This was a long day. You can see that it took me a few months to recall details and then get motivated to actually do something with them...
Our saga continues...
Uneventful drive back to Portland. M is exhausted and flagging. I treat her to my song stylings all the way around the dial. She is clearly exhausted and delirious; she laughs that my jokes. Even the lame ones. I'm disturbed to discover that I know at least a little of every single song on the radio- even the Spanish language ones... how did this happen? It is much like realizing that one knows every word to every song on Kool108.
We are sitting in rush hour traffic- one would think that this situation would be irritated but I'm just happy to be listening to Green Day (again) in the Versa. A cigarette would be about perfect right now but the interior of the car is absolutely plastered with No Smoking stickers. I say its more of a guideline than a rule but M walks the line and abides by all rules. ever. created.
We arrive at the hotel unscathed. M warns me not to lay on the bed as I may never get up. I ignore her sage advice and realize that she is, in fact, right. I don't want to move and I'm feeling melancholy that we aren't going to see the Combine Demolition Derby. An opportunity. Wasted. M rallies and motivates by performing her rendition of "Call Me Big Papa" and reminding me that Megafaun is playing in 45 minutes... Game on.
Happy Valley
We have passed 2 megachurches and I'm feeling a bit unnerved. The drive is a tad strange as every 50 yards or so, there are giant concrete Lego blocks. We go from seeing tiny houses ("How do they get a couch in there?!" M wonders) to giant hideous McMansions. The festival is marked with a minuscule white sign stating, "PICKATHON" (actual size shown.)
We drive to a mown down field and marvel and the number of VW buses and Subaru wagons. Pretty sure this is the right place. As we are walking to the ticket tent, M asks for her ticket, which I had supposedly printed... not so much. Does M want to murder me? Yes. Am I worried? No. Because I have a smartphone. Ticket acquired and painful death averted.
Armbands fastened (to my armhair), we walk back to the Versa and drive to the actual festival lot, which is, a huge barren field with razor sharp wheat stalks that yearn to puncture tires and disembowel the Versa. The terrain is uneven and, while I'm concerned that the car won't make it, M smirks and says, "You don't know anything about Versas. Floor it." Well, I refuse to floor anything but instead gingerly maneuver the car into a parking slot where it perches on a clot of dirt. Perfect.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Portland Day 2- Eat food.
Lunch menu:
Saltwater taffy
Strawberry White Chocolate dipped Twinkie
S'mores Poptart dunked in half white chocolate half milk chocolate
Butterfinger Extravaganza Fudge
White Chocolate Praline Fudge
Chocolate Drenched Bacon
Water
After procuring lunch from no fewer than 4 candy stores, we go to hide so we can enjoy our food without judgement. M starts with the Twinkie and I choose the Poptart.
After the first bite, we realize we have made a serious miscalculation in our abilities. My teeth are rotting from my mouth and M says in a devastated tone of the person who has realized their mortality, "I can't -sob- do it, Donnie. I'm sorry."
We look out over the water and realize our utter and crushing disappointment. A period of silence is punctuated only by the screams of the gulls as they devour our food dreams. We look into the empty bag and see, what's this?! The Bacon! With one taste, we are redeemed. -sigh- We also take it as a positive omen that "Bacon Love" is playing on the radio when we get in the Versa. All is right once more.
We waddle to the car and set our sights and hearts toward Tillamook and its legendary factory. The drive is uneventful except for M's sheer panic whenever I get behind the wheel, which is always. As we careen along the curving road, a semi-truck loaded with logs barrelled around a blind turn directly towards the Versa. We never quite recovered from that and I agreed to take it easy on the corners. M has taken to gripping any surface to keep from being thrown from the car. I see now why she always insists on driving whenever we go anywhere. She informs me that, when we get back to Mpls, she will chauffeur me around anywhere I want to go. She claims it payback for my driving all over Oregon but quite obviously, it is some not-so-covert accusation that I'm a danger behind the wheel.
