eating at Yummy Bowls. Which was yummy. But mostly because I was famished after several long days of constant hiking. So I might not have been the best judge of the quality, as it was food and I was hungry. I also finished Adam's bowl after he turned up his nose. Cause fuck I need me some calories and I am not overly picky when the tank nears empty.

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.

Well, I went somewhere and then came back. Amazing.

Greetings and hello from someone who is spinning his wheels! Lemme check my backlog, yep, it's been damn near a six months since my last post. And by that I mean over six months since my last dropping of wordage. Here's a longish one. And if you're lucky, I might even write some of this while imbibing.

Now? Now you get nonsense and gibberish. Worth waiting for huh?  Pull up a chair and listen to the tale of something I did back in June.

I visited Portland Oregon in June(over the solstice to be precise). I figured that I had been wingeing on about the North West, now was the time to actually pick up and visit. First, buying airline tickets is a pain and rather different than any of my previous life experiences. This was my first solo visit, I say this as a man in is early 30s, who has graduated from college with a degree in useless. I have proven myself to be a maker of poor choices.

Now let me enlighten you!

Potland is a city known for food and hipsters. A city that is cool and progressive. I wanted to sample the fare and experience the culture. I invited a couple of friends along, but that fell through. So I was off to do so myself. I have a mild case of the travel bug, but the infection is suppressed by my burning desire to save money and pay down debt.

First of all, buying airfare is not at all like buying a ticket on the train. I've purchased train tix in the past, and all you do is say “this is when I want to leave, here is my money.” Bam, you got yourself a ticket to ride. Not so with the airlined arts. There is a good deal more security, for obvious reasons. Not to mention the greater number of decisions.

Train? Get on and find a seat. Any seat. Plane? None of that sir, you sit in your assigned place like a peon! Oh, you are first class? Step this way your majesty, and sit in your assigned seat!

I went the Google route when purchasing my tickets. As I thought at the time, why not, it's google, google knows all. I am no longer sure that this is true, and wonder if it would have been easier to use a different site. Something more specialized. We live we learn, or we fail to keep living. I think I'm of the second group.

I went with a big no-no and split airlines, Delta out and American back, but the purchases were made through the site of the former. Hah! Crown me king stupid!

My shopping experience ended up with an angst-filled call to American Airline's help center – what must have been their version of the classic “which one is the any key?” exchange that haunts the IT world's nightmares. As the poor lady on the other end tried to tell me that this was a lot like purchasing train tickets(in Europe). Lady, I am a loser and a shut-in, I have not been to Europe for the riding of their rail system.

We eventually got it cleared up and they gleefully took my money with a good chuckle about the dupe that they just rolled. But I had my seats and was ready to go. And so I did. Wednesday evening, after a full day on the job, I boarded the plane that would take me across the enormous stretches of the midwest all the way to the coast.

With my backpack(you can travel light when you accept that you're only going to wear one pair of cargo shorts[yes, I am the type of dork who wears overly be-pocketed legware – I am wearing cargo pants now, ladies calm yourselves as you think of my pale legs being clad in the seductive sway of the baggy practical garment] all weekend) In hand I left my city behind. Swoosh! At least until I landed for my lay-over in Minneapolis. Then there was more of a flump, but only after the less describable sounds that one makes while devouring some rather disappointing airport Kiosk pizza.

All along the way, severe thunderstorms were forecast all across the planes, and we actually re-routed over the Dakotas in order to avoid the worst of the maelstrom. Actually I was excited about this. Thunderstorms are a blast to watch(from a distance) and I was itching to see some from 35,000 feet. The awesome power as the lightning cuts through the clouds and then stabs the earth, all from Zeus' throne.

Well, fate, thanks for the giant steaming crap on my chest you German hussy. I got the middle-seat, and a neighbor with a giant head. I only caught glimpses of the light show, but the images are still rather strong in my mind.

I don't sleep well when I'm nervous, and new experiences leave me feeling nervous. So I had been operating on around 4 hours of sleep(if I was lucky). Oddly enough I didn't feel tired. I was just going forward, not quite on auto-pilot. Maybe I was wired on adrenaline. We landed in Portland around 11pm local time. I had been awake since around 3am Portland time. I just wanted to check into my hotel – nix that, get to my hotel.

My first hour in Portland involved waiting for a hotel taxi that never came. Followed by Another first. I took a cab to the hotel. Whee! Shit that expensive, for the amount of distance covered. I paid less for my bus ticket between Portland and Eugene, a trip that was around 24 times longer. Do I sound like your dad yet? Close the door, we're not heating/cooling the neighborhood! Yeah, I didn't climb into bed until around 1am. Long day.

I was awakened the next morning by a rousing call of “Fuck you mother-fucker!” and a door slamming. Just kidding, I barely slept. Largely due to the door not quite closing and letting in the traffic sounds, combined with my being in a strange room, and worrying constantly about missing my bus the next morning. Yay stress!

On the upside, I was awake early enough to go out and enjoy that fine Portland cuisine! I hit up the free continental breakfast. Oh yeah, I'm living large!

I grew up in Alaska, and the first thing I noticed was the scent of the city. Pine trees, It smelled right. Like home. That was my first impression of Portland, that it just smelled and felt right that morning. The weather was gorgeous and sunny, and the forecasts had promised temps in the mid 70s all weekend. I lucked out with that.

All that was left was to catch a train downtown to find my bus to Eugene? Why am I going to Eugene instead of staying in Portland? Well, a friend from college offered me a place to crash for free. And to be honest I was more excited to see her than the cities/countryside. All I needed to do was get there.

