Schooled by a skoolie 3: Raise tha roof

With a few days of scrambling, I managed to find a place reasonably near by to store Rowsdower. I also got him insured, and picked up a temporary license.

The plywood was halfway removed when we moved the big guy. Taking an empty bus along the highway is a loud experience. Not rock-concert loud. But noisesome none the less. Finally got him installed in his new home.

And now I had a new problem to deal with. The lot didn’t seem to have any power. At least no jacks where I could plug in my tools. Not a worry for now. But it would be a issue for further on, for now we had cordless tools to keep slogging on with. Thanks be to Brigitte for picking up a selection!

Turns out, Rowsdower didn’t have rivets holding the inside panels. There were about 2 and a half million screws. Wide head squat little buggers. Most of which had been locked in place as long as the bolts in the seats. With my aged black and decker cordless drill I set out to remove some of those bad boys. And stripped the fuck out of more than a lot as the drill bit tore away the heads.

You need to put a load of pressure, else they strip. And I wasn’t able to get enough pressure in many cases. Fortunately I have a friend who is larger than me and better at that.

A word of caution for those of you interested in doing this, get yourself a cordless impact drill. That one tool makes a world of difference with intractable screws. Again, I wish I had known that early on. Life would have been far easier s we wouldn’t have had to cut out so many stripped screws. So. Many.

Having the right tools make a difference.

In the evenings I was watching videos and reading blog posts as I tried to wrap my mind around the next steps. Also I was trying to get a grasp on what tools I would need to pick up. And by that, I mean what welder.

I learned a lot from this lovable goof-ball. Many thanks to him.

With help though, we managed to get all of the ceiling panels down. It is amazing. A single screw with one half of an intact head(we cut half of a head off in order to break it, as it was stripped) is enough one of those panels attached to the ceiling. I ended up with somewhere around 10 pounds of screws when all the panels were out.

Finally got that last screw out. And the fucking thing was hanging by a wire.

After the panels were out, then came the insulation. Yes buses are insulated. With fiberglass battes. Wear long sleeves and a mask kids. You don’t want to get that shit on or in you.

Finally we moved onto the walls. Which was more of the same. More of the same. With the help of a wrecking crew we got the inside of the bus clear. And we were off towards the next step in the marathon!

Everyone seemed to want to learn how to weld. Who doesn’t? Summoning forth electricity that fuses metal to metal? You’re like a fekking wizard me boyo! How cool is that?

There was going to be a lot of welding. And I had neither a welder nor a source of electricity. On comes the most expensive period of bus-having to date. More so than even purchasing the freaking bus. After weeks of trying to figure out what I needed, watching videos and reading articles I settled on a Hobart 140 Mig for the welder. And these months later, I am happy with my purchase. I also picked up a Brute 8200 for my generator. I’ve already gone through 15 pounds of wire and Together they work like a charm.

Now I just needed to actually learn how to weld. Watching videos on Youtube is all good to get a sense of the theory, but nothing beats getting your hands on the project and actually doing a thing. Fortunately Gary, Brigitte's dad is an expert in metal and autobody work. And he was willing to share his knowledge. More so, he was willing to travel to the bus and and give more pointers and instruction.

My goal was to have the roof raise done, and the new sheet metal walls installed by Labor day weekend. Hah. It is the following March and the walls are only half installed at best. With hundreds of more holes to drill for the new batch of rivets.

The roofraise. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in the week running up to anything. I thought I had my ducks in a row so to speak. I spent the days leading up to the raise working on patching the floor and grinding out rust. It just happened that the floors weren’t nearly as bad as I initiaully feared. There were holes around the wheel-wells but most of the rest of the steel was intact. Some of it was untouched by rust.

All I needed to do was get the holes covered. All of them. Up to and including the small buggers where the screws and bolts used to be. There were hundreds of the bastards. But with welder in hand I cobbled patches for the places where the Ohio winters ate away at the steel, and plugged the holes where the fasteners used to be. The former was far more interesting than the latter. But it all needs to be done.

I was also removing rivets. Sometimes with help and others alone. There were hundreds of them and they would all have to go before we were able to slot in the new sheet metal for the walls. I wanted as many out as possible before the roof was raised, when reaching them would be more difficult.

Finally the weekend of the raise arrived. I took the preceding friday off in order to get more work done. Ryan and Brigitte joined me and we spent the day pounding on rivets, at least until the steel order arrived. $1000 worth of steel tube and sheet metal, all to order.

