Author Archives: Mark Petruska

May 22 2013

Might As Well Call It McVoodoo

Speaking of local eateries…

I read yesterday that Voodoo Doughnut is expanding outside of Oregon. Sorry, Jess – they’re not coming to Wisconsin. But they are opening a location in Denver this fall. And I’ve gotta say, the news does not thrill me.

I have nothing against the Mile High City. I’m quite fond of it, as a matter of fact. Home to my favorite NFL team (go, Broncos!). Great scenery. Fun vibe. In fact, Tara and I are planning a trip there this October. We’re planning on catching a Broncos game – a lifelong dream for me. And maybe touring the haunted Stanley Hotel in the Rockies. Our itinerary is undecided yet, but one thing is certain: we won’t be stopping at Voodoo Doughnut.

I’m not a hater. Voodoo Doughnut is awesome. They put the bacon maple bar on the doughnut map. What bugs me is, they’re quintessentially Portland. A local institution. I often read Portland-themed blogs, and have come across many a post from people visiting here on vacation. There are two spots they always go to: Powell’s Books, and Voodoo Doughnut. Both are Portland icons. Take them away, plop them down somewhere else, and they’re no longer as special. They don’t define the city they way they used to. 

New York New York Las Vegas

I thought it was surrounded by water…?

What if somebody wanted to recreate the Statue of Liberty? And build it in, let’s say, Las Vegas? That would be an outrage, right?

Oh. Wait a minute…

But I stand by my point. And kind of feel a bit hypocritical wishing that In-N-Out Burger and White Castle would open up franchises out here (although in those cases, there are a lot more than just three locations like Voodoo has). I don’t want a Voodoo Doughnut on every corner. Hell, I was kind of irritated when they opened a shop in Eugene, and that’s just two hours down Interstate 5. If you can get a Grape Ape or a Tangfastic or a Triple Chocolate Penetration or a Gay Bar or a Maple Blazer Blunt in Denver – or in San Francisco or New York or Los Angeles someday, as the article alludes to – then it’s no longer a Portland institution. You might as well change the name to McVoodoo.

It’s bad enough that Stumptown Coffee was sold to a bunch of New Yorkers, and Andy Ricker (Pok Pok and a number of other notable Portland eateries) is opening up versions of his restaurants in New York. But don’t water down our beloved Voodoo! Keep Portland weird. Don’t make other cities weird.

Keep PORTLAND weird!

Keep PORTLAND weird!

What’s next? Bunk Sandwiches in Chicago? Pine State Biscuits in Atlanta? Boke Bowl in Sioux City? Say it ain’t so!

A city needs something to point to and say, that’s ours. For ten years, in Portland that has been Voodoo Doughnut. Now, the best we can say is, that’s ours…and also theirs. It’s the end of an era. The “magic in the hole” feels a little less magical this morning.

But such is life.

On a related note, I am slightly changing the focus of my blog. I’ve already updated the About Me page to reflect this, and changed my tagline to Peace, Love & Wordiness in the Pacific Northwest. That’s the heart of the change. I love this place so much, I want it to take a starring role in the blog, instead of being relegated to occasionally recurring guest. I’ll still write about all my usual topics – writing, pop culture, my upcoming nuptials – but I want to add more stuff about Portland and the Pacific Northwest. This post is an excellent example. I still hope to appeal to a wide audience, but I hope locals especially find the blog and start reading. I’m not looking to become the definitive voice of the Pacific Northwest or anything, but…

…well, actually, that sounds like a great thing to aspire to, after all. I wouldn’t be upset with a title like that.

So, thanks for continuing to follow along, regardless of where you live. My readers range from as far away as Ecuador to as close as the other side of the bed. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. You guys rock.

Related articles
May 20 2013

Chain Reactions: The Best in the Northwest

One of my friends “checked in” to In-N-Out Burger on Facebook the other day, and I commented that I was jealous. Because I love In-N-Out Burger, but there are no In-N-Out Burgers even remotely close to where I live. The nearest is two states and about seven hours south of here, which explains why it’s been over three years since I’ve indulged in a Double Double. Three years! Ack. We also have no White Castles (23 months since I last ate there) or Raising Cane’s (15 months). These omissions seem horribly unfair. Even Dunkin’ Donuts, which was all over the place when I was growing up, does not have any franchises out this way. It’s been many years since I’ve eaten there and, as a result, it has taken on a mythic aura in my mind. If I ever happen upon a Dunkin’ Donuts, I swear I will come to a screeching halt and make a mad dash inside. For a doughnut that is probably inferior to the ones they sell right down the street from my house, but such is life, you know? We crave what we can’t have. Which is why I’m curious as hell about places like Steak ‘n Shake and Chick-Fil-A and Whataburger, none of which I have ever tried.