I really liked the Portland train system. Buy a ticket, get on and sit down. How traveling should be. Ahem. But I got to sit back and get a quick tour of the train tracks of the city and get a feel for the place. I loved the geography, but the city itself was much larger than I had imagined. Honestly, I need to stop imagining the future, as I ALWAYS get it wrong. I came away from Portland wondering if I would ever actually want to live there.

Using the netifiationsuperhighwayoftubes back home I worked out about where I needed to be to catch by bus. Mind you, that 'about' isn't really even a kissing cousin to 'exactly'. An equation which lead to my walking around in circles as I waited for the crapptappular GPS in my phone to pick up a signal. More wandering as my phone decided that signals are overrated. All of which killed my further plans of visiting the famed Voodoo Donuts. On the upside I got to see Hipsters and hippies. I think.

Spoiler, I went to Voodoo Donuts down in Eugene. Alas, I only tried the Voodoo Doll. It was good, but like just about any other jelly donut. You go for the experience I suppose. Maybe I could have gotten something wilder, but there were too many choices and I was getting cash-poor at the time.

The Willamette valley reminds me a bit of East Michigan that has been penned in by mountains. I expected more rolling hills I suppose. Maybe I was in the wrong part of the state for that.

Eugene is a good sized college town that sits on the southern edge of the Willamette valley. It has about everything that anyone would need. All of the modern amenities of shopping, plus a small town feel. I liked it immediately. I spent the next couple days sleeping on a futon in my friend's basement as she showed me the ins and outs of her adopted town. And as she did chores. Man, that was so like our friendship of years past, down to the visiting of the local thrift stores. I flirted and she laughed and told me nothing would ever come of that.

The city seemed to be speckled with mountains and trees and held a laid-back vibe that kind of gave me the creeps. Maybe I'm just too midwest.

I spent solstice wandering around downtown Portland and ineffectively(the only kind I do) flirting with my friend. Can't help it(or didn't want to), her company brings that side of me out. She teased me some, and I deserved that. We hit up the science museum(was free day) and then the foodtrucks, all while popping in and out of shops. All in all it was my favorite and most cherished part of the trip. Even the part where the grungy hippie in the grungier blanket tried to sell us (grungiest?) granola.

The trip back? Well that involved a 5 hour delay out of Portland. To combat the boredom I considered buying, and then consuming, a bottle of wine as I wandered Portland's airport. Only the certainty that I would have broken out in a rather poor rendition of Sexy and I know it – possibally one without my beloved cargo shorts. I was already late enough on my return trip, without further contemplating a well earned night in the klink and no doubt some worldwide youtube fueled kleos.

Instead I just walked around in circles, cursing American. Then there was more disappointing pizza in Chicago(Really Chicago, Pizza Mecca of the universe, you should be ashamed), as I got myself switched over to an earlier flight. Finally walking into a wall of humid air and getting hailed by a local police officer who was wondering what I was doing walking away from the airport at 10pm.

Don't quite know how I feel about Western Oregon, but I would like to go back. Next time I'd like to take charge and get a car so that I could wander at my own pleasure.

A severe lack of adventures.

It was hot this summer.  Really, nothing exciting to write about.  I spent a lot of time sitting about in my boxers and sweating.  Delightful mental image no?  No near misses on the roads.  None of the patients I visit have tried to kill me.  Accidentally ran over a possum, was bummed about that. Life has gone on as usual.

Shin splints are still rather unpleasant, and rear their head from time to time.  I've not tried to take up running again, though I do try to get out several times a week to hike around town for exercise(Longest trek was around 7 Miles).  During which I had a dude ask me if I was related to Elvis, and I have no more understanding as to why he did so than you do.

Still work nights, so hard to get together with friends to game.  My desktop, after 8 years of loyal service, died on me.  So fewer gaming options when I am able to play(mostly the original Starcraft with a friend)

Man, this was a suckatrocious summer for the Midwest.  Two months straight without so much as a drop of rain.  The temperature stayed at 90 for about the entire time, except when they topped 100.  If it weren't for weeds, our lawn would still be dead - in fact there is a layer of dead grass under the weedy green carpet.  The weather has been oppressive, and I refuse to imagine how bad it would have been living further south.

I live near the northern edge of the Midwest in a peninsula surrounded by the Great Lakes(Michigan, for those who aren't familiar with the Geography of the US).  We got off easy.  Still, I no longer look at 85f(29.4c) as being miserably hot.  Scary how my outlook has changed and how it might affect my outlook on colder weather.

Autumn is nearly here, with all the accompanying joys and sorrows.

With the weather being as it was, I stayed home and watched the Dream of the 90s video, while checking the weather in Portland Oregon.  Have you watched the linked video yet?  Watch it!  Portland!  I'm still youngish and I want to retire!

I guess the downside of moving out west to live in a cool community like Portland or Seattle is that I myself am not at all cool.  This isn't to say that I wouldn't fit in, but rather that I'm an introvert with severe tendencies towards being a hermit.  What would be the point in moving to a place like Seattle or New York to be in a kick ass new environment and then spend all of your days and nights at home hiding in your apartment?

This is what i see happening to me.  It is how I live my life now, and I little see it changing.  Certainly, I make my own Purpose and am capable of altering my own life and being.  Capable doesn't mean willing.

Well fuck it.  I started applying for jobs anyway. Seattle and Portland sound like kick-ass places.  Besides Winter is Coming to Michigan, and I think that with all the energy that the lakes have stored, we're bound for some bad storms.  I don't want to be driving in that.  I don't want to end up in one of the homes that I deliver to.

The Dream of the 90s is not alive here.  The only dreams that are alive are Rapture fantasies.

Now I just need follow through and luck.