Saturday rolled around and found us still working on rivets. Disheartening. Finally we said fuck it, let’s do this. Ryan crawled under the bus and put in some supports to keep the bus from shifting as we worked.

First thing we did was to install the guides. Les from the Mad Max Skoolie video has an entire channel devoted to his build. And I cripped a lot of notes from him. Firstly, I took his raise devices. 4 threaded rods with 2 bolts in the middle. The two bolts were separating a length of steel tubing with a heavy slab of sheet metal welded to the length. I’ll call them raisers, because you weld the slab to the frame of the bus, and then fit the rod inside the tubes. As you use the jacks to lift the roof, the raisers separate and you screw up the bolts to provide temporary support.

That description took all of the magic out of an ingenious device. Sorry Les.

With the guides installed, we made the cut. Cuts. Each of what had been the window frames had to be sawn in half, and then we had to cut along the roof itself. Easy right? Hah. I left that to the sawsall team of Ryan and Adam. They needed something to do, and I was about zonked.

Now the fun begins. Ryan and Brigitte are married, with a kid. So I had a rule that one of them had to remain outside of the bus at all times while we did the raise. So Brigitte took pictures as Ryan worked the jack. Take that sentence as you may.

The raise went like this. We took a length of 4”x4” timber and set it atop a hydraulic jack. Raised the roof a couple inches. Adjust the nuts on the devices, and then move to the other side of the bus and repeat. We were making fast progress. Great time. Should have worked. But for some reason the back half of the roof was rising a lot more quickly than the front.

God damn the cutting team. They missed a half inch of steel beam. And that was causing havoc. They made one last cut and the bus shifted again and settled back. Then, chastened we began the work anew. Two inches at a time, the temple roof ascended skywards. Just as the sun began to set.

It was a good day’s work.

I must say, that when the bus gets done, I am putting it on my resume. I’ve earned that.

Schooled by a skoolie 2: Rowsdower's revenge!

The first few visits were euphoric. I owned a bus. I was delighted that the bus was reasonably free of rust. The first bus I had looked at, the church one in the boonies, was wearing through. This one seemed to be solid and ready to go. All I needed to do was gut it and make it my own.

What do I plan to do with my bus?

In the real physical sense I want to transform it into an RV. Or tiny house. In the reality, all I needed to do was strip out all of the seats, pry up the floors, and remove the wall and ceiling panels, tear out the wiring and insulation. Then cut the roof off, raise it 20 inches and install new walls and transition roofs. After all that was complete, pimp the big guy out.

After all of that? I want to hit Burning man for my 40^th, in 2019. I even husband some dreams about quitting my job and writing full time while living in the bus. Like an adult.

Easy as eating pancakes.

Except that I had exactly zero skills or experience with this sort of project. The entire thing would be a learning experience. The entire thing.

I had been watching skoolie videos on youtube for a couple months. And had a general idea of what needed to be done. I wasn’t looking forward to drilling out the thousands of rivets. That was going to be time consuming and boring.

Step one was to pull out the seats. This should take a couple of hours, or so the youtube videos suggest. Just get yourself a angle-grinder and a pack of cutting discs and you are set! Youtube is a filthy liar and fuck youtube.

Here is the method we used. Take a wrench and secure the nut under the east, and then attach a ratchet to the head of the bolt. Then wiggle the ratchet back and forth loosening the pair. Slow and sure.

Most of the seats are rather useless. They only have legs on the aisle side, while the window side of the seat is propped on a ledge that runs on wall. Attached via bolts I might add. Rusty bolts that hadn’t moved since the bus was built back in 2004. With little room to move.

The first several visits involved me laying face down on the seats in awkward positions and forcing my ratchet one quarter turn at a time, losing purchase on the nut that I couldn’t see, swearing as I found a new grip and starting all over again. I got help at least one day and we managed to get half of the work done in about 4 hours. In mid summer. Inside a metal box. It was brutal.

Now all we had to do was remove the bolts that were attached to the floor. Huzzah! Half done!

The friend with whom Rowsdower was staying suggested that one of us climb under the bus and that we break the bolts one at a time using the ratchet and wrench method. Two seats took 2 hours of swearing ans sweating. At that rate just getting the seats out would take all freaking summer. I decided to go another tack and cut the bolts with an angle grinder instead. Just like the youtubers suggested!

This is loud and dirty. My clothes were eternally covered in acrid metal smoke. But a couple cool pics involving sprays of sparks were taken. Then you just grind out each and every bolt – 8 per seat. I managed to get all the seats cut out with a single 10 pack of harbor freight discs, with a couple to spare!

