“Scroot”
I spent yesterday in Eugene, OR. First I did laundry and and grumbled about the heat, then I sat in the world’s loudest Starbucks and recovered from the heat, then I hung out with reader Ben Conneran and discussed history, Ui and the Singularity, and then I sat in a parking lot in Springfield, OR, waiting for it to cool the damn down inside my van, and then I said “scroot” and headed over the Cascades in the dark and found a parking spot in Bend around 2 a.m.
Say what you like about Bend, they have a deep respect for fish sex.
And then I woke up grumpy, groggy and overly warm around 9 a.m.
I’m starting to see a flaw in my grand plan: I am a delicate snow flower.
I had the misfortune of growing up in paradise. Santa Cruz, California, to be exact, where the temperature ranges from a chilly 60 Fahrenheit to a balmy 78. (15 to 26 for you Canadian Centigradians.) And, as a young person, I always felt that anything above 76 was getting a bit ridiculous.
I don’t know if it’s my Nordic blood, or the fact that I shun the outdoors like many geeks, or my general hugeness or what, but I can’t abide the heat. It shuts my brain down, it makes me surly and unmotivated, it’s generally suboptimal. There’s a reason I named my blog and van after a creature that spends the summer underground in a nice cool ball of mucus.
Yahoo Weather says it’s 73F/23C outside, and Yahoo Weather is high on needle drugs. My skin says its at least 80 and my skin says to hell with it. Part of the discrepancy may be that I now live in a solar oven, and by the time I pilot it to somewhere with air conditioning I am roasted to bloody rare and it takes me a while to cool down even when I’m being caressed by library zephyrs.
The plan right now is to drive to Boise, Idaho, sometime in the next day or two. From there I will survey the heat maps of North America. If I see numbers starting with seven, I may go with my original plan to visit Salt Lake City and Denver on my way to estivating in Montreal for July and August. If I see eights and nines in the tens column, I may head straight to Minneapolis and save the more southerly states for saner months.
“Please Ring to Roust”
A couple evenings ago the moment came: I was rousted by the cops. Well, the cop.
The funny thing is, I wasn’t even staying overnight. I was napping. Admittedly, the nap went a little longer than I expected and it was about 8 p.m., but the point remains.
I was awoken by a knock on the van, which by the way is not a pleasant way to wake up. It’s very echoey and metallic. I suppose I could have a doorbell hooked to a pleasant chime with a sign above the button saying “Please Ring to Roust,” but that seems a bit fancy.
At any rate, I was sleeping in my jeans so I just clambered up front and out of the driver’s door and was confronted by a cop who asked “Who are you?” Which is kind of an open-ended question so soon after waking up, but I told him my name and profession — I have to remember to say “journalist” instead of “writer” — and he told me to keep my hands out of my pockets and he took my driver’s license and went back into his police car and, I guess, did the cop equivalent of googling me. Which, for all I know, is actually googling me.
At any rate, I was informed over the course of a brief question-and-answer period that someone had called the cops on me, and I was parked illegally, and that the illegal part was that I was too far from the curb — which is nonsense, I was within 18 inches easily — and that “this is not the sort of neighborhood where people appreciate overnight parking.”
Which is fine, I wasn’t planning on parking overnight in that spot, or even necessarily that neighborhood, anyway. But, you know, I was curious. The police officer had not specifically told me to move on. He hadn’t made any reference to the law, apart from my purported wheel-distance. Don’t get me wrong, I know what he was getting at, but I couldn’t help but pull out a metaphorical emery board and scrape away the innuendo.
“So, if I parked the van closer to the curb, it wouldn’t be illegal?” I asked. Or something like that.
“Well,” he said, or something like that. “It wouldn’t be technically illegal, but we’d keep getting calls, and if we keep getting calls there are any number of statutes we could bring you in on.”
Which was startling as only honesty can be. I don’t know what I expected — I know it wasn’t “Okay, you got me. Go back to your nap.” — but it was nonetheless a bit troubling to be told in essence “You’re not breaking the law, but if you don’t do what I want you to do I’m going to make something up.”
I’m not carrying anymore, so I was seriously tempted in a very entirely theoretical way to push the issue, just to see what it’s like to be oppressed by The Man. What would they charge me with? Would they drag me into jail or just ticket the holy living Stumptown out of me? Could I find a tech angle on this and write it up for Wired?
I also had another urge, this one stronger, to demand an accounting like a Scooby-Doo villain. How was I found out? Why didn’t the locals mistake me for an unspecified contractor? Was it my out-of-state license plates? The bag of trash in my front seat? My deep, stentorian snore?