Sometimes, coveted fast-food chains eventually do end up expanding out west. For years, Krispy Kreme was confined to the South. I’d heard good things, and was curious. Finally, in the late 90s they opened up a place in Seattle. People from Portland would make the six-hour round trip drive all for a box of glazed doughnuts. And then, they opened a couple around here. One of them is 10 minutes from home. And it’s been years since I’ve been there. What was once so novel, I now just take for granted. There are better doughnuts elsewhere, so why bother with Krispy Kreme? The same goes for Sonic. They opened their first local outlet just a few years ago. They’re good, but you can get a good burger anywhere, you know?

And then, there’s the ultimate tease. After going fifteen years without El Pollo Loco, one opened up in Vancouver, WA a few years ago. It was a huge deal; there was a ribbon cutting ceremony, and the mayor showed up. I loved El Pollo Loco when I lived in California, and I took full advantage, stopping by often for a quick lunch or dinner. One year later, they closed unexpectedly as a result of mismanagement. Sigh. Now I miss them again.

But I got to thinking about this. For every Smashburger we lack, for every Taco John’s we don’t have, for every missing Arctic Circle and Long John Silvers and Pioneer Chicken, we do have some really terrific local and regional chains that, while common up here, are hard to come by (or downright impossible to find) outside of the Pacific Northwest. Places that I would miss dearly, even if I lived across the street from a White Castle or Hardee’s. So, I made a list, because lists are fun! These are what I consider the best local or regional chains in the Pacific Northwest. They’re limited to fast-food or casual restaurants and, to qualify, must have at least ten locations, the industry standard per the Independent Restaurants of America website. So, without further ado, here we go!

The Top 5 Local or Regional Fast or Casual Food Chains in the Pacific Northwest

  1. Burgerville. Locals know that Burgerville is more than just a fast-food burger chain. This Vancouver, WA-based company has 39 outlets, all but 5 of them located in the Portland metropolitan area. They’re confined to an 80-mile radius stretching from Albany, OR to Centralia, WA. Burgerville was founded in 1961 and prides itself on fresh, local, sustainable ingredients. Their burgers are made with Tillamook cheddar, for instance, and seasonal specials like strawberry lemonade, blackberry milkshakes, and Walla Walla onion rings all contain natural in-season ingredients from local growers. They use 100% wind power for all their restaurants, convert used cooking oil into biodiesel, and use only range-fed beef free of antibiotics and hormones. Best of all, their food tastes amazing! Some people gripe over the high prices and, while it’s true that their meals do cost more than your typical fast-food chain, you can taste the difference. People in Seattle can’t get Burgerville. People in Eugene can’t get Burgerville. Which makes us in the Portland area the lucky ones!
  2. Ivar’s. Now it’s Seattle’s turn to gloat. Ivar’s, based in the Emerald City, opened their first location in 1938 and now has 25 “fast casual seafood bars” and 3 full-service restaurants, most of them spread around Seattle and Tacoma, with one location as far east as Spokane. Fat lot of good that does us in Portland! So, what makes Ivar’s so special? Amazing, locally-sourced seafood. Their fish ‘n chips are available with Pacific True Cod, Alaskan halibut, or northwest salmon. You can also get scallops, prawns, oysters, chicken, clam strips, and an incredible clam chowder. Grilled platters are available, along with salads and shrimp or crab cocktails. Quality ingredients put Ivar’s a cut above your typical fast-food joint. Long John who?!
  3. Taco Time. Fast-food burritos are fast-food burritos, right? Not when they’re hand-rolled and fried to a crisp! Founded in Eugene, OR in 1959, Taco Time has since expanded to over 350 franchises, but the majority are here in the Pacific Northwest (though if you’re in Kuwait or Curacao, you’re also in luck). Taco Time prides itself on using fresh ingredients, making their shells, chips, and salsas from scratch every morning. They use real aged cheddar and meat that is never frozen. This commitment to top quality ingredients shows in their food! It’s all good, but I hardly ever deviate from my usual: those aforementioned Original Crisp Burritos, unique to Taco Time. They hand-roll a soft flour tortilla, fill it with either refried pinto beans, all-white chicken, or seasoned ground beef (my personal favorite), and fry it until it’s golden and crispy. A healthy choice? Decidedly not, but if you’re eating fast-food Mexican in the first place, you probably don’t care.
  4. Jack In The Box. This one seems like a weird inclusion to me. I’ve always had easy access to Jack In The Box, a San Diego-based chain formed in 1951. There are 2200+ locations, after all. Yet the majority are concentrated out West, especially in California, Oregon, and Washington. Aside from the Carolinas, there are no franchises east of a line from Ohio to Louisiana. I wasn’t even aware that people thought Jack In The Box was special until family from the Northeast came out for a visit one time and made an excited beeline for the place. I like Jack In The Box because of their menu variety (burgers, chicken, grilled sandwiches, teriyaki bowls, mozzarella sticks, egg rolls, judicious use of sourdough bread, nine different breakfast sandwiches served all day long, and tacos that are amazingly simple (they’re topped with a slice of American cheese, for crying out loud) yet delicious, and cheap. 2 for 99 cents? That’s a bargain!).
  5. Elmer’s. There are lots of Denny’s-style restaurants around the country. Casual dining places that specialize in inexpensive but hearty food, usually with a focus on breakfast, often open 24 hours. IHOP, Perkins, and Bob Evans are all great examples. In the Pacific Northwest, we’ve got Shari’s. Which would have made the list…if Elmer’s didn’t also exist. Opened in 1960 as Elmer’s Colonial Pancake House, this chain focuses on quality, local ingredients and friendly service, with 25 locations in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho (plus a lone standout in California). With menu items like dungeness crab omelettes, Snoqualmie Falls oatmeal, Cascade skillets with local Zenner’s sausage and Tillamook cheese, and fluffy German pancakes topped with seasonal local berries, Elmer’s commitment to local foods is impressive. Even their steaks are sourced exclusively from Northwest ranchers. Shari’s is good, but Elmer’s is a notch better.