Remember your safety gear here. Protective glasses, ear plugs and a respirator. Yeah, and last but not least, water. Stay hydrated.

The cutting took forever, but at the same time moved along quite quickly compared to cranking each and every last bolt by hand. In just a couple sessions I had managed to remove the seats, and with the help of a few friends we stripped all the padding off and hauled the steel to the junk yard to be recycled(something that didn’t even cover the cost of renting a van).

Now we were onto the floors. You ever been in a school bus? You know that smell that they all have? Sit back and breathe deep and remember. That smell. It comes from the nasty rubber matting that covers the floors. Rubber that only becomes more noxious as it is defiled by load after load of children.

As a side note, if chewed gum were worth anything on the commodities market, Rowsdower would have paid for itself. Fucking gross kids.

That rubber is the first thing that needs to be pulled up.

Pulling the rubber is a fairly simple task. And went relatively quickly.

Under the rubber mats is a layer of plywood. Thick and gross, it has been fastened to the floor by screws. In Rowsdower’s case, those screws had all rusted and the plywood would need to be pried up with brute force.

Amongst the tools I picked up when starting this project was a 18 inch flat pry bar. I figured it would be good, and work well with the standard crow-bar that was already in my possession. I was wrong. Tearing out the plywood was probably the most exhausting job on the bus to date. Doing so took hours of back-breaking labor as you leaned over a pry-bar and tried to slide it underneath the plywood. To do this, you first needed to find a crack. And after that, if you were lucky, the plywood wouldn’t splinter.

In the end I went out and bought a 36” bar. It made a world of difference! But I had half of the floors removed by that point. So, fuck me for being a dumbass and not doing that sooner!

As I pulled up more of the flooring my heart began to sink. There were large holes eaten through the steel shell around the rear tires. Holds large enough to slip a small child through. This just added hours upon hours to the job. The bus giveth and the bus taketh away.

Interlude.

Nutters out there often worry about the Federal government going about and taking their rights away. I think that’s bullshit. The feds have better things to worry about than what you do in your spare time. Unless what you do is to plan terrorist attacks, then they might pay attention. But if you want to work on cars in your back yards, it is the local folks whom you need to worry about. The assholes who sit in county boards and in city hall. They forge the regulations that directly affect your life in a very real and daily basis. And they are strict.

Turns out my friend got a letter in the mail, and Rowsdower’s fat ass had to be moved. Else fines were going to be levied. This freaked my friend out. And it sent me into a spiral of depression and anxiety. As stressful as the project was, it was also a lot of fun and extremely challenging. I was doing something interesting for the first time in years.

Nobody else in my circle was able to host it, except my folks, and they live 2 hours away. The bus is a time consuming project and I was largely doing the labor after my day job, not to mention getting help from friends who wouldn’t be nearly as willing with a 4 hour round trip drive.

I was afraid I would be forced to sell my bus.

Schooled by a skoolie. Part the first.

I came across a video on youtube where a dude converted a bus into an RV, and I fell in love with the idea. With a couple of friends sold on the taking a bus and converting it into an RV for our roadtrip in 2019. (I am the wrong kind of stupid) I began searching for a bus. Yeah, I had to talk other people into this project, as I was already well over my head. More on that later.

I strolled about the interwebs for months trying to land a proper bus with the features I wanted. Flat-nose, rear-engine, 40’ long. There are always a ton of buses available, but most of them don’t really fall into my price-range of super-cheap, while not being about to shake apart in a light breeze.

Because I am either dumb or delusional in my belief that I can find both good and cheap.

I had a list of sites that I checked daily and I began to get really antsy and anxious. There were a couple at a place out in Maryland. I could buy one, take a flight and drive it back through DC traffic the 20 hours across country. Man that sounds like a bad idea. I ended up on facebook market-place as the days ticked by. Desperately combing the ads for a bus that would fit the bill. Facebook marketplace, insert Mos Eisly Cantina reference here. It fits.

But luck was with me, I came across a bus with the features I wanted. And in my price-range. A big red monstrosity that had once been a church bus. And the owner was a mere hour to the north, and had intended to build a skoolie himself and his family. That fell apart and he was now selling, but only after he had put in some of the basic work. Huzzah. I made an appointment for the following Sunday.

He was cash only, as are most of the denizens of facebook so I stopped at the bank and withdrew the cash when we were on our way to comic-con. And then spent the rest of the day weaving through rivers of strangers with one hand in my pocket as my shoulders cramped and my mind was wrapped in a gauze of paranoia. It was a long day.