But in the end I let my urge to find a restroom outweigh the other urges. I figure I’ll have plenty of chances to be genuinely arrested on trumped-up charges because I’m an out-of-town weirdie without having to press the issue while I’m still on the West Coast. So I was nice to the cop, kept my hands out of my pockets, and drove off when he was done with me.
At any rate, this has nothing to do with the fact that I am now in Eugene. I stayed a couple more nights in Portland without suffering anything worse than overhearing drunk conversations. But I’m really getting tired of lovely greenery and fresh coastal air, so I’m about ready to head east.
I’m having coffee with a reader tomorrow at 5 p.m. at the Starbucks on 13th in Eugene. I know it’s short notice and Mother’s Day and all, but if you’re in the area you’re more than welcome to join us. I’ll be the one who doesn’t actually look all that much like his cartoon character.
“Moose Prophet”
Sitting in the Lungfish, somewhere in the Portland neighborhood called the Pearl, I just saw a couple in a bicycle-pulled carriage traveling one direction, passing a security guy on a Segway going the other. It was kind of a moment.
It’s been a nice day, actually. I realized this morning that I had a power few dare dream of: I can actually drive my bed to breakfast. With this in mind, about 7 o’clock this morning I parked out front of Sugar Mama’s Coffee Cafe and had a little pre-breakfast nap, followed by breakfast, followed by a post-breakfast lie-down. Luxury.
In the middle, breakfast part, my waitress was a pleasantly garrulous geekfolk lady who immediately recognized me as one of that kind, presumably because I looked utterly ridiculous. I had decided that today was going to be a Pajama Day, and so I attended breakfast in my blue thigh-length nightshirt and moose-emblazoned sweatpants.
My waitress, having established that I was a writer as well as an eccentric, revealed to me that she was a mermaid. She showed me a photo of herself in mer-garb, which due to the water revealed only her smiling face and the lower third of an elaborate, leg-wrapping tail.
Apparently she’s been working on making her own tail for some time, and had recently gotten a super deal on a keen monofin. We also discussed cats and, to a lesser extent, where the hot sauce was located. I invited her to Monday’s say-hey, but she has a pool tournament to attend.
There’s a pun in there somewhere, but I’m not going in after it.
At any rate, I mostly spared Portland the sight of me in Moose Prophet garb, excepting a couple grocery stores and some bewildered bicyclists up in the hills. I parked the van in a series of interesting, tree-lined places and worked inside of it most of the day, writing a product review I can’t tell you about yet and performing some other basic life activities.
Then, having grabbed the day by the udders and yanked at it until we were both sore, I had a shower at the gym and changed into a fresh pair of pajamas, then found this very interesting corner at which to boondock.
Oh, and a final note. Somewhere in the hills above Portland, the Lungfish hit 100k. So yay.
Round numbers are meaningful.
“Drizzly to downpourish”
Update: I am officially suggesting Ground Kontrol at 6 p.m. on Monday, 7 May. If you’re interesting in the meetup, please let me know if you can make that place and time.
I am in Portland, where apparently the motto is “If you don’t like the weather, ha ha.” It has been unrelentingly overcast and ranging from drizzly to downpourish. Which, from my perspective, is awesome.
Oh for … just as I wrote that, the sun came out for like fifteen seconds.
I’ll get you next time, Portland … next time.
So I have the same questions I generally have:
- What are fun things to do in Portland that aren’t just overpriced tourist traps?
- Do we have enough people to meet at a restaurant or bar for a say-hey?
I’m gonna suggest we get together Sunday or Monday evening. If you’re Portlandish and want to be part of this precedented event, please comment or send me e-mail.
Not all mammals appreciate the rain as much as I do.
“Blazing, shining letters”
I took down the offer of continuous postcards, because I realized that every time someone donated I was committing to another 12 postcards, and I may want to bring this adventure to a close sometime.
Having said that, I have at least another dozen postcards in me at this moment, so if you were planning on getting in on the subscription and didn’t yet, I’ll generously and magnanimously take your money as long as you send it within a couplefew days of this posting. And of course I will continue to take smaller donations and send a card for every ten bucks as long as the trip lasts.
Thanks again to the donors, whose names are inscribed in blazing, shining letters on a text file in my Evernote account.
“Home of the Velvet Foam”
The saying “if you don’t like the weather in x, wait a minute,” has been assigned countless values of x over time, but in my experience the x prize goes to Seattle, where the Wheel of Weather seems to spin like a prayer wheel on the Buddha’s birthday.
At the moment it’s about 68 degrees with an 80 percent chance of caffeine buzz here at “Uptown Espresso,” which bills itself as “Home of the Velvet Foam,” which sounds vaguely like something you’d pick up in an adult emporium.
