Like a Rolling Stone

My door was ugly and gross and peeling. I have been feeling the same way myself lately. I needed a project to keep my hands occupied, while my brain is reeling from a combination of depression, insomnia, and overstudying.

So I cleaned it, put tape on it and started to paint it. I didn't realise the paint I was going to use had the gritty crap in it that i use on the floors for traction. this is ugly on doors. i know that, because i accidentally did the same thing on the door to the garage. I wound up going to home despot. I asked the paintgirl for a quart of Black Suede, which the same paint that I have on most of the floors of the house, because it is porch and floor paint and my door is on the porch. Also because I see an ugly, gross door, and I want to paint it black.

"Do you want it shiny?" she asked. She was clearly a temptress. 

At this point, a snap decision was made. I already know my mother will not approve of the colour. I also know she loves eggshell. The floors are eggshell, the walls are eggshell, eggshells are eggshell. I hate eggshell. But i live on the edge. I went  with a sexy high gloss. Its a door after all. It says right on the container that gloss is for doors.

(For future reference, the answer to that shiny question is always "YESS!!!!")

While the door was drying I had to leave it open. For 8 hours. Since I was there anyway, I decided to do something about the porch. I wanted to do it grey, and I had some Elephant Gray left from the clown room, which surprisingly doesn't have gritty crap in it. So I washed it down and painted.

Now my porch is pretty again. I am so happy to be rid of the yellow grossness and gacky old door look. Now it looks fancy and classy. My parents will hate it.

No Disintegrations

I am currently in the midst of collapsing 24+ weeks worth of graduate course work into slightly less than 2 weeks. This is making my brain melty and my stress level way too high.  So it was ridiculously amazing today when as I was in the process of puddling from the heat, I got a package from a friend. (THANKS, DASH!!!)

I've never played with legos outside of the lego video games, so it was pretty exciting, and building stuff was a nice break from learning. It took me like two hours, but I finally put together a carbonite freezing chamber of my very own. My brain is too melty for more words,  but if you really like Legos (and/or Boba Fett or Ugnaughts) then here are some pictures. I was messing with some depth of field and selective focus, so yes I know parts of them are out of focus.

Breakfast with Jesus

It was time to leave the Crystal Hotel, and its evil neon behind early the next morning. I slept so little that my sleep tracker didn't register it at all, and I am pretty sure an entire day passed between 7AM and 7:30, because time was moving so slowly. My lack of sleep wasn't the fault of the hotel, or the neon really, just general insomnia. At least the neon made interesting shapes on the ceiling to watch while I couldn't snooze.

I met my friend at The Roxy for breakfast. It is a super gay 24 hour diner dive that is adjacent to one of Portland's bigger GLBT clubs. As a result, they serve a GBLT, though the menu insists "there is no additional charge for hetero bacon." As we walked in, we were greeted by a giant crucified Jesus with a neon halo. He watched over us while we ate.

I am pretty sure we were the only ungay patrons, but we were both girls, so no one could tell and we weren't subject to any sort of heterophobia. Its a pretty fun place, with a goofy menu. I almost choked on my drink when the girl sitting next to us ordered the "vagitarian omlette."

My final stop on this trip was waiting at the airport. I decided not to pay for parking and just hang out in the cell lot to catch more Pokemon. This would have been a good idea, but for the fact that there were no Pokemon there. The guy parked next to me was watching a Harry Potter movie on a tablet of some kind (I could hear it through his windows when I got up to walk around the car.) He apparently had also chosen poorly, as when he went to start his car, his battery was dead. 

I wound up jumping his car, which was sort of a comedy of errors, because he didn't know how to do it, and I'm afraid of electricity so was trying to talk him through it, instead of actually touching cables. