Tag Archives: Washington

Nevada’s a Trapezoid But We Aren’t Square

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It’s been an exciting few days. Aside from missing out on scoring an awesome piece of art – yes, I’m still fixated on the dogs playing poker tapestry! – plenty of groovy stuff has happened. The biggest piece of news is that my wonderful girlfriend is moving in with me.

That’s right. Tara and I are shacking up!!!

I’m such a romantic, huh? But truly, this is fantastic. We met in person just over a year ago, and as I was driving away from our lunch date that drizzly March afternoon, I never would have dreamed that she and I would be in an amazing relationship six months later, and starting a life together not long after that. She and I have talked about this, and it seriously boggles both of our minds. I spent a portion of this past weekend skimming through old Facebook status updates from 2009 (Timeline makes this very easy to do), and couldn’t help but smile every time there was a comment from Tara. Which was often. I love that our friendship dates back so long – it makes for a wonderful story. And also solidifies my belief that we were meant to be.

Also, there was a very interesting comment I made about “suddenly becoming a Peyton Manning fan.” As a Broncos fan, it’s strange how this has come to fruition. The past is a funny thing.

Nevada is shaped like a trapezoid. Anybody know the circumference of Vegas?!

Tara’s original plan was to find a job and then move out here, but the reality of the situation is, long-distance job hunting is even more challenging than short-distance job hunting. The fact that she wasn’t living here was a disadvantage; even though she rocked the interview for a job she was perfectly suited for a few weeks ago, the hiring manager told her straight up that not being here was a strike against her. Suddenly, it looked like she might not be able to make it out here for a long time, which would never do because we’re both so damn impatient. And then, she came up with a brilliant plan that will enable her to move out here right away and search for a job. She’s much less pickier than I am, and I’m confident it won’t take her long to find something right up her alley. Yesterday she gave three weeks’ notice to her employer, and she’ll be moving in on April 14th!

Tara, however, isn’t used to living in a large metropolitan area. There are big differences between her state and mine. For starters, Nevada is a trapezoid and Washington’s more of a rectangle. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In the interest of easing my girlfriend’s transition to life in “the city” (which is how her friends and family refer to this place – or anyplace with more than four stoplights, actually), I came up with a list that not only points out the differences between Nevada and Washington, but also provides a few handy tips to blending in with the locals and embracing the Pacific Northwest lifestyle.

Nevada v. Washington, or How To Survive in “The City”

  1. There are no video poker machines in the corner laundromat. Or the convenience store, the carwash, McDonald’s, etc. I’ve spent a lot of time in Nevada the past six months and still can’t get used to the novelty of seeing gambling machines wherever there’s a spare electrical outlet.
  2. People don’t have “jockey boxes” here, they’ve got “glove compartments.” I didn’t know what Tara was talking about the first time she mentioned a jockey box. I assumed it was a holding pen for people who race horses for a living, not the opening on the passenger side of a car’s dashboard where people store, oh you know, gloves and things. I don’t care how short he is, there’s no way you could fit a jockey in there!
  3. A “crick” is something you get in your neck, not a fast-flowing body of water. You will see plenty of CREEKS when we are hiking, dear. If we do happen to come across a crick, I’ll massage it out for you.
  4. People lock their doors when they leave the house here. I wish it could be like Ely. I was amazed that Tara would leave the house without locking the front door. This happened time and time again, whether we were leaving for ten minutes or fourteen hours. I always worried about my “stuff” disappearing, yet it never did. Almost makes up for the weird “jockey box” and “crick” talk.
  5. We freak out over snow. I know you think our two-inch snowstorms are “cute,” but you know who doesn’t? The mayor. He absolutely panics. So do most other people. If there’s so much as a threat of a few flakes in the forecast, people flock to the grocery store to stock up on essentials like salmon and hazelnuts. Oh, and we can’t drive in it, either.
  6. Rain, on the other hand? THAT we’re used to! So used to that, we don’t bother with fancy contraptions like umbrellas. Don’t buy one if you want to blend in with the locals. Or buy one, but use it as a hiking stick. Or to poke all the annoying Californians invading our slice of paradise.
  7. We take recycling very seriously. Sorry for freaking out over the fact that your dad didn’t have any recycling bins in his house. I felt like I’d committed a crime, throwing aluminum cans in the trash like that. We have bins for paper, plastic, glass, and aluminum. We even have bins for recycling our old bins.
  8. Washington is as blue as blue can be. Politically speaking, that is – I certainly don’t mean the sky. Sure, there are pockets of conservatism out there – but that’s all east of the Cascades, where the population is roughly 65. We’re the state that just legalized gay marriage and will be voting on legalizing marijuana for recreational use in the fall. We haven’t had a Republican governor since 1985!
  9. The Mob doesn’t give a damn about Washington. We do have a disproportionately large number of serial killers, however. People like Ted Bundy, Ken Bianchi and Gary Ridgway. Even the DC Sniper used to live here. Instead of burying bodies in the desert, our killers choose the forest. Which, when you think about it, is simply another form of recycling! (See # 7).
  10. There’s actually stuff to do here all the time – and you don’t have to drive 4 hours to do it. We both love music, and you’ve been busy penciling in your calendar with all the live shows you want to see. We’re going to be going to a lot of great concerts! Not to mention restaurants, art galleries, farmer’s markets, wineries, festivals, trips to the coast, etc. I promise we’ll never be bored!

 And I didn’t even mention Voodoo Doughnut…

But Have You Poached Geoduck?

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A few months ago, I tried geoduck for the first time. Prior to that, I christened “but have you tried geoduck?” as my personal catchphrase. You might say I’ve got a weird relationship with this funny-looking bivalve.

Apparently, I am not alone. A recent article – read it here – talks about how illegal harvesting of geoducks is costing the state of Washington a heckuva lot of clams. It is reported that 800,000 pounds are missing offshore, translating to a $14 million loss.

Fourteen million dollars!

My friend Mike brought this article to my attention. He jokingly asked whether Tara and I could account for our whereabouts, given our fascination with this rather tasty little delicacy. His comment may have been tongue-in-cheek, but I’m beginning to think the guy is onto something, after all. I’m thinking Tara and I should become geoduck poachers!

This would be an ideal pursuit for so many reasons…

  • The Washington coast is scenic. It’s a much better view than what you’d find parked behind a desk in a cubicle.
  • There’s nothing like fresh salt air to make you feel alive.
  • My catchphrase could double as a marketing slogan.
  • Geoduck is selling for $150 a pound in China. We’d be filthy stinkin’ rich!
  • Crack is wack, but ingesting geoduck won’t harm you. Seafood is both nutritious and delicious, as a matter of fact.
  • Did I mention we’d be rich?!

Let’s face it, this unemployment thing is getting old. Plus, Tara needs to find a job so she can move out here. This is perfect! We won’t have to deal with endless resumes and dressing up for interviews. Or that pesky little thing called income tax. Sure, we’ll have to invest in diving equipment. And work in the dead of night. And possibly deal with unsavory characters dressed in trench coats. Don’t laugh – those illegal fishmongers are a frightening bunch! But the pros definitely outweigh the cons (see: filthy stinkin’ rich). Plus, we’re both foodies, and any old time we felt like whipping up a geoduck gratin, all we’d have to do is reach into our bucket and pull out a fresh clam. So long as the dreaded East Coast Seafood Syndicate doesn’t catch us skimming the take, I see no flaw in this little plan of mine.

That baby's going to fetch a lot of clams! (Courtesy of zoodisk.com).

Maybe I can pull a Henry Hill and write a book about my experiences. Sell it to Hollywood, have Martin Scorsese make an Oscar-nominated film about it. Geofellas, anyone? Has a nice ring to it! Ray Liotta’s a bit old to play me, but surely Matt Damon would fit the bill. He’s more age-appropriate, and quite a dead ringer, if I do say so myself. OK, maybe not, but still. I would’ve suggested Mark Wahlberg but didn’t want to get too carried away.

Side note: I wrote an e-mail to Henry Hill once…and he responded. I was nearly beside myself with excitement. Henry Hill is the real-life gangster who betrayed the mob in exchange for his own freedom, and ended up in the witness protection program. There’s that scene in Goodfellas where they’re making spaghetti sauce and slicing the garlic really thin with a razor blade, and I asked him if that’s really how the boys did it. He confirmed that this was, indeed, a trick of the Italian trade. Naturally, I made a trip to the store and bought a pack of razor blades. The next time I made spaghetti, I sliced the garlic really thin with a razor blade. Didn’t notice any discernible difference in the flavor or texture of the sauce, but boy did I feel cool doing so!

Anyway.

I’d better make like Ralph Kramden and focus my efforts on this get-rich-quick geoduck scheme. I suppose I oughtta figure out a way to rig this post to self-destruct after a certain amount of time, just in case the Feds get wind of my plan.

Hmm, it may be time to drop Henry Hill another line…

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The Day After

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I hate the day after.

The day after my girlfriend leaves. It means another wonderful visit has come and gone, and spells a return to a normal routine that no longer feels “normal” or “routine.” The realization that she was here less than twenty-four hours ago is hard to bear; it’s all still fresh, and often I’ll find myself thinking, yesterday at this time we were…{fill in the blank with whatever we were doing, and it doesn’t really matter what we were doing, the simple fact that we were together is enough}, my mind remembering every minute detail, my heart aching with the pain of separation.

I’m sentimental to a fault sometimes.

And I know, in the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. She keeps calling the past eight days her last visit here, for now the focus has turned to searching for a job. Once she finds one, she will move here, and we can begin a life together. She is optimistic it won’t take long, and lord knows she’s far less pickier than I am when it comes to work (this is a compliment). Still, every moment we’re apart stings a little now. It doesn’t help that we’re both impatient, or that there is no firm date for the next time we see each other, a first since we began dating back in September. There’s always been some concrete event to look forward to, and the countdown app on my phone has never before been void of days to tick down toward. I think it makes this time apart the roughest yet, and believe me, no goodbye has ever been easy. We’ve talked about meeting in Boise for a couple of days sometime between now and That Future Then When She’s Here For Good. We’ll see how everything goes.

And yet, I remain happier than I’ve been in years. The pain of separation speaks volumes about the depth of that joy. Soon, I tell myself. Very soon these goodbyes will be nothing but a memory. There will be no day after to contend with.

It’s all good in the hood, as they say. Or maybe nobody actually says that, but they should. It’s clever and it rhymes.

Anyhoo.