This is my last cup of coffee-based liquid in Seattle, which has unquestionably been a boon in the java department. I’ve only had one bad cup of coffee here, and it was at a grocery store. A fool’s purchase, I know, but I thought the Coffee Gods of the Emerald City might smile even upon the lowly supermarket. Ah, nope.
Yesterday I played the tourist in earnest, checking out the Pike Place Market, home of the embryonic Starbucks that would hatch into a termite queen and birth countless young. I then had lunch with my friend Larry and we tracked down the Fremont Troll, then checked out REI headquarters, which is a veritable temple to windburn and conspicuous consumption, incorporating a climbing rock, a dirt bike test track, and, just for the heck of it, a glade.
At any rate, postcards have been mailed, my souvenir tchotchke has been purchased, and once I finish this update I will turn the Lungfish south and head down to my next destination, Portland, which I expect to be startlingly different from Seattle in every conceivable way.
The logo on the first Starbucks
Tourists taking pictures of the logo on the first Starbucks
How come nobody told me there was a giant shoe museum in Seattle?
I just saved you 75 cents.
If Elvis could really predict the future, I don’t think he’d have died on the toilet.
How famous am I? Less famous than a Sonny Bono impersonator.
Someone needs to tell these dudes about Kickstarter.
Moses would have so many problems with this.
To get this photo, I had to wait about 15 minutes for kids to quit pretending to pick the statue’s nose.
REI designers combine the beauty of nature with the beauty of validated parking.
WHOA.
“West Coast mirepoix”
This gallery contains 5 photos.
Apparently geek-themed drinkeries are a thing with me, because I’m currently sitting in Cafe Mox, which bills itself as “a game parlour.” Mox isn’t really a theme restaurant as such, it’s more of a bar that found itself next to … Continue reading
“The historic-yet-kitschy Capitol Hill district”
Just a reminder, we’re meeting up at the Unicorn bar in the historic-yet-kistchy Capitol Hill district of Seattle tonight, officially starting at 7 pm.
“The ancient rites are respected”
I typed this up in situ Saturday night at the AFK Tavern. I made a few edits and sharpened a couple jokes, but it’s essentially as I wrote it at the time. Also, due to a minor misunderstanding between me and my camera, I only have a couple photos.
I’m at the AFK Tavern in Everett, a bar and grill with the tagline “A place for geeks and gamers.” This is not in any way a misleading slogan. The place is packed, dudes in awkward haircuts and black T-shirts as far as the eye can see.
My dining companion this evening was a local lady named Eve who house-sits for wealthy retirees on a nearby island. She presented me with “a bulette with your name on it” — an adorable and impressive hand-painted bulette figurine — and I had a pleasant chat with her about pets and travel over a “Street Samurai” burger and an “Onyxia” cocktail before she took off. Thanks, Eve!
In the ideal, an “Onyxia” would be a drink delivered in three phases that takes the coordinated efforts of 40 people to drink, but its manifestation at the AFK — a sweet mix of blueberry liqueur, Sprite, and a few other ingredients — is also nice.
I’m hanging out and soaking up the atmosphere, which is one part Cheers and three parts Freaks and Geeks. If you ignore the videogame-controller curtain-ties and corseted steampunk-maiden mural, the restaurant area looks like any local Lyon’s being invaded by con attendees, with brown lacquered tables, brown faux-leather booth seats, reddish-brown curtains, and very excited people rolling dice.
I’m on my second cocktail. It is my custom, when visiting a theme restaurant, to order whatever blue drinks they have on the menu, because they always have blue drinks. In this case, I’m drinking a “Mana Potion,” which is reasonably tasty but largely indistinguishable from the Onyxia except for the bluer color and flask-esque serving glass.
Next to me is a large table currently seating 11 people, six of whom are, I swear, guys wearing black T-shirts. They are, in the way of geeks the world over, very excited about the game they’re huddled over, and shouty. They’re playing Castle Ravenloft, but their version incorporates Pokemon in some manner that’s not entirely clear to me. Dice are rolled, numbers are shouted out, cheers resound, movies are quoted, the ancient rites are respected.
It’s “Dragon Appreciation Night,” which seems to manifest almost solely as a menu of specials named after various dragons — thus the Onyxia. Other options include the Tiamat, Trogdor and Falkor cocktails, the Smaug chili, and a serving of pickled herring in wine sauce named after Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon.
I have to admire that last one. I didn’t try it, but Eve did before I arrived and declared it “your basic pickled herring.” Clearly the proprietors of AFK take their theme seriously.