And, you get a bonus Honorable Mention. Little Big Burger doesn’t officially qualify because it’s only got 6 locations. However, they haven’t been around long: their first restaurant opened across the street from Powell’s Books in 2010. The owner, Micah Camden, a restauranteur and the driving force behind some of Portland’s most-respected fine dining locations, decided to open a fast-food burger joint with quality local ingredients modeled after none other than In-N-Out Burger. That meant keeping the menu simple, with just four menu items: hamburger, cheeseburger, veggie burger, and fries. But the flavors packed into those choices are phenomenal. The burgers are, well, little – but that’s the point. They’re made with Cascade beef on freshly baked brioche buns, and are available with cheddar, American, bleu, and a creamy (and delicious) chevre. The fries are tossed with truffle oil and are probably the tastiest I’ve ever had. Even the ketchup is homemade. Everything is made to order, with nary a heat lamp in sight. And, you can order beer to wash down your food. This tiny not-quite-a-chain has amassed a huge cult following in its first three years, and continues to expand. I have no idea how big they’ll eventually get, but one thing is certain: they are poised to give our beloved Burgerville some stiff competition. Not to mention that other California-based burger place that doesn’t exist up here.

Burgerville. The best in the Northwest.

Burgerville. The best in the Northwest.

Is there a restaurant chain you wish existed in your hometown? Which local chain makes you proud?

Related articles
May 16 2013

3 Guys Standing Around Talking About Europe

“Tara and I are heading up to Seattle this weekend.”

“Cool. You guys taking the train?”

“No, we’re driving. But we’d love to take the train sometime.”

“You should. It’s not much more expensive than driving, and you can kick back and enjoy the scenery.”

“Plus, two words: cocktail car!”

“And it would give you time to knock out your freelance writing assignment. Might even give you inspiration. What’s the topic about?”

“It’s a pressure washer manual that was translated from German into English by a German guy who speaks English, so the writing is pretty clunky. I basically have to translate the translation.”

“Chris speaks German.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, I do. I lived in Salzburg, Austria for a year. Loved it over there.”

“I’ve been thinking of moving to Spain. Or was, before my son was born. Actually, I still am. I love the idea of living in a country where a siesta is a built-in part of every day.”

“That, and you get generous vacation time. And family leave. If you have a baby over there, you get up to a year and a half off. With pay. Both mothers and fathers.”

“Holy shit. I want to move to Europe, take a job, and start having babies. Hell, having babies will be my job.”

“The healthcare system is fantastic.”

“On the downside, though, a friend of mine who moved to Germany last year just posted on Facebook today that gas costs about $8 a gallon.”

“True, but they have an excellent transportation system. Nobody thinks twice about taking the train.”

“That, and they walk everywhere. In Salzburg, on our lunch hour we’d walk fifteen blocks for a kebab. It was no big deal. There would be interesting markets and shops along the way.”

“And I complain about walking to the pizza joint across the street. I did it once, and thought, why am I doing this? I’ve got a car!“

“The thing I miss most about France is gas station baguettes.”

“They sell baguettes in gas stations over there?!”

“Not just baguettes. All kinds of things. Gas stations in France are a lot different than gas stations here. They’re very upscale, with bakeries and sit-down restaurants. Everything is baked fresh, and delicious.”

“Yeah, over here our food is always wrapped in plastic and full of preservatives. In Europe, it’s all fresh. Do they even sell cheese in plastic?”

“People usually just buy what they need. They’ll cut off a hunk for you. Same with fruit. You can buy a ten pound bag of cherries, or just a handful.”

“That’s great, but you have to shop every day, right? I don’t know if I could handle that. I dread going to the grocery store once a week.”

“You can buy enough for a couple days at a time. But they make it more convenient to shop there every day. There are markets everywhere.”

“That’s true. You hop off the train after an easy day at work, and there’s probably a market with fresh produce on the bottom floor of your flat. You just grab what you need, go upstairs, and cook yourself a meal.”

“You guys realize that somewhere in Germany right now, there are three guys standing around a break room talking about America, right? ‘Their gas stations are awful places with fried gizzards under heat lamps. They hop in their cars to drive across the street, and only get two weeks of vacation a year.’”