LONG PARAGRAPH WARNING!!!

The Days During were pretty stinkin’ good, as always. Hanging out with the kids last weekend was a blast; Tara and Audrey bonded on Sunday, shopping together and even getting manicures. I was impressed, as The Daughter has never been much of a girly girl (which explains the black nail polish, but I thought that was cool and loved the fact that Tara would go out of her way to do something special with Audrey). After dropping the kids off Sunday night, we got all gussied up and hit the town for a belated Valentine’s Day dinner at Jake’s Famous Crawfish, Portland’s oldest restaurant (dating back to 1892), and I introduced her to the wonder and joy that is Powell’s Books. The baked salmon stuffed with crab, shrimp and brie, and the seafood fettucine were excellent. These came from Jake’s, not Powell’s, in case you were wondering and the word “books” didn’t tip you off. Monday we relaxed around the house, partaking in the grilled cheese experiment and watching movies, before making a fantastic dinner of steaks, sauteed mushrooms, garlic bread, artichokes dipped in mayo (never had this before but man alive am I hooked), and margaritas. Since we’re both foodies, one thing we do enjoy together is the art of good eating! Tuesday, we were on the interstate by 9 AM, destination: The Emerald City. Seattle, not Oz (because somebody forgot to pack their ruby slippers this time around). We arrived shortly after noon, made a quick stop to say hi to her brother Eric, and then killed a couple of hours at Pike Place Market. I love it there! Picture acres of fresh produce and just-caught seafood, fish flying through the air, hot doughnuts fresh from the fryer, quirky shops, and a big brass pig. It’s such a cool place, and I hadn’t been in a few years. When we came up for the City Arts Festival in October we discovered a little hole in the wall Chinese restaurant called Genghis Khan, which served the most fantastic orange beef we’d ever had, so a return visit was in order, and since it was lunchtime, our timing was perfect. The beef (and sweet ‘n sour prawns) were every bit as good as we’d remembered. By mid-afternoon it was time to meet up with Tara’s mom, Tracy, in Bothell, so we left the market and parked the car at the park and ride station in Bothell, down the street from her home. She sort of surprised us by suddenly appearing in front of the car while we were in the middle of a rather intense make-out session…oopsie. Not quite in flagrante delicto, but let’s just say if the windows weren’t steamed up, they should’a been. I cooked us fried chicken that night, and Tracy made mashed potatoes and country gravy. Yummy stuff. Wednesday we mostly hung around the house; Tara and Tracy were throwing a baby shower for Eric’s girlfriend, Anne, that evening; when they left, Tracy’s boyfriend David and I kicked it at home and decided to watch a couple of movies. I’d never seen Gone With The Wind before and he urged me to check it out, so I did – and naturally, was quite impressed. It’s not considered a classic for nothin’, after all. We put on Urban Cowboy next, a different sort of classic film…if you’re fond of John Travolta, anyway. Which I am. So that was a nice and relaxing day. Thursday, Tara and I went out to breakfast and then – on a whim – decided to drive across Stevens Pass to Leavenworth, a quaint Bavarian village on the other side of the Cascades. I’d always wanted to go, and had no idea it was a mere 100 miles from Bothell. We had a fantastic time there, strolling hand-in-hand through town and stopping in at various shops – an olive oil and vinegar place, a hippie joint (pun intended), a Christmas store, an antique place, a taffy shop – and naturally, had to buy a big ol’ soft and warm German pretzel to share on our way back. That evening Tracy made a pork roast with garlic mashed potatoes, and Eric and Anne came over for dinner and Wii bowling. I was promised a lemon if I made a beer run with Eric, and eagerly took Tara up on that offer. (Inside joke. Very funny. Trust me). We then played cards before heading to bed. Friday we said our goodbyes and made the trek back home; we had my parents over for dinner, and Tara was sweet enough to cook for them, whipping up her chicken broccoli braid. It was a night of good conversation, the wine was flowing, and Frank Sinatra crooned to us over the iPod. Saturday sucked. But only because of that trip to the airport at 3:30. Before that, the day was just fine and dandy! So, all in all, an excellent visit.

It just makes me that much more eager to have her around all the time. It’s going to be amazing.

Our belated V-Day dinner.

The Chef's Special that night: baked salmon stuffed with shrimp, crab and brie. It was heavenly.

Because I'm a romantic bastard, remember?

The iconic sign at Pike Place Market.

Pike Place: It's like an indoor farmer's market on steroids.

A plate full of orange awesome and sweet 'n sour delicious!

View from near the summit - Stevens Pass, WA.

My sneaky girlfriend hiding a snowball, which was subsequently launched in my direction.

Leavenworth, WA.

Even the Starbucks in Leavenworth looks like it's in the middle of Germany.

Love Is In The Air. And Chowder, too.

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A few days ago I got a hankering for a really good cup of clam chowder, so I did what anybody would do to satisfy that craving: made a 240-mile round trip to go get me some.

What? You wouldn’t?!

One of the things that attracted me to Tara was the fact that she once drove 72 miles for a corn dog. Clearly, this is a woman after my own heart.

