Brandon "Not the Book-y Kind of Librarian" B.'s Profile

Every road trip includes a stop at McDonalds, usually for the clean bathrooms but also for one other mystical item: the fries.

Well not exactly. The red pocket that holds them.

When I was little, Daddy insisted on a 4:30AM departure for any road trip regardless of destination (going to Canton, 45 miles away, leaving at 4:30!). Ready to leave on time resulted in a reward: McDonalds hashbrowns. Which came in the red pocket, like fries and apple pies.

Hashbowns consumed, I would drift in a reverie of passing scenery, the red pocket resting perfectly on my hand like a glove. Lulled in the strange comfort of my red pocket, I dreamed of sleeping in my red pocket bed in my red pocket house, wearing red pocket panties under my red pocket dress.

This McDonalds can be commended on nice bathrooms, a quick & efficient line, and surprisingly good McNuggets -- crispy, not greasy with juicy "chicken". If only they came in a red pocket.

I've heard about places like this, a "full service" station if you will. Couple of clicks off HWY 97. Gas, food, and other. Seems very clean to be other, and yet...

The faded paper sign taped to the pump clearly says: "If you know that you are going to be pumping over $75.00 in fuel, please come in and get with one of our cashiers. Thank you Management."

Thank you indeed! Now, can I get a "Wapato Wolf Den" beer cozie?

"Whiskey is a poison productive of vice, riot, disease! Hostile to all habits of decency, honesty, and industry! In short, destructive to the very souls and bodies of our fellow creatures!"
- Rev. James Whitelaw of Dublin, 1809

"What he said."
- Rev. Brigadier Brandon B. of Portland, 2009

As I am sure you are aware, every year for untold years the families Zellerbach, Smythington, and Farthingbottom gather the first weekend in June at Ft. Stevens State Park campground.

As I am sure you are aware, every year for untold years they reserve Yurts #7 - 12, carefully planning the midnight pounce upon the online reservation systems, precisely 9 months ahead, as is the state-mandated limit.

So. What what what are you doing in Yurt #10? right in the middle?! right where the children always gather to put on plays and recitals and whatnot?!? right where we sing the vespers?!?! What what what?!?!?

...Yeah. My bad.... Jim Beam?

***

Ft. Stevens, on the coast 8 miles past Astoria, is your typical large state park campground with all that entails: small sites, little privacy, rambunctious kids, screeching shrillmoms, and a 10pm noise curfew.

But Ft. Stevens does several things right:

- Strategically placed restrooms. Downed a beer before the 2-mile walk to the beach? No problem. There's a clean toilet waiting for you. There's a clean toilet everywhere.
- Separate, individual locking showers.
- Wide bike paths throughout the grounds, and to the lake and the beaches.
- So much to do & see & explore!! Trails, beaches, shipwrecks, a lake etc etc
- Wood on Wheels. Camped a ways from one of the wood stations? No problem. They drive around delivering firewood to your site. $5/bundle -- and it's dry. Proceeds go to the Friends of the Old Fort.

All that, plus the yurts provide a reasonable level of space and privacy (#3 is the best).

I will return! And hopefully not crash another family reunion.

It's always raining in Astoria. Regardless of the weather just a few miles north or south the city, it will be raining in Astoria. Jutting out into the mists where the Columbia and the Pacific crash together, this city on a hill naturally accumulates moisture in an act of constant massive condensation.

Which makes drive-thru coffee a godsend -- especially 20 minutes into the 2-hour drive home after a coffee-free camping weekend.

Kickass Koffee provided quick, friendly service. Unfortunately, they also provided a bitter, tepid brew. Konvenient, yes. Kickass, no.

All gleaming subway tiles, concrete tops, zinc details, and windows upon windows upon windows on a breezy cafe corner. My kind of place!

So why did I feel unwelcome and uncomfortable? Perhaps it was the server's sneering look "You aren't really going to eat that are you fatty?" when the complimentary pre-breakfast ice cream was served. Or the teeny furniture that did make me feel like an orangutan in a Barbie house. The bland food, the indifferent service, the mediocre Bellini that took 20 minutes ...

Great space and location, but the vibe is way, way off. Maybe if enough of us funk the place up we can have some kind of butterfly effect?  What is the alchemy of Yelp upon the properties of zinc and glass and mediocrity?

Thank you Sansai.

Your utter lack of service taught me patience. Your refusal to provide menus or take my order taught me to control my desires. Your denial of The Sushi taught me the transcendental joy of delayed gratification -- when I spend big cash later at Bamboo Sushi instead.

Thank you Sansai.

"Yeah, yeah, a latte will be fine. But what I really want is for you to come to my house and decorate. ... No?"

I don't know what the word Cartola is supposed to mean -- and as someone who frequently invents words (mercatorial, anyone?) that is no basis for objection -- but from now on it's short-hand for this kind of style: Domino magazine + British confirmed bachelor + hunting lodge master uncomfortable with actual hunting + 19th century Danish coffeehouse. Loves it!

Oh yeah, the coffee, really tasty little Stumptown goodness. Comfortable chairs inside, and European-style cafe seating on the wide, shady sidewalk. A new favorite to be sure. Maybe they won't notice if I stash some of the objets in my klepto's wetdream purse.

So excited! Bounce bounce bounce! A fantastic Farmers Market in my neighborhood! The early morning bike ride, the fresh coffee and muffin, my basket laden with local, organic, sustainable produce and meat and wine and flowers and breads and on, on, on. I'll wear a flippy skirt and look like postcard from Provence. Perhaps I'll meet my future husband when we both reach for the last bundle of shallots.

I am a bobo in paradise.

A little self-ridicule, but I kid because I love and because it's true. The Portland Farmers Market organization opening a Sunday location in the King neighborhood (just a few blocks off what people call "Alberta Arts") is likely going to be one of the Best Things of 2009.

The layout is spacious, plenty of room for crowds, baby strollers, and dogs -- which are currently allowed pending feedback from neighbors and attendees.

... Odd thing about the posted dog notice, though. Says one reason dogs might be banned is for "cultural sensitivity". Um.... hunh?  I imagine the white, liberal Board sitting around the planning meeting, "We really don't want this market to be all about Whitey, and of course it's a well-known fact all non-white people are afraid of dogs, so if we ban dogs then no one can call us gentrifiers."

I won't let a touch of back-handed racism ruin my enthusiasm for the market, but I will let it hold back a star for now.

Every few years there must be a reckoning, a come to Jesus assessment of what it means to be Real Portland. And more importantly, am I still Real Portland?

Apparently, these days, a midnight stop for hot VD is on the list, and tonight I finally marked that notch on my belt. The place was packed with cruise ship rejects, some Goth kids (or whatever they call themselves now), and some drunk skanks performing mock sex acts on the sugary goods.

And a dark-haired dude in a wheelchair trying so hard to be so funny. I didn't know Callahan was an archetype. But that's Old Portland anyway. Different list, different Jesus.

Maple bacon blah blah soaks booze blah blah male genitalia blah blah.

The donuts are stale and the place is full of tourists. Not Real Portland. Amen.