“‘Yeah, but their gas only costs $3-something a gallon.’”

“It’s all about perspective.”

european_city-t2

May 14 2013

You Had Me at Bacon

Saturday was an amazing day. Everywhere I went, people stared. They complimented me. Smiled when they walked by. One woman stopped us while we were shopping for groceries, and asked if she could take my picture. I was more than happy to oblige. Talk about a great day for the ego!

Then again, it wasn’t really me that people were so drawn to. It was my shirt. IMAG0833

Last week, my parents gave me a couple of belated birthday presents, since they were out of town on the big day. One of them was a red t-shirt that says, You Had Me at Bacon. For some reason, I have a reputation for loving bacon. Truth is, I’m not even sure why. I like bacon just fine, but no more so than the next guy. So I’ve indulged in the occasional maple bacon bar from Voodoo Doughnut. What self-respecting Portlander hasn’t? And, fine, I might have bought a bottle of bacon vodka once. I didn’t even like it all that much, even as a base for Bloody Marys. And okay, sure, there are rumors swirling about that I have eaten chocolate-covered bacon strips. For the record, it was one chocolate-covered bacon strip, no “s” on the end, not plural. Whatever. I also had a chocolate-covered Pringle, but nobody has ever given me a t-shirt that says, You Had Me at Stackable Potato Crisps. So I find it amusing when friends post links to bouquets of bacon roses and bacon cakes and other bacon-related paraphernalia on my Facebook wall. I would sum up my feelings for bacon thusly:

I don’t pine for the swine, but I do think it’s fine.

But yeah, I liked the shirt. I just wasn’t expecting the reaction it generated. We ended up in downtown Portland, strolling through the farmer’s market before heading to the food cart pods for a lunch break, and everywhere we went people commented on my shirt, either directly to me or behind my back as I passed by. They smiled, they pointed, they laughed (with me, not at me, I assume). I have never received so much attention in my life. And I ate it up.

Ironically (or maybe not), I ended up at a food cart called The People’s Pig for lunch. “Did we have you at bacon?” the proprietor asked. I chuckled politely and ordered a porchetta sandwich, which is technically an Italian pork roast, but I suppose it’s close enough to count. And then we were walking by a caramel corn vendor who said, “You look like a guy who would appreciate bacon-topped caramel corn” and, well, suddenly we found ourselves with a small cup of bacon-topped caramel corn, which was admittedly tasty, though we could only manage a few bites.

My shirt, it seems, turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

What do you think of bacon? Like it, love it, tolerate it, or loathe it? Have you ever worn an item of clothing that attracted attention?

 

Related articles
May 10 2013

Ketchup Spill Threatens Portland

I find it ironic that in Portland, Oregon – a city that is often considered the “greenest in America,” so much so that there is a city-wide ban on plastic bags in grocery stores – you can’t buy lunch or coffee without the cashier handing you a stack of napkins so thick they rival phone books. Or would have, back when phone books still existed.

(Well, I suppose they’re still around. A couple of years ago I complained when a phone book arrived on my doorstep. I swore up and down I had no use for it, but then one of the legs on the couch broke, and I ended up shoving the book under there to prop it up. Worked like a charm, and forced me to eat my words. Turns out the phone book is still useful).

But I digress. Back to napkins.

Maybe this happens everywhere. Regardless, it always strikes me as odd. Yesterday I was running an errand on my lunch and stopped in at Subway for a sandwich. I emerged with a bag stuffed full of napkins. And it was a measly 6″ sandwich, for crying out loud! Why would I need more than a single napkin, anyway? Crap. Maybe it’s me. I must strike people as messy. Why else would I end up with so many napkins? And it happens wherever I go. McDonald’s. The corner deli. The sushi joint down the street. Hell, I ordered a latte from Starbucks last week, and ended up with enough napkins to wallpaper the living room. And that was for a cup of coffee. I certainly didn’t intend to get any on my fingers. Granted, accidents happen, but still…

Has nobody heard of the conservation movement?

Napkins everywhere!

Napkins everywhere!

As a result, I’ve got extra napkins tucked away everywhere. My filing cabinet and desk at work. The center console of my car. Stuffed down the front of my pants. (Though, ahem, those are always there). I suppose if the shit ever hits the fan and there’s a massive ketchup spill threatening the city I’ll be prepared, but the odds of that happening have gotta be on the slim side.

Please, pretty please, public proprietors of penne pasta, pretzels, pepperoni pizza, potatoes, porridge, polenta, pork, pancakes, panini, pad thai, pastrami, pineapples, peas, pastries, peanut butter, peaches, pickles, potstickers, prawns, pudding, prime rib, poultry, pumpkin pie, popcorn, and a plethora of possible preparations I’ve yet to ponder – I only need ONE napkin.

Thank you very much.