And okay, fine, there was more than just the clam chowder at the end of my destination. There was sand and surf and salt air. The ocean. Fun shops to browse through. And the world’s largest frying pan. I’d been longing to take a trip to Long Beach, Washington for some time now – and with a kid-free Saturday looming large, decent weather (meaning overcast and drizzly), and an iPod full of tunes, the open road beckoned this past weekend. I decided to hit the road at 9 AM sharp. I stopped in Astoria a couple of hours later to walk along the Columbia River for a bit, before proceeding across the 3.5-mile long bridge that connects Oregon and Washington. I arrived in Long Beach about 11:30.

The unique and cool thing about this place is, cars are allowed on the beach. If you’ve never done so before, let me tell you – driving across the sand is a blast! I had my window rolled down and the breeze in my hair made me giddy with excitement and the sense of adventure.

And cold, too. Brr. February on the Washington coast? A tad chilly. I quickly rolled the window back up.

But still, it was a great way to spend the day. I took a walk along a section of the world’s longest beach (yes, it really is) before retreating to my car to watch the waves crash to shore. I spent an hour or two reading and relaxing and enjoying the scenery. Back in town, I hit a few stores. And when 4:00 rolled around, I headed to a bar and grill called Castaways Seafood Grille for a couple of cocktails. And that clam chowder I had come so far to have. It was delicious, I’m happy to report. And then I added fish ‘n chips to go along with it. I always crave those when I’m at the coast. Properly full, I headed back to the beach, and fate smiled down upon me by providing just enough of a break in the overcast to surprise me with a sunset. It was unexpected, and magnificent.

I then made the long trek back home in the dark, arriving back at Casa Petruska eleven hours after I set out. It was pretty much the perfect day.

I say “pretty much” because Tara wasn’t with me, and she was the one missing ingredient. But while she wasn’t there physically she was there in spirit, and we texted and talked throughout the day, anyway. Next time I go, we will go.

I’m also a little sad that we aren’t together for Valentine’s Day, which is ironic because I never cared much for this day. I used to refer to it as a phony holiday invented by greeting card companies looking to make a fast buck, assuming there were kickbacks involved between the chocolate and flower industries, as well. God, I’m such a romantic. But I realized that this attitude only existed when I was single, or married to somebody who complained that the flowers I gave her weren’t nice enough or delivered to her work. Is it any wonder I greeted this day with cynicism?! I have since discovered that when you are in a relationship that makes you happy, you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with the person you love. So, the distance between us feels greater than usual today. Add in the fact that today is our official five-month anniversary, and it’s even worse.

But.

Next year we’ll be celebrating together. And, Tara is coming up for another visit on Friday, and staying for eight days and nights. We’re celebrating VD a few days late with a dinner in Portland on Sunday. This helps soften the blow.

It’s going to be a fantastic visit, and brings us ever closer to the day when she moves in with me for good. Every day will feel like Valentine’s then.

Aww. What do you know? I am a romantic bastard, after all.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge spans the Columbia River and connects Oregon and Washington.

That there's the world's largest frying pan in the background.

Well worth the 240-mile roundtrip.

Don't know who these people are, but I don't care: I love this shot.

Keep Your Pennies, Canada

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I’m so excited!!

Not because I’m going to Boise tomorrow to meet up with my girlfriend. Well, that too. But also…look what I found!

I’m unable to embed the video, but if you click on the link you can listen/watch on YouTube. A British pop group called Frazier Chorus had a hit song back in 1990 that was an ode to my favorite overlooked cloud. And if you never get the time, and never get to see cloud nine, there’s a place where you can wait on cloud eight. I feel better knowing that poor ol’ cloud eight did get a little love some twenty years ago. Thank you, obscure English pop band. I can now float on cloud nine free of guilt.

In other news, I won the lottery the other day!

OK, truth be told, I didn’t actually win the lottery. Or even play it. But a guy can pretend, right? On Tuesday, I sauntered over to the big, green CoinStar machine in Fred Meyer, where I deposited all the loose change I had gathered the past few months. If you’re unfamiliar with CoinStar, it’s a kiosk about the size of a vending machine, where you can convert spare change into either currency (less a small fee) or a gift card. I never carry change around in my pocket; I drop it into a piggy bank on my dresser instead, and when the ceramic pig gets full, I pay a visit to the CoinStar machine. The experience is sort of like being in a casino, anyway; you’ve got the sound of coins dropping and the palpable excitement and anticipation of seeing exactly what your payoff is going to be. It always feels like free money to me. I suppose I could meticulously count, sort, and wrap up all my coins and take them to the bank to cash in so as to avoid the 9.8% CoinStar fee, but where’s the excitement in that? Plus then, I have to deal with tellers. I’m a pretty likable guy who gets along with almost everybody, but for some reason bank tellers hate me. Seriously. It’s probably because I always screw up the deposit slips, or don’t have my account number handy. In any case, I prefer the anonymity of a big, green machine (in much the same way that I really dig the U-Scan self-serve checkout machines in the grocery store, even though cashiers, unlike tellers, like me just fine).

Here I am, hoping to hit the jackpot!

So anyway, I ended up with $38, minus a Canadian penny the machine did not like. Don’t you hate it when Canucks try to sneak their currency into our system? Nothing chaps my hide more than seeing maple leaves on a coin. Does it look like we have moose wandering through the streets? Viva la America, baby!

Interestingly, my link says the average CoinStar transaction is $38. Yay me for not being a statistical anomaly (though I kinda wish I was the guy in Alabama who cashed in $13,000 worth of pennies (minus the worthless Canadian ones, of course)).