The following sunday, in the company of a couple friends, we ventured north to take a look at the first real lead in our exciting new world! I was going to get a bus. Maybe. Mostly I was worried that I was going to be robbed and then get Ned Beatty-ed. I don’t have an opinion about the relative attractiveness of my mouth and to this day I am perfectly content to remain in blind ignorance about what the general populace might think.

The bus made me uncomfortable. The breaks were odd, the engine was leaking oil, the front step had rusted out and he had cut all of the legs off the bus seats, leaving the feet that would still need to be removed. We gave it a test drive and told him that I’d think on it. I thought it made me uncomfortable and I would pass.

He sold the bus to some other taker. Good luck to both of them, but I was back where I started. Then I found an auction site for local governments. Hot damn! And they had whole load of buses. All over the country! I bid on one in Eugene Oregon, all my features, and no rust. I was already cobbling together plans to fly out and drive it back. I have a friend who lives in Eugene, I’d like to drop by and see her. Fortunately, as the much shorter Maryland trek would have been an endurance job, the Eugene bus quickly taken away by aggressive bidders.

I ended up buying a bus from a school district in Toledo Ohio, some 3 hours drive from my home. I put in my bid and my nerves grew more and more strained as the countdown ticked closer to zero. How am I going to get this thing? I need a ride over. Do I have to insure it(yes, theoretically, but finding bus insurance is insanely difficult for individuals)? What would happen if I got stopped by the police, as I don’t have a special driver’s license? Did I need a special driver’s license just to drive an empty school bus across state?

I won the auction. $1500. I was already stewing in anxiety. Where was I going to keep this thing? I had already named it. Rowsdower, after Canada’s greatest action hero. I set to trying to work out the details.

Shit. I just bought a bus.

Late June and the weather was a humid 90 degrees, a good day to drive across state. Fuck the Midwest. But with paperwork in hand I set off with a friend across state to go and see my bus for the first time and bring it home. Like a proud, frightened nimrod who makes poor decisions. Like myself.

Rowsdower was in fantastic shape and sitting down in the driver’s seat made me feel excited as I imagined the possibilities.

Buying the bus was a learning experience. Firstly I learned that my bus could hit 70 on an open highway. Secondly I learned how to drive a bus. Did my bus have air-conditioning? That was my first question. And yes it did, when you opened the windows and got onto the highway. More importantly, did my bus have cruise control? I forgot to ask that. The answer turned out to be yes, I discovered on my own a month later. Hey, looking over your shoulder through the rear window? Like you do when driving a normal car, well that isn’t feasible with a bus. You stick to the mirrors buddy and you’re gonna like it.

The drive back was long and challenging. I tried to keep behind semi-trucks as Rowsdower plodded along the highways. That way I was able to keep a constant pace, and maybe even draft a little and ease up on the fuel consumption. What seemed like a week later, we finally got back into town just in time for rush hour traffic.

Another friend had offered to store the bus on his property north of town. He was in a residential neighborhood, but off the beaten path. I had never been there, but the friend who had gone on the Toledo adventure with me, he knew where it was.

Mostly.

We passed the driveway. I learned something new, backing up a school bus in a quiet suburb is not easy. It is very hard. Especially for yours truly. But alas, Rowsdower was safely ensconced in his new home! I had accomplished a major feat and achieved a goal.  And the rest of the night was mine to relax. Soon the deconstruction would begin.

Eulogy for my Grandfather

Pa, my grandfather. He’s one of my favorite people and always has been. I get my sense of humor from him, and I inherited more than a double-shot of his orneriness. He loved Looney-Toons and peanut butter and jelly. But these are paltry details.

He grew up in the depression, the fifth of 13 kids. He joined the army at the very tail end of WW2 and served in Panama. He married my grandmother, and they’re still together largely due to a seemingly infinite well of patience on her part. Together they raised 4 children who went onto spawn a further 10 grandchildren(and two great-grandchildren). The grandchildren are of varying quality, and I place myself near the bottom of the pack.

The man was a hard worker and life long physical laborer. Up until a couple of years ago he was running his own landscaping business. By running it, I don’t mean that he directed an army of minions to cut lawns and plant flower beds. It was largely a one-man show, as he labored in the summer heat. He was 88 when he finally set aside his lawnmower and finally retired for good.

Sort of. He still had a tendency to sculpt these concrete mushrooms and give them away. His lawn is a jungle of the toadstools. He just never stopped.