The errand I was running, by the way? I found a repair shop that specializes in vintage stereo equipment. Remember the groovy stereo cabinet/console I scored off Craigslist a couple of weeks ago for only $40, a real steal of a deal? Well, it would have been, had the turntable worked properly (and by “worked properly,” I mean, worked). Yeah, I got it to turn, but at about half the speed it should have spun. But I absolutely love the console and figured it was worth the price to have a working record player, which was kind of the whole point of buying the thing in the first place. I certainly have no need for the eight-track. So I bit the bullet and found a place that could fix it. Wrested the turntable out of the cabinet and ran it down there on my lunch. The guy was friendly and knowledgeable; he owns a tiny shop with inconvenient hours (closed after 6:00 and on weekends), but it’s a family-owned business that’s been around since 1952, and when I walked inside, it was stocked with really cool vintage stereos, radios, and TVs. So I have confidence that he knows what he’s doing and will have my turntable running good as new in no time. The only drawback? The estimate is $80 if it just needs a good cleaning and lubrication, $125 if he has to work on the motor.

Ouch. So much for getting the cabinet for a song.

But, as Tara pointed out, it’s worth the extra cost anyway. The whole thing is in excellent condition cosmetically speaking, and I have longed for one of these cabinet consoles for years. Many of the ones I came across on Craigslist were selling for $150, $200 anyway. Even when all is said and done, I still think I ended up with a good deal. Not a GREAT deal, but I’m not complaining.

I’m saving that for all these damn napkins that keep piling up…

May 6 2013

How Shellfish of Us

Let me preface this by stating, I do not like oysters. 

Clams? Yes. And shrimp and crab and scallops and lobster and geoduck and most other types of seafood. But oysters are nasty, slimy, disgusting little gobs of flesh. That was my impression as Tara and I parked ourselves at a table at a trendy little bar called Interurban on Friday evening. It was the tail end of a long work week, and summer was in full swing in the Pacific Northwest, with sunshine and 80 degree temperatures.* So we headed out back to a cozy outdoor patio with an arbor and plants and tiny flickering candles on the tables, and ordered cocktails. We were in Portland to catch a show at Mississippi Studios, a birthday gift from Tara: a Johnny Cash tribute band called Cash’d Out. We ordered our usual – gin and tonic for me, vodka and 7-Up for her – and, when I spied oysters on the menu for $2 a pop, I went ahead and asked for a couple of those, too.

“What are you doing?” Tara asked.
“I thought we might want an appetizer,” I explained.
“I was thinking a cheese plate.”
“That’s too easy. We should try oysters.”
“I don’t like oysters.”
“Neither do I. This should be interesting.”

I honestly don’t know what possessed me to order them. The last time I’d eaten oysters, maybe ten years ago, black goo squirted out when I bit into them. And those were fried. I’d refused to so much as look at one ever since. I think maybe it’s because our food challenge is opening our eyes to new experiences and making us more culinarily adventurous.

Or maybe we’re just suckers for punishment.

In any case, the oysters arrived, glistening and raw on the half shell. They were served with mignonette sauce, a traditional accompaniment consisting of diced shallots, cracked black pepper, and vinegar. We both just sort of stared at them for awhile before mustering up the courage to try them. We squeezed a wedge of lemon over top, spooned a little of the sauce on them, and toasted to new adventures.

“Bottoms up!” we said, and swallowed.

Oysters with mignonette sauce.

Oysters with mignonette sauce.

To our utter surprise, they were delicious. So much so that we ordered another round. Our server explained the origin of each oyster – they were harvested at different locations off the Oregon coast – but I wasn’t interested in their pedigree so much as slurping another one down. Man, they were good! Even Tara, picky eater that she is, loved them. Go figure.

“Did they put you and Tara in a frisky mood?” my sis-in-law Esther asked over Facebook, when I posted the above pic.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I said to Tara, and removed my hand from beneath her bra in order to type a reply to Esther.

But it wasn’t the alleged aphrodisiac qualities that appealed to us. Those oysters were just pretty damn good, period. I guess we’ll have to experiment some more with different types whenever we come across them on a dinner menu. Hell, we may even check out an actual oyster bar now.

The rest of the evening was equally enjoyable. Right up until the part where I collapsed on the floor. Cash’d Out was amazing, reeling off Johnny Cash hit after Johnny Cash hit. “Folsom Prison Blues.” “Get Rhythm.” “I’ve Been Everywhere.” “A Boy Named Sue.” “I Walk The Line.” “I Got Stripes.” They had the whole place singing the chorus to “Ring Of Fire.” It was a really enjoyable performance, and the lead singer nailed The Man In Black. (Yes, mom, I like Johnny Cash. Have for years!).

We were right down in front, next to the stage, surrounded by a sold-out crowd, and everything was going great. And then, I started to feel funny. Just sort of “off.” My skin turned pale and cool. I felt lightheaded. My vision blurred. Tara asked if I was okay. I said yes. She asked me what was wrong. I said, “nothing.” I kept insisting nothing was wrong until I nearly fainted, and ended up losing my balance and falling to the floor.

OK. Fine. Something was wrong.