It was a good trip to the grocery store because, not only did I end up with one of those baby carts I so adore, but I also had about $15 worth of coupons. My total bill was $18, which means I came home with food and, also, $20 ahead. Score!

The icing on the cake this week (it’s been a pretty good one!) was the passage of ballot measure I-1183 in Washington. This repeals the Prohibition-era state-run liquor store monopoly. It’s about time, Evergreen State! When I lived in California, I was used to being able to buy vodka and rum in the grocery store. Up here, you can only buy hard booze in a state-controlled liquor store. This translates to fewer options, higher prices, and the inability to get drunk on Sundays. That’s just not convenient, folks! But the voters spoke, and we’re abolishing the system. Come June, any grocery store larger than 10,000-square feet will be able to sell liquor. How great will that be? I can cash in my change with CoinStar and then go pick up a bottle of tequila!

It’ll really feel like a casino then.

I was somewhat dismayed when one of my very Republican friends named Eric “liked” the YES ON I-1183 page on Facebook, as I had. We couldn’t be further apart in our political philosophies. I never thought we’d agree on anything! The truth is, I voted against my party on this issue. Most Democrats, including our governor, were staunchly opposed. But I’m about as liberal as they come, and pretty sure this brief glimmer of conservatism is an anomaly. My “yes” vote simply means I’m against regulation and monopolistic practices.

Or a lush.

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Where’s That King Arthur Dude?

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I think there’s something weird in the air up here. The past couple of days, the news has been full of some very bizarre goings-on that are a wee bit too close to home for comfort.

It all started when some guy in Portland got into an argument with his stepson. The kid invited a few friends over for the night, and they were being loud –  as teenagers often are – so the stepdad kicked them out. The boys came back the next morning and started beating on the stepdad’s truck with sticks and pipes. Realizing that even the always-perky Flo from Progressive couldn’t prevent his insurance premiums from skyrocketing now, the dude hopped in the truck and chased after the boys, hitting two of them “at a slow speed.”

This, in turn, angered the kids. Apparently being sort-of run over is a sign of disrespect in the ‘hood, so they turned around and chased after him, again beating on his truck. Question number one: how’d they catch him? He was in a vehicle, they were on foot, and he doesn’t strike me as being the law-abiding type, what with the whole hitting-kids-with-his-pickup thing. Speed limit, schmeed limit. Question number two: if attacking his truck the first time led him to go all Mad Max on them, did they think doing it again would result in a less-hostile outcome?! I think there was plenty of stupidity all around here.

You scratched my truck. Now you must pay!

Really peeved now, the stepdad ran inside the house and grabbed a machete. That’s right, one of those long, sharp swords that are useful for cutting trails through the rainforest. What, you don’t have one stashed away in the hall closet? Haven’t you ever heard the saying “it’s a jungle out there?” Reminds me of that scene in Pulp Fiction where Bruce Willis is choosing a weapon to deal with his Deliverance-style attackers and settles on the machete. Sort of a case of life imitating art right here in P-Town! The boys, staring down the business end of a very wicked blade, decided to fight back with weapons of their own.

Garden rakes.

Which are perfectly fine for scooping autumn leaves into neat little piles, but as defense against a machete-wielding nutjob? Not so good. Fortunately, the whole ruckus ended with a few minor injuries, and some jail time for the dude with the really big knife.

Not to be outdone, a stepdad in Washington (hey, mom – thanks for staying married to dad all these years, by the way! I’m beginning to feel like I dodged a bullet here) forced his sixteen-year old stepdaughter to dress in armor and fight him with a wooden sword in a medieval-style duel.

You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

The girl did something terrible, committing an offense that no other teenager in the history of time has ever dared to partake in: she disobeyed her parents. That’s right: she went to a party – without their permission.

{Insert gasps of outrage}.

Her mother and stepfather, after gasping outrageously over this blatant transgression, decided to dole out punishment. Nerds to the core Renaissance enthusiasts who often recreate medieval-era battles (hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?), and clearly confused over the fact that the Round Table down the street was actually a pizza restaurant and not home to King Arthur’s court, they made the girl fight them with a sword for two hours, until she collapsed from exhaustion. As opposed to grounding her or revoking her driving privileges or something more mundane (yawn). And just to ensure the fight was fair, they beat her with a tree branch first. Which reminds me of another scene in a different movie: remember how Commudus stabbed Maximus in Gladiator just before their big fight? What ever happened to playing fair?

You ordered a large supreme, m'lord?

Also in my beloved state-that-was-named-after-a-President, a woman attacked her sleeping husband with an electric saw over the weekend. When the cops arrived she claimed an intruder had entered the home through a window and attacked her slumbering sweetie, but in her haste to make this farfetched story sound believable, forgot to remove the child lock – a device that prevented the window from opening more than a few inches.

They would have doubted her story anyway, since her husband was quoted as shouting, “You tried to cut my head off!” while gesturing wildly at the woman he had exchanged I dos with.

I’d reckon that once you awaken to a power saw slicing into your neck and shoulder, you’re beginning to rethink all that “til-death-do-us-part” stuff.

So, what’s the deal? Has the whole world gone crazy…or is it just the Pacific Northwest?