Tillamook Cheese Factory is a crazy madhouse. I observe a woman clad in a nude belly shirt, tiiiiiiight skinny jeans and stiletto knee-high boots emerging from a giant truck. Really lady?? You're at a damn cheese and ice cream factory. Proper attire is your brother's sweatpants and a shirt that fits like a tent. I'm suddenly feeling not so bad about eating the chocolate bacon. We bustle into the factory and find it crawling with folks who clearly don't get out much. I wonder if the hairnetted ladies who work there ever feel the pressure to perform. It seems like living in a fishbowl. People are constantly snapping pictures of you. At what point do you not bother with makeup and facial hair removal?
Dinner Menu:
Squeaky Cheese
1/2 pound of assorted cheese cubes
4 beef sticks
1 box of Triscuits
Ice Cream x2
Diet Coke
Monday, May 9, 2011
Portland- Day 2
All along the highway were beautiful white flowers and low lying ferns. Behind, we could see wide swathes of deforested land. While neither of us are exactly environmental activists, the scene was sobering and we decide that we need a smoke break to cheer us up.
We cruise into Seaside and the temperature has dropped a cool 30 degrees. The sun is no where to be seen and its drizzling gently. The town itself is full of kitschy shops and most importantly 23 candy stores. Yessssssss....
The beach is gorgeous and the sand is soft and grey. M was smart and left her regular shoes in the car. I promptly plop my sock encased foot in the sand. No worries. They're minisocks.
Midway between the boardwalk and the shoreline, some hobogangsters sitting on a cardboard slab. They are clad in south of the border ponchos and several of them have goatbeards. Bongo drums beat and an acoustic guitar is being strummed lazily. Paper bags and makeshift bongs litter their platform. M insisted that we keep a 400 foot distance for fear that they may recruit us into their sing-a-long/drive by shooting.
Walked to the water's edge- it was overcast and at the horizon, the water was undiscernible from the grey washed expanse of sky. M is clearly distressed by the green-yellow scum substance that is washing up on the beach. (We later discover that they are called diatomes, an algae like plant.) It is harmless but M still makes a flying, awkward leap to the clear the scum only to land gracefully in the water and exclaim, "Sonofabitch!! Cold!" I inform her that you can suffer from hypothermia after 30 minutes in this water and determine that we should stay in for 27 minutes. We actually make it to 3. (There are some bikini-clad teenagers who are actually body surfing in this frigid water. Ridiculous.) The water is clear and swirling. I had forgotten that ocean water isn't like lakes. Its cold and clean and very likely to drag you out to sea and murder you if you aren't careful. In this moment, I am ready to leave home and live this close to something that could surprise me and sweep me away.
This moment passes only after nearly stepping on a beached jellyfish. It looks like a combination of gummy candy and congealed gravy. We poke at it with my shoe and are simultaneously disgusted. I recall reading in National Geographic that a jellyfish can still inflict painful stings if its dead. Note to self: Watch where you walk.
We amble back to the boardwalk and rinse our feet at a washing station with water that could strip the skin off our feet. We turn and share a homantic moment staring at the water. We agree that we could easily spend hours upon days at the water and never get tired of the rushing and lulling sound of the ocean. But, for clarification, M could not live in one of the houses on the outcroppings over the water. Apparently, there is the very real possibility that she could slide off the rocks and plunge into the cold depths of the sea.
We cruise into Seaside and the temperature has dropped a cool 30 degrees. The sun is no where to be seen and its drizzling gently. The town itself is full of kitschy shops and most importantly 23 candy stores. Yessssssss....
The beach is gorgeous and the sand is soft and grey. M was smart and left her regular shoes in the car. I promptly plop my sock encased foot in the sand. No worries. They're minisocks.