She helped me to my feet, and there were a lot of concerned faces in the crowd. One woman kept asking if I was alright. I nodded, and Tara helped me walk outside. The moment the fresh, cool air hit me, I felt immediately better. She grabbed me some water, and the panic on her face almost made me cry. I think it took me a while to convince her that I truly was okay. We went back inside for a couple more songs, but I was feeling a little woozy in there again, so we left for good. It was nearly midnight, and the band had been playing for almost two hours nonstop. I guess they had more stamina than me.

Later, I self-diagnosed myself as suffering from a combination of dehydration and heat exhaustion. I had four gin and tonics before the show, with only a brief sip of water. I realized later, that whole day, the only other beverage I had consumed was coffee in the morning. And getting back to the (*) above, I know it’s not technically summer for another month and a half, but don’t tell Portland that. It’s been sunny and hot for days now. So, the combination of me drinking only liquids that cause dehydration and inhibit cooling, coupled with the heat and the packed crowd and the sold-out show and being on my feet for two hours straight, did me in. Lesson learned. I’ll be sure to drink plenty of water now whenever we go out and alcohol is in the picture. Which is to say, whenever we go out. Heat exhaustion leads to syncope (fainting) which leads to heat stroke, and that is serious business. It can kill you. So, I’ve been scared straight. Water is my new best friend.

Well, water and oysters. Can’t wait to try some more of those bad boys!

Related articles
May 3 2013

Past, Meet Present

Growing up an Air Force brat, I never made lasting friendships.

Which is not to say I didn’t have friends. I did…but those friendships were transitory. There’s no way to avoid that when your family packs up and moves every three years or so. You make friends, and then bam! One day there’s a moving truck outside your house. Or theirs. It’s just a fact of life when you grow up in a military family. I think it makes you more independent, but also, maybe more of an introvert. Those traits are probably  the result of an innate distrust over forming tight bonds with other people. The mentality is, don’t get too close, because it’s not going to last. These experiences help shape your personality. I know they’ve directly affected me; I’m a little bit quiet, but other times I yearn for attention. I work fine in groups, but I’m more comfortable on my own. A writer is about as solitary a profession there is. Oh, and I cope with humor. You have to laugh at life, because sitting around depressed over your lot in it achieves nothing – especially when change is a constant.

/self-analysis.

Most of the time, you never hear from these people again. There are hundreds of classmates of mine spread all over the country, I am sure, people who were part of my daily life and are now scattered like seeds in the wind, strangers doing who-knows-what with their lives. People I counted as friends, as crushes. A few I have tried to find. My best friend from high school disappeared from my life 25 years ago and I have never been able to locate him, despite how easy modern technology (the internet, social media) makes it. As I’ve said, most of the time, they’re gone from your life forever.

Most of the time.

When I was growing up in Hawaii, between 1973-1977, there were two kids my brother’s age and mine who lived a couple of houses down. Andy and Julie. We were close friends, and used to play together a lot. Here’s a photo of the four of us on Ford Island in Pearl Harbor, across from the U.S.S. Arizona memorial. 1976 A.D.

Hawaii76

When a moving truck pulled up outside our house in 1977, that was it. Goodbye, Andy and Julie. I hadn’t seen, or heard from, either of them in 36 years. Thirty-six years; man, that’s a lifetime. Occasionally I would think of them, and wonder how their lives turned out, but those thoughts were fleeting. Besides, I had no idea if they even remembered me or Scott. Life and time have a habit of clouding memories. Trying to track them down seemed futile.

This is where that phrase most of the time comes into play.

A few days ago, Tara was looking through Facebook emails, and mentioned that she found one from an old friend that had gone into her “other” tab.

“What’s this ‘other’ tab?” I asked.

Well, it turns out that if you aren’t official friends with somebody on Facebook, they can still send you emails. Only instead of going to your In Box, they pop up in this Other tab. Which I had never even known existed. It’s right there, in plain sight, but if you’re not looking for it…

“You should check yours,” Tara urged.

So I did. And found a slew of emails dating back to when I first signed up for a Facebook account, in 2008. Oops. Most of them were spam or generic updates from pages I’d liked. But then I found one from a woman named Julie, dated June 2, 2012. She had the same last name as my childhood friend. But it couldn’t possibly be the same Julie, right?

Hi Mark! Not sure if you remember me but we used to be neighbors on Hickam AFB in the 70′s. My brother Andy and I used to play with you & Scott. I noticed you were on here & I thought I’d say “Hi”.

I was blown away. Truly, to hear from somebody who played such a big role in my youth, out of the blue, 36 years later (well, 35 if I had checked my email when it first arrived almost a year ago!) was a shock, to say the least. I responded immediately, hoping she hadn’t disappeared, and within minutes we were chatting, catching up on each other’s lives. Turns out both she and Andy, and their parents, all live in Phoenix now. They’re grown up, of course. They have kids. And jobs. Life went on for them, just the same as it went on for me. It’s kind of amazing to see what they look like now.