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I’m Not A Portlander*

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Last week, my friend Jess Witkins e-mailed me to let me know I had won a book she was giving away as part of a contest on her blog. I was thrilled, because

  1. One can never have too many books, and
  2. It was free.

Not necessarily in that order, but then again, I’ve been outta work awhile, yo.

Jess asked for my address, and I fired off a reply, thinking nothing of it…until I received a rather astonished response.

WHAT?!  Where’s the Portland address?  I just did a double take.

Oh…right. That. I am, after all, forever raving about Portland. How much I love it here, talking about the places I like to go, even posting pictures of “my beloved Rose City.” I can see why she assumed I have a Portland address. Probably most of my readers think that. And I don’t blame y’all if you do. I kind of, sort of, (un?)intentionally imply that Portland is my home. But because this is National Coming Out Day, an occasion in which one should proudly declare the truth about whom, exactly, one really is…it’s time to step forward and admit the truth to the world, for once and for all.

I am not a Portlander.

In my defense, I’m almost a Portlander. I do live in the “Portland Metropolitan Statistical Area.” Which is why I stuck that asterisk up there in my title. One could argue (and I have, more than once) that living in the PDX MSA still makes me a Portlander. My mailing address just happens to be another city. And, if I’m being completely honest, another state.

Yes, people. I live in Vancouver, Washington. Everybody happy now?

Not a bad place to call home!

The reasons for this tiny, barely significant, reasonable-under-the-circumstances little white lie…nay, not even that so much as a minor, itty-bitty sin of omission…are pretty understandable: whenever I tell people where I’m really from, it confuses them and leads to a series of explanations that I’d honestly rather not deal with.

If I say I’m from Vancouver, they respond, “The Great White North, eh? Have you ever seen a moose? How’s that socialized medicine working out for you? Who’s going to win the Stanley Cup this year? Can you pass me a beer?”

When I correct them with a No, not Canada – Washington, I get, “Oops. So, is it true that the Beltway is the murder capital of the world? Ever run into a Congressman in the grocery store? Think the Redskins will put together a good team this year? Can you pass me some crack?”

It’s maddening, so I usually just say Portland.

Even that answer isn’t without its flaws, as I could theoretically be talking about that other city in Maine, but most people do correctly assume I mean Oregon. And that’s another reason why I don’t mind having them believe that: Portland is cool. It’s hip. It’s funky and cutting-edge and liberal and environmentally conscious and – as evidenced by IFC’s television show Portlandia - not afraid of poking fun at itself. All traits that I really like. So yeah, go ahead and think I’m a Portlander. I like the association.

And the truth is, I also like Vancouver. In many regards, living here is the best of both worlds: I’m just a few miles north of the Columbia River, the border between Oregon and Washington, which means I can easily shop in Oregon (no sales tax!) and work in Washington (no income tax!). Downtown Portland, and all the culture it offers, is twenty minutes away; the Oregon coast, 100 miles. Houses are less expensive in Vancouver, the crime rate is lower, and I can pump my own gas. Plus, it really is a beautiful town – very green, lots of trees and lakes and rivers, mountains in the distance. We’ve got a killer farmer’s market and an awesome waterfront. Some people claim Vancouver is a “bedroom community,” but you know what? The bedroom is probably my favorite room in the house. So, there!!

I no longer suffer from an identity crisis. I’m proud to call Vancouver, Washington home.

And, statistically speaking, I’m also still a Portlander. That’s called a win-win!

Getting My Griswold On – Day 14: Home!!

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Miles traveled today: 448.3
Total miles traveled: 5684.3

“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”
— Jack Kerouac (On the Road)

Thirteen days after setting out, during which time I traveled through fourteen states, experienced four time zones, and racked up more than 5600 miles, I returned home,  pulling into the driveway at almost 1:00 exactly. I opened the front door and was greeted by a very happy cat. I dropped to my knees and immediately began petting her, and marveled over the fact that I was in my very own townhouse again. My very first thought? How big this place is! Which is funny, because it isn’t, but after living in ten different motel rooms over the course of two weeks, the place looked huge. Oddly enough, there was no bed taking up the majority of the space, either. Even though I had the time of my life, and will forever consider this road trip an amazing adventure full of fun and discovery, it is always nice to come back home. You know the saying: be it ever so humble…

My last night on the road did not disappoint. Once the sun set and dusk settled in (10 PM this time of year in this part of the country), I grabbed my camera, hopped in the car, and drove down Vista Avenue in the direction of downtown Boise. I had scoped out Ann Morrison Park, site of the big fireworks extravaganza, earlier but it was closed to vehicles and elbow-to-elbow with people. They were still streaming in as the festivities were beginning. Rather than battle the crowds, I pulled over into a grocery store parking lot and watched the display from there. It was nothing short of spectacular, and I thought to myself, how fitting that the last day of this incredible road trip across America would end with a literal bang.

4th of July fireworks over Boise, ID.

It was an emotional moment for me. I had seen so much of this great country of ours over the past two weeks, you might say I fell in love with the U.S.A. all over again. I felt a swelling of patriotic pride as the fireworks rumbled and boomed over Boise and silently congratulated myself for accomplishing my dream of traveling across a great swath of America. It was a grand finale in more than one sense of the word.