Walked to the water's edge- it was overcast and at the horizon, the water was undiscernible from the grey washed expanse of sky. M is clearly distressed by the green-yellow scum substance that is washing up on the beach. (We later discover that they are called diatomes, an algae like plant.) It is harmless but M still makes a flying, awkward leap to the clear the scum only to land gracefully in the water and exclaim, "Sonofabitch!! Cold!" I inform her that you can suffer from hypothermia after 30 minutes in this water and determine that we should stay in for 27 minutes. We actually make it to 3. (There are some bikini-clad teenagers who are actually body surfing in this frigid water. Ridiculous.) The water is clear and swirling. I had forgotten that ocean water isn't like lakes. Its cold and clean and very likely to drag you out to sea and murder you if you aren't careful. In this moment, I am ready to leave home and live this close to something that could surprise me and sweep me away.
This moment passes only after nearly stepping on a beached jellyfish. It looks like a combination of gummy candy and congealed gravy. We poke at it with my shoe and are simultaneously disgusted. I recall reading in National Geographic that a jellyfish can still inflict painful stings if its dead. Note to self: Watch where you walk.
We amble back to the boardwalk and rinse our feet at a washing station with water that could strip the skin off our feet. We turn and share a homantic moment staring at the water. We agree that we could easily spend hours upon days at the water and never get tired of the rushing and lulling sound of the ocean. But, for clarification, M could not live in one of the houses on the outcroppings over the water. Apparently, there is the very real possibility that she could slide off the rocks and plunge into the cold depths of the sea.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Seaside/Pickathon Day 2 (A Portland backlog, er, backblog) Part 1
Friday
6:30am (seriously?!) -written at 11:53pm
Alarm screeching. Officially members of angry morning club. Must immediately go to local Phils to procure coffee but hair is stringy mess and I'm certain my skin is crawling with creatures. (M recently read an article in the Strib about bedbugs. Thanks for that.) Hygiene/decontamination first, caffeine later. Wardrobe check meets specs. Moods are much improved and we are ready to tackle this day. Feeling industrious when we are out the door and on the road before 8am. We happily toodle over to Phils and begin the day with $6 coffee (quad venti nonfat no whip no foam quarter shot mocha) for me and cheese crusted bagel for M.
8:30am
My phone nagivates us out of the urban metropolis and across bridges that stack upon each other. I comment that this is reminiscent of the Bay Bridge from Oakland to San Fran. We decide that after our (laughable) half-marathon that Stena has insisted we participate in (from Napa to Sonoma), we will make a side trip. (Only in retrospect does it occur to me that California is a HUGE state and perhaps this is not entirely feasible. Still, M thinks this is a genius idea, sans the running portion.)
As we leave Portland, billboards appear that entice us to throw our Pickathon tickets out the Versa window. Example 1: Combine Demolition Derby. Whaaaaaaaat?!? This has to be one of the most dangerous forms of redneck entertainment. Ever. M tells me that combines top out at 5 mph so that may diminish the excitement factor. But not the suspense!! I imagine it would go something like this, "Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh hes not going to make it watch out for those prongs i cant stand it.!!.." *CRASH* "Oh. OK, lets go home."
We are still chattering about the combines when a sign for the Example 2: Elephant Garlic Festival appears. I recall seeing a blurb about a giant head of garlic that's as big as my face. M vetoes this idea based on the following argument:
1. She doesn't like the smell of garlic. (Or the taste, as I realize later after I made a delicious soup on another trip and she picked out all the meat and left all the minced garlic. Impressive.)
2. How would we explain to people that we flew all the way to Oregon, bought tickets to Pickathon and then spend an the entire time watching combines (slowly) crash into each other and wandering around at a party one could smell 10 miles away?
Point match.
A few miles later, signs appear for the Mecca of Jerky. Must accelerate... Stand closed. Son of a Bitch.
Thats the jerky stand. Not much to look at but you should have seen their menu!! Your standard fare, beef, turkey but then the exotics!! Bison, venison, llama, pony named Rusty!! No hoofed critter, cloven or otherwise, was safe!