One summer in college when I lived with them, Pa took me on a tour around the city where he and my grandmother raised their kids. He pointed out all the places that he had worked over the years, sometimes holding 3 or 4 jobs at a time. He wasn’t a man that attained lofty levels of education, only managing to attain his GED as his kids began to grow up. But he was skilled and creative.

My grandfather is dying. Alzheimer's runs in the family and it took several of his siblings. After 91 years it has all come down to a slow fade. One that is painful to watch, even from a distance where I only I get to observe bits and pieced by the effects that his passing has on my parents and aunts and uncles.

My own father told my mother “If this ever starts happening to me, I want you to take me out into the woods and leave me.” To which my mother responded “If I do that, I’ll probably be the one who gets lost, while you get home.”

About a month ago he slipped and fell on the ice while shoveling. He broke his hip. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t survived the surgery, but he’s physically fit and he made it through. Maybe a cold thought, but I began mourning him when he stated a couple years ago that he was getting weary of living. They weren’t his exact works, but close enough. He was slowing down and his memory was already beginning to betray him.

Still, he held onto his sense of humor. And ornery disposition. He remembers my Grandmother, if nobody else. The core of who he was. When he could no longer remember who I was. That hurt some. But I had already caught wind that he was beginning to leave us. I’ve since dreamed that he remembered me. It was only a dream.

He broke his hip and went into rehab. And will never come back out. He doesn’t understand why. And he’s angry. And that hurts. Here you are Pa, we love you but we can’t do right by you at home. We? No, I’m just a spectator. My father and aunt have born most of that burden.

Were I a better grandchild, I could have visited more often. For the better part of the last decade I’ve only lived a short couple hours away by car. But there is work and play and weekends are fleeting. Finding a good balance between what I should do and what I would like to do, well seems to fall more on the side of the latter. Maybe if I had visited more often, I would have remained more firmly in his memory.

Fortunately he has better grandchildren than me. More worthy than me.

The thing about dying, is that once you’ve completed the process, nothing bothers you anymore. Well, that’s assuming that there isn’t an afterlife, an assumption that I make. Unless you and yours are ardent followers of Epicurus, the lasting pain has to be borne by the people you leave behind. That is most apparent through the eyes of my Grandmother. Watching her grieve her husband of 70 years, watching her cry as she sat beside the shell of her husband. I miss him already.

I dreamt the other night that I was able to do something more useful than to just stand back and watch quietly. My dreams are always bigger and better than my reality.

I never asked what he did in Panama. When he brought it up it was to relate a story about the spiders down there weaving webs that stretched between telephone poles. That really impressed him. Maybe he thought that the mundane day to day details of his life wouldn’t have made a good story.

I found out recently that I had been a supply clerk and made a weekly trip to resupply the outposts. When he wasn’t doing that he was hanging out by the pool or boxing. Yeah, Pa was a boxer. Didn’t know that either. I could have asked. But I am broken and simple things like asking questions about people doesn’t really occur to me until much late. His life deserves a full book, but I can only give it a few paragraphs.

And here’s where I turn the story of his death into something about me.

Were I living the life of a character in a novel, I’d suddenly have some sort of epiphany. The death of a loved one really makes one think about life. Hah. No it doesn’t. I think about life all the time. What I want to do and where I want to be, and always come up empty. There is only where I am. To crib a line from Scroobius Pip, Paralysis through Analysis has stopped me here. And so I remain.

Maybe I have rose-tinted glasses, but Pa seems to have lived a good life. If a few weeks or months too long. Would he be proud of me? If he could peel back my facade and peer into my soul as in stews in anxiety? And all of the broken bits that make up what I am? I’ve already proven that I am not worthy of either of their lineage.

When I was but I child my family moved to Alaska where I would grow up. At the same time my grandparents packed up and moved to Massachusetts. For most of my youth, with the exception of a couple visits. I would only hear my grandparents voices over the rather expensive long distance calls. That and the yearly $25.00 birthday check that seemed like a fortune!

For the first month that Pa lived in Mass, he didn’t unload the truck for fear that it wouldn’t work out. Maybe he shared some of my anxiety about life. But he jumped in anyway and seemed to have made another good life with my grandmother as a couple of empty-nesters in a new state, starting new lives or rather, keeping on with a new chapter in an old book. He was afraid, but it worked out.

Where would I be right now if I had possessed Pa’s fortitude and was able to bare my soul to the woman I had fallen head-over-heels for in college? Maybe with her right now?

#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.