Once the fireworks ended, I left the parking lot and drove the few miles back to my motel. On the way there, my car’s odometer rolled over to 100,000 miles. Wow! I have never owned a car longer than five years before, and the ol’ Hyundai Santa Fe is now nine years old. She’s been the most reliable and dependable car ever, and even though she struggled a bit in Wyoming, she found her mojo again today on the last leg of the trip and will, hopefully, continue to perform well for a while. As a reward for carrying me more than 5000 miles, I’m giving her a few days off this week. She has earned it.

When I got back to my room, I was excited because I knew after unwinding it was time for bed, and when I woke up, I would begin the final portion of my trip. I was more than ready to come home by then! My alarm was set for 6:00, but I woke up a little before that and got up. Took my last motel shower for awhile, packed up my stuff, checked out, and hit the road. While my drive through Idaho the day before was surprising because I’d been expecting trees but found desert, my drive through Oregon today was equally surprising because I’d been expecting desert but found trees. Ha…so much for my knowledge of geography! Seriously, everybody knows that Oregon (and Washington) are like two separate states: there is the wet side west of the Cascades (home!), and the dry side east of the Cascades. But I had never actually been to eastern Oregon before, and did not realize I’d cross two mountain ranges – the Wallowa and the Blue – before settling into the arid, flat portion. My drive was beautiful, all snow-capped peaks and forested hillsides and streams. I stopped at a rest area outside Baker City, and the air was actually chilly! I’ve been so used to opening my car door and being greeted by a blast of hot air, this was both a shock and a welcome relief. Alas, the landscape did change for the worse, but then it changed for the better again as I drove through the Dalles and entered the Columbia River Gorge. I was thrilled to see familiar sights again, and marveled anew over the lush, green beauty of this place I call home. And while I loved the thunderstorms I encountered on my trip, and miss the fireflies, and wish it would snow more than it does, I can say with certainty after my travels that I am living in the greatest place in the country. For me, at least. The Portland metropolitan area is, and always will be, my true home.

I spent a lot of time reflecting on my trip during the last few days of driving. Was it everything I’d hoped it would be when I first set out during what feels like a lifetime ago? The answer is an unequivocal yes. I had a fantastic time! Every day was an adventure, and the journey truly was just as much fun as the destination. The trip opened my eyes to different parts of the country, and allowed me to experience how others live across this great land of ours. The great plains and the midwest are so incredibly different than the Pacific northwest, and yet, charming and unique in their own way. I’d been feeling pretty insulated here in my little corner of America, and now I feel like the world is a much bigger place, wide open and full of possibility. I saw that firsthand. It was almost like I got to experience a different culture – one in which Sinclair gasoline stations and White Castle hamburger joints and row after row of cornfields dot the landscape; where the weather is often dramatic and intense; and the people – no matter how different their lives may be – are, at heart, really the same as me.

I realized, as well, the truth behind the saying “life goes on.” 25 years after leaving Rapid City, and 31 years after bidding farewell to Dayton, both places had changed some…but they also stayed remarkably the same. I found my childhood home, wearing new colors and sheltering a different family, but still standing, exactly where I had left it decades ago. Same goes for my elementary school and my high school. Growing up an Air Force brat is a transitory existence; everything seems fleeting and temporary. Retracing my footsteps was comforting in an odd sort of way I can’t really describe. It showed me there is permanence in the world, after all. My memories are more than just memories: they’re part of a bigger, ongoing reality. It was a fantastic experience to see these places again.

Best of all, I no longer feel like my life is boring or empty. I’ve seen a lot, and yet, I’ve barely scratched the surface. There’s a lot to see and do still, and while my wanderlust has been cured for now, I have no doubt there are future adventures just waiting for me to discover them.

But for now, I’m going to relax.

My car's odometer rolled over to 100,000 miles on July 4, 2011.

Mount Hood meant I was getting closer to home!

The familiar scenery of the Columbia Gorge served as a verdant reminder of why I love this part of the country so much.


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Getting My Griswold On – Day 1: Spokane, WA

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Miles traveled today: 375.3
Total miles traveled: 375.3

Entry # 1 in the chronicle of my twelve-day trek across a good portion of America kicks off in an air-conditioned Howard Johnson’s Inn in Spokane, Washington. It’s late but I’m pretty wired, having just finished dinner (a roast beef sub from a local sandwich shop called Jimmy John’s). Today was a hectic day; I was on the go from the moment I woke up until…well, now. It feels good to relax.

As the first half of the day raced by, I quickly realized one thing: I should have started packing much sooner. With an hour to go before my departure, I had an empty suitcase, and I was still burning CDs, for crying out loud. Hey, with all this driving ahead of me, I cannot stress enough the importance of having plenty of good music to while away the hours. I googled “road trip music” and loaded a couple of CDs full of Steppenwolf (Born To Be Wild), Sammy Hagar (I Can’t Drive 55), Golden Earring (Radar Love), The B-52s (Roam), Johnny Cash (I’ve Been Everywhere), and – well, you get the picture. Really good driving music. I finally finished packing, loaded the car, and shuttled the kids to their mom’s house.