6:30am (seriously?!) -written at 11:53pm
Alarm screeching. Officially members of angry morning club. Must immediately go to local Phils to procure coffee but hair is stringy mess and I'm certain my skin is crawling with creatures. (M recently read an article in the Strib about bedbugs. Thanks for that.) Hygiene/decontamination first, caffeine later. Wardrobe check meets specs. Moods are much improved and we are ready to tackle this day. Feeling industrious when we are out the door and on the road before 8am. We happily toodle over to Phils and begin the day with $6 coffee (quad venti nonfat no whip no foam quarter shot mocha) for me and cheese crusted bagel for M.
8:30am
My phone nagivates us out of the urban metropolis and across bridges that stack upon each other. I comment that this is reminiscent of the Bay Bridge from Oakland to San Fran. We decide that after our (laughable) half-marathon that Stena has insisted we participate in (from Napa to Sonoma), we will make a side trip. (Only in retrospect does it occur to me that California is a HUGE state and perhaps this is not entirely feasible. Still, M thinks this is a genius idea, sans the running portion.)
As we leave Portland, billboards appear that entice us to throw our Pickathon tickets out the Versa window. Example 1: Combine Demolition Derby. Whaaaaaaaat?!? This has to be one of the most dangerous forms of redneck entertainment. Ever. M tells me that combines top out at 5 mph so that may diminish the excitement factor. But not the suspense!! I imagine it would go something like this, "Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh hes not going to make it watch out for those prongs i cant stand it.!!.." *CRASH* "Oh. OK, lets go home."
We are still chattering about the combines when a sign for the Example 2: Elephant Garlic Festival appears. I recall seeing a blurb about a giant head of garlic that's as big as my face. M vetoes this idea based on the following argument:
1. She doesn't like the smell of garlic. (Or the taste, as I realize later after I made a delicious soup on another trip and she picked out all the meat and left all the minced garlic. Impressive.)
2. How would we explain to people that we flew all the way to Oregon, bought tickets to Pickathon and then spend an the entire time watching combines (slowly) crash into each other and wandering around at a party one could smell 10 miles away?
Point match.
A few miles later, signs appear for the Mecca of Jerky. Must accelerate... Stand closed. Son of a Bitch.
Thats the jerky stand. Not much to look at but you should have seen their menu!! Your standard fare, beef, turkey but then the exotics!! Bison, venison, llama, pony named Rusty!! No hoofed critter, cloven or otherwise, was safe!
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Journey to PDX: Day 1 (A backlog)
I went to Portland last summer and kept a journal. This is a good place to start.
Thursday
6:15pm
M and J arrive at the house after the 3 hour expedition from Linden Hills. String cheese consumed. Drive to airport was uneventful with Slim's car bumping with "The Dream" ("he's just one guy.") I think this will be the last hip hop heard for at least 3 days. Amen.
8:22pm
I'm convinced we're sitting across from a kid with prosthetic legs. We have changed seats at the terminal to optimize our people watching ability. McDonald's for dinner and very shortly afterward realized that we haven't had fast food in several months and some adverse effects may occur. We agree to never speak of this again.
M has already almost lost one contact lens and admitted to not bringing any spares, contacts or spectacles of any kind. Super.
Very chubby lady across from us devouring ham sandwich while loudly conversing on cell phone about the time she was nearly committed to the psych ward. This is by far the best conversation I have ever eavesdropped. She has an awful french pedicure with oddly shaped toenails. I think she may be one of those people to chew their toenails. (On a side note, I once interviewed a kid that chewed his fingernails, his toenails, and then moved on the nails of his family members.) I think ham sandwich may be wearing a wig, an unfashionable one that resembled the dutch boy hairstyle.