I have to admit, I’m tempted to be snarky about the cutesy names on the menu. I understand that it comes with the theme restaurant territory, but a place of hot wings is a plate of hot wings whether they’re called Detroit Red Wings or Paul McCartney’s Wings. The AFK menu, however, shows a rare level of dedication to the theme, with “tooltips” informing you that the burgers come with salad, soup or fries; and “upgrades” to each item. A few of the nerdier references make me smile in spite of myself. For instance, the “firebat penne” becomes a “zerg rush” with the addition of four tiger prawns. And the U.L.T. — unicorn, lettuce and tomato — well, who doesn’t like jokes about eating unicorns? Dicks, that’s who.
As food, it’s fine. The fries that came with my Shadowrun-themed burger were actually really tasty, but the burger itself was unexceptional diner fare. But this isn’t a restaurant review, and I’m not here for artisinal chevre-salumi hoagie sliders on hand-poked quinoa-barley buns, I’m here to have an experience.
For the purposes of a more authentic experience, I’m moving to the bar.
The bar does not have barstools. It does have a dance floor, however, upon which the male:female ratio of the establishment is reversed, with about three times as many female women as male men dancing to “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”
There is a phenomenon I have observed at many geek dances, particularly those which do not involve ballroom, folk or klingon-themed line dancing. The ladyfolk form kind of a central mass of booty- and/or thing-shaking, and a few men kind of hover in a largely arrhythmic manner around the circumference, facing inward, apparently aware that they could theoretically be involved with the ass-rubbing and hip-swinging and the hands-in-the-air-so-as-to-indicate-a-lack-of-concern, but aren’t really sure how to get from here to there without a GPS. I hate to reinforce gender stereotypes and geek stereotypes at the same time, but there you have it. The ladies shake it like a Polaroid picture, the dudes shake it like a structurally compromised canister of Mrs. Dash.
So, lacking a barstool, I am sitting in a chair at a barlike slab of wood overlooking various people who are eating, which I think is kind of uncomfortable for all concerned. Once my next drink comes, I’m moving to the video game area.
No room at the gaming inn, so I’m reduced to leaning against the bar like an animal. I’m also reduced to blogging with my thumbs.
I’m drinking a Blackbeard’s Revenge, which isn’t the best name but it has butterscotch schnapps, rum and draft root beer in it, all of which are among my favorite things to swallow.
One thing I love about this place, something that shows they know their clientele well, is that they have a second happy hour that starts at midnight, presumably to dissuade their customers from heading home to raid Stonecore or port Nethack to the Kindle Fire.
Personal revelation time: I tend to make myself anxious at large riotous gatherings like this, in part because I immediately spot the person I hope I don’t resemble but despairingly assume I do. In this case, the not-me is a dude about ten years older than me dressed like a countrified Travis Bickle who hovers around the edges of the dance floor as if he heard that last week some chick totally took her shirt off.
On the other hand, I’m the dude in the suit and tie standing in the corner poking constantly at his iPhone, so if there’s a totem pole here I’m not the eagle guy on top. I’m going to find someplace to sit.
Wow, that may have been the worst transition in the history of DJing. At the same time, you have to admire the chutzpah of anyone who goes directly from “Call Me” to “Smack My Bitch Up.” That’s like the triple salchow of DJing: Landing it at all is pretty impressive.
At any rate, in addition to the drink menu — which is called the “Manual for the Summoning of Spirits” — there’s a video game menu and a board game/RPG menu. The video games are not, alas, delivered to your table. That would actually be pretty cool, a Playstation, a little monitor, two controllers and a copy of Gran Turismo brought to you, the waiter opening the tray, blowing on the disc and putting it in, waiting for your nod before bowing slightly and moving on.
I’m not much of a bar-closer and I don’t really want to dance, frag or challenge someone to a game of Zombie Fluxx, and I’m afraid if I keep drinking I’m going to try the mead. (Liquor on mead, nice indeed; mead on liquor, wow seriously?) So I’m going to take off shortly, but a couple notes before I leave.
First, there is, somewhat disappointingly, less cosplay than you might expect for Dragon Appreciation Day. There are a couple guys in what I’m told are Yu-Gi-Oh costumes — if I’m going to be ignorant of one fandom-slice, I’m fine with Yu-Gi-Oh being it — one dude in armor and maybe a lady in some sort of Mists of Avalon gown, hard to tell if it’s a costume or just, you know, a Mists of Avalon gown, and a few girls who I think are going for some sort of farm animal theme with ear-hats. I suppose I should be glad I don’t have to maneuver around half the 501st, but I dunno. Costumes are fun.
Lastly, if you end up here, keep an eye out for Luke the bartender. He’ll take care of you.
Okay, my doctor insists on no chiptune after midnight, so I’m headed back to the Lungfish.