In a Facebook post earlier this week, I said I hated technology. But that’s a blanket statement. Sometimes it’s pretty useful. Occasionally, I can admit that I like it.

As cool as it was reconnecting with my childhood friends after so many years, sometimes reality does not live up to the fantasy. A couple of years ago, I wrote about a girl I had a major crush on in 5th grade. Kelly, a cute blonde who I considered at the time an unrequited love. Because after the moving truck pulled up in front of our house in 1980, I never saw her again. But I did write her a letter in which I admitted how I felt about her, and she wrote back…telling me the same thing. Holy hell, that stung. Our Relationship That Wasn’t took on mythical proportions in my mind, and I thought about her often over the years. I went through a real nostalgic period in 2011, when I wrote the above post about her, and it ended up fueling my solo road trip back to my childhood home. I decided to make an all-out effort to find Kelly. My own love life was at a standstill then; I had no idea that in a few short months I’d begin a relationship with my great friend, Tara. So I did some internet sleuthing. I figured the odds of actually finding Kelly were slim, as she was probably married with a new last name and might literally live anywhere in the world.

But I did find her.

I never wrote about that here, because – as I said – sometimes reality smacks you down to earth. I’d painted such a beautiful picture of longing and romance. I couldn’t sully that with something as trivial as the bitter truth. Because, after tracking her down, I sent her an email, reminiscing about our time together and our missed opportunity at romance.

And she had no freakin’ memory of me.

Don’t get me wrong, she was nice. A wife, a mother, a yoga instructor. Living in Texas. We chatted a bit. Talked about our 5th grade teacher, the years we spent in Ohio, what we were up to nowadays. But when I brought up our love letters back and forth, she simply did not recall anything about them. She thought she remembered me, vaguely. Talk about a knife through the heart. That was the moment I realized some things are better left untouched. The past is the past, and even when it’s painted a nostalgic shade of gold, it may still end up tarnished. Thinking that she was out there somewhere, unreachable but perhaps harboring thoughts of me once in awhile, was far better than finding her and learning she had forgotten completely about me.

I’m not bitter anymore. I have Tara, and she is better than a hundred Kellys put together.

So, have you ever gotten back in touch with somebody from your past? Did reuniting with a former friend or flame live up to expectations?

Related articles
May 1 2013
Image

Spin The Black Circle

Vinyl Heaven

See this needle…a see my hand…
Drop, drop, dropping it down…oh, so gently…
Well here it comes…I touch the plane…
Turn me up…won’t turn you away…
Spin, spin…spin the black circle
Spin, spin…spin the black, spin the black…
Spin, spin…spin the black circle

Inspired by the following comment left on yesterday’s entry: “Do you still have vinyl to play on the turntable? I didn’t think people even kept LP’s anymore.” Anybody who knows me or Tara is well aware of the answer to that. :)

Apr 30 2013

The Chipmunks Sound Like Barry White

Last Friday, as soon as I got to work I realized that I had forgotten my phone at home. My reaction was completely reasonable under the circumstances.

I flat-out panicked.

I might add that “under the circumstances” doesn’t refer to any particularly compelling need for a phone that day. There was no impending crisis, and I wasn’t expecting any important calls or texts. But nowadays, I always bring my phone with me, wherever I go. And whenever I go. Some of my most spirited games of Angry Birds have taken place behind the privacy wall of a bathroom stall. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration.

I usually stick to Words With Friends.

Seriously though, my phone is always with me. It’s on the dining room table when I’m eating, on the nightstand when I’m sleeping, and on the couch beside me when I’m watching TV. And right there on the filing cabinet next to my desk at work. Is this an obsession? I guess so, but I’m far from alone. In this day and age, everybody takes their phone everywhere. Hell, you don’t even have to refer to it as a “cell” phone anymore. Does anybody still have a landline? I gave mine up 7 or 8 years ago, and have never once missed it. I remember when I first moved into my townhouse in the fall of 2006, I briefly toyed with the idea of adding a landline in case the kids were home alone and needed to reach me, but that became a moot point when their mom got them mobile phones of their own. So now I’ve got these white plastic plates with oddly-shaped holes in the wall that serve no purpose other than to let cold drafts of air into the house. The kids probably don’t even know what they are.

WTF is this?!

WTF is this?!

Then again, I’m all about the retro decor, so you’d think I’d be into ancient rotary-dial phones with big, looping cords. Maybe I can buy one for looks. I did, over the weekend, buy a vintage Zenith stereo console/cabinet complete with eight-track and turntable off of Craigslist. I’ve wanted one of these for a long time, and a woman in Kelso was selling one for $50 – an excellent price. So Tara and I drove up there (Kelso is a good 45 minutes north of here) to check it out. The piece was beautiful, and in excellent shape. Only we discovered the record player didn’t work. The seller offered to knock off $10 if we were still interested, and so I rolled the dice and bought the thing, hoping it would be a quick and easy fix. Keep in mind that I have no mechanical aptitude whatsoever – I’m the guy who was once assembling a Weber charcoal grill and put the wheels on upside down. Yeah, the ex never let me live that one down. So we got the thing home, and I spent the better part of the afternoon tinkering with it. At first the turntable wouldn’t spin at all. We inspected the wires and they were all in good shape, so I turned to my trusty research assistant, Dr. Google, for help. I ended up removing the platter and cleaning the idler wheel and pulley with isopropyl alcohol, and actually got it to work!* I couldn’t help but feel all smart and shit. I had never even “heard” of an idler wheel before, or seen the inner workings of a turntable. Suddenly I felt like an expert.