At 2:22 exactly, I hit the road, pointing my car east, the general direction I’ll be traveling for the next week. The first song I heard to kick off my journey was Holiday Road, Clark Griswold’s anthem from the original National Lampoon’s Vacation and, in my opinion, the ultimate road trip song. I immediately got into the spirit, singing along and enjoying the scenery. My journey began on the Washington side of the river, driving through the Columbia Gorge until I reached the Bridge of the Gods and crossed into Oregon. From there it was a few hours driving down I-84 before I crossed back into Washington. Mountain formations gave way to dry, arid steppes and eventually just a whole lot of empty farmland. While driving through this desolate stretch I was struck with an overwhelming disbelief that I am really doing this, and I felt proud of myself. Not everybody would hop in the car pretty much on a whim and take a solo trip through a wide swath of the country like this. I love the impulsive feel of the whole thing.

What I did not love were the scraggly-looking hitchhikers thumbing for rides in Oregon. I passed a few of them, and they all looked homeless. The last guy grabbed his crotch in a rude gesture as I went flying by. Considering that he resembled Charles Manson, I’m thinking my decision to continue without stopping was wise.

A little while after I passed through Ritzville, Washington the landscape began to change. Barren farmland gave way to pine trees and firs. My GPS unit told me Spokane was less than ten miles away, but I found that hard to believe – it still looked like I was in the middle of nowhere. And then, suddenly, there it was, looming on the horizon. Spokane is the second-largest city in Washington and the third-largest in the Pacific Northwest, behind Seattle and Portland. It’s much more impressive than I ever imagined – it’s got trees and hills and rivers and a funky downtown, and reminded me a lot of home. I arrived at my motel a few minutes past 8:00, and even though I was hungry, I wanted to get out and explore before the sun went down, so I checked into my room and got back into the car. I headed down to Riverfront Park, about a ten-minute drive from where I’m staying, on the advice of the friendly motel clerk. I parked the car and walked around this gorgeous park, site of the 1974 World’s Fair. I crossed a suspension bridge over the incredibly fast-flowing Spokane Falls and marveled over the beauty of the area as the sun sank below the horizon, finally heading back to my room – regretfully – as dusk descended.

Despite 5.5 hours on the road today, I easily could have gone farther, which bodes well for the rest of my trip as this will be the shortest travel day. And it’s weird; I’m still in my home state, so in a sense it feels like my trip hasn’t even really begun. However, the Idaho border is just twenty miles away, and tomorrow I will be traveling across Montana. Montana! Now, that sounds a little more exotic. My plan is to hit the road early – shortly after 6:00. Hope I can sleep tonight!

Here are some photos from today.

Sydney, preventing me from packing - the suitcase was still empty.

The beginning of my journey: looking east toward the Columbia Gorge.

The Bridge of the Gods - it costs $1 to enter Oregon.

The middle of Washington is pretty boring.

Civilization! Spokane, Washington.

Spokane Falls. It was amazing how turbulent this water was!

Riverfront Park in Spokane - site of the 1974 World's Fair.

Sunset over Spokane, Washington. The sky was absolutely gorgeous!

Clock tower in Spokane's Riverfront Park.

The obligatory self-portrait (at dusk), proving I was there!

Kaboom (A Somber Anniversary)

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Thirty-one years ago today, Mount St. Helens erupted.

I was not living here at the time, and was pretty young anyway, but I remember being awestruck by the news reports. As a kid, I thought volcanoes were “cool” and used to draw pictures of them erupting molten lava into the air. Mount St. Helens claimed the lives of 57 people that day, so it isn’t really appropriate to glamorize the eruption, but one can still be in awe of the immense power of nature’s fury.

When I moved up here in the mid-90s, I made it a point to visit the Mount St. Helens National Monument as soon as possible, and have returned many times since over the years. Sometimes I’ll visit the Johnston Ridge Observatory, and other times, I’ll make the trek to the more desolate, less touristy Windy Ridge Viewpoint. A couple of years ago, I hiked across the pumice plain to Loowit Falls, a waterfall that spills out of the crater. That was a hot and dusty hike, and ended up being one of the most incredible I’ve ever been on. It felt like walking across the surface of the moon at times, the landscape was so barren. And yet, it continues to change; it’s already much more lush and green than it was the first time I visited, some 16 years ago. I consider it a beautiful and sacred place, and a wonderful day trip.

I was there a week before it rumbled back to life in 2004, and over the next few years bore witness to several spectacular steam and ash eruptions, clearly visible on the northern horizon. Mount St. Helens is about 45 miles away from where I live, and on clear days it’s visible all over town. It is always there, a hulking background presence, its peak covered in snow most of the year. The mountain is quiet now, having finished its latest eruptive cycle in 2008, but the lava dome in the crater is still steaming, and we all know that one day…maybe 100 years from now, but maybe tomorrow…it will awaken once again.

Today, on the 31st anniversary of the eruption, I drove up there again. Here are some photos from my day.

The sleeping giant. 31 years ago today, a column of ash rose 5 miles into the sky as the mountain erupted violently.

The drive to Mount St. Helens offers stunning vistas (and scary bridges traversing canyons).

Beyond this point, you would've been toast in 1980.

Johnston Ridge Observatory

Snow is still piled high in the parking lot of the Johnston Ridge Observatory.

Johnston Ridge Observatory

Note to Mother Nature: summer is only a month away!

Lava Dome

Steam still escapes from the lava dome in the crater of Mount St. Helens.

Yours truly, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare of the sun and snow.

Snow-capped mountains receding in the distance as I return home.

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