10:09pm
Flight in progress. Must remember that while we are in Row 36, seats C-D, our worldly possessions are stowed in Row 26 over seat B. Man sitting there has rattail and unfortunate choice in wayfarer sunglasses.
10:40pm
We are sitting directly above the engine. This has destroyed conversations as we can't actively criticize everyone sitting around us.
11:59pm
And, we're flying through severe weather pattern (Tina would be simultaneously exhilarated and horrified.) M has a nasty headache. We both admit that we only thought about bringing Advil.
Friday
12:49am Portland time
Checked in at Red Lion. Overbooked. I schmoozed the desk clerk and complimented her horrendous permed and frosted hair. Thank you upgrade! The "inn" did not look like the picture on the internet. M informs me that, contrary to popular belief, you can not believe everything you see. Our car rental is, yes!, a Versa. Green Day is playing on the radio. (This will be significant later.) We are full of energy and M is a chatty Cathy after her brief bout of nausea. Alarm is set for 6:30am. M is trying to recall lyrics to "Big Papa" after sitting behind 38 year old woman dressed in a Papa Roach t-shirt, Twilight Team Edward backpack and shoes with five independent toe styling.
Until tomorrow....
Thursday
6:15pm
M and J arrive at the house after the 3 hour expedition from Linden Hills. String cheese consumed. Drive to airport was uneventful with Slim's car bumping with "The Dream" ("he's just one guy.") I think this will be the last hip hop heard for at least 3 days. Amen.
8:22pm
I'm convinced we're sitting across from a kid with prosthetic legs. We have changed seats at the terminal to optimize our people watching ability. McDonald's for dinner and very shortly afterward realized that we haven't had fast food in several months and some adverse effects may occur. We agree to never speak of this again.
M has already almost lost one contact lens and admitted to not bringing any spares, contacts or spectacles of any kind. Super.
Very chubby lady across from us devouring ham sandwich while loudly conversing on cell phone about the time she was nearly committed to the psych ward. This is by far the best conversation I have ever eavesdropped. She has an awful french pedicure with oddly shaped toenails. I think she may be one of those people to chew their toenails. (On a side note, I once interviewed a kid that chewed his fingernails, his toenails, and then moved on the nails of his family members.) I think ham sandwich may be wearing a wig, an unfashionable one that resembled the dutch boy hairstyle.
10:09pm
Flight in progress. Must remember that while we are in Row 36, seats C-D, our worldly possessions are stowed in Row 26 over seat B. Man sitting there has rattail and unfortunate choice in wayfarer sunglasses.
10:40pm
We are sitting directly above the engine. This has destroyed conversations as we can't actively criticize everyone sitting around us.
11:59pm
And, we're flying through severe weather pattern (Tina would be simultaneously exhilarated and horrified.) M has a nasty headache. We both admit that we only thought about bringing Advil.
Friday
12:49am Portland time
Checked in at Red Lion. Overbooked. I schmoozed the desk clerk and complimented her horrendous permed and frosted hair. Thank you upgrade! The "inn" did not look like the picture on the internet. M informs me that, contrary to popular belief, you can not believe everything you see. Our car rental is, yes!, a Versa. Green Day is playing on the radio. (This will be significant later.) We are full of energy and M is a chatty Cathy after her brief bout of nausea. Alarm is set for 6:30am. M is trying to recall lyrics to "Big Papa" after sitting behind 38 year old woman dressed in a Papa Roach t-shirt, Twilight Team Edward backpack and shoes with five independent toe styling.
Until tomorrow....
Tenative
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| This is my writing moustache. This is my first foray into publishing, if you don't include the pediatric psychiatric case study I cowrote. I've recently been encouraged by several people to share some of my experiences/thoughts. I'm going to attempt to cleverly describe any number of mundane adventures. Y'know, trips to garden center, attending food festivals, navigating the back roads of Minnesota on only instinct and smartphone instruction. Please enjoy and contribute comments/questions/subject ideas. Thanks for reading. |
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