*Working, yes – only the speed is way off. You play a record on 33 1/3 RPM and it’s slowed way down. If you put on a Chipmunks record, they’d sound like Barry White. But, hey – it spins! I’m pretty confident there’s nothing too terribly wrong with the unit. I suspect, based on my internet findings, that some of the oils have caked up inside the unit. A little disassembly and lubrication should do the trick, but I’m going to let the pros handle this one. I’ve got a lead on a stereo repair shop in Portland that specializes in vintage equipment. True, the cabinet is going to end up costing me more than I’d hoped, but like I said, it’s really nice and worth the extra investment.

This was a steal for $40! If only the record player worked...

This was a steal for $40! If only the record player worked…

Related articles
Apr 24 2013

Short Stories

It amazes me how much corporate dress codes have evolved over the years.

Fresh out of college, my first “real” job required business attire. Slacks, dress shoes, long-sleeved collared shirts and ties. It’s hard to believe I got dressed up like that every day for years. Even when I moved to Portland in late 1994 to open up a new sales office and there were a total of three employees in the beginning, we all dressed that way despite having virtually no contact with the general public. At some point the dress code was relaxed, and ties were the first to go. Then I moved on to other jobs over the years, and each one has been a little more casual than the previous. Still, if I could have seen the future fifteen years ago, I’d have been amazed to find myself wearing shorts and a Foo Fighters t-shirt to work. And I’m hardly the only one. In fact, I’m a bit overdressed, as a bunch of people have on flip-flops instead of shoes. I stuck with my Converse. Because the truth is, I still felt weird getting dressed for work this morning. Slipping on a pair of denim shorts instead of jeans (which are already pretty casual to begin with) before heading to the office is just plain strange. It feels like I’m getting away with something, and is going to take some getting used to. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very cool that management lets us dress this way. Hell, management wears shorts and Birkenstocks, too. When in Rome, right? Yet another advantage of working for a small company.

As if the barbecues and booze weren’t enough.

Speaking of, last night after work Tara and I were hanging out on the patio, grilling burgers and corn on the cob and drinking alcoholic beverages while listening to records. One of our favorite pastimes. We switched on our strands of “party lights” as dusk deepened, and watched a nearly full moon rise above the trees. The kids joined us and we ate outside, and I swear, there’s nothing better than that, is there? Food just tastes better outdoors for some reason. The whole evening felt perfect and relaxed. We never once switched on the TV, and I didn’t miss it one bit. Stimulating conversation beats Hell’s Kitchen hands down. Anyway, we were talking about our jobs at one point, and Tara asked me, “Do you ever catch yourself thinking, ‘holy shit, I’m a writer’ in disbelief?” The answer to that question is an unequivocal yes. That very thought had crossed my mind the day before, as a matter of fact. I still have pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming moments regarding my career and the freelance side business. Sometimes, it still hasn’t sunk in yet. Sure, I have a college degree in advertising, but have spent a grand total of 0 hours ever working in that industry. Hell, I was a customer service rep for much of my career, or an office manager. How does one parlay that lack of tangible experience into their dream job? Well, I know how, but still can’t believe it actually happened.

Watching a 95% waxing gibbous moon ride the sky next to our party lights = a great Tuesday evening!

Watching a 95% waxing gibbous moon ride the sky next to our party lights = a great Tuesday evening!

And I feel the same way about my relationship. How did I get so lucky? Things are so easy now, but for five or six grueling years before that they were difficult as hell. It’s such a pleasant and unexpected about-face I’m wondering, What happened…and why did it take so damn long?! Yesterday we received confirmation that Tara’s dad, his girlfriend, and her sisters will be flying out for the wedding. That somehow makes it feel even more official. Airline tickets have been purchased. There’s no turning back now, honey! {This is the point where I would insert maniacal chuckling if maniacal chuckling were part of my repertoire}. We’re planning on driving out to the Oregon coast, maybe as soon as next weekend, to check out the beach house we rented. We’re going to have a clambake the evening of the ceremony, and lots of booze. And best of all, a wedding “cake” from Voodoo Doughnut. Everything is falling into place nicely. We even hired an officiant, who will perform the ceremony and read the vows. They’re completely customizable. I think we’re going to lose the Native American prayer portion, but I may try to sneak in some reference to Frodo Baggins instead. Just because. Oh, and I’ll probably be wearing shorts during the ceremony, too.

It’ll feel just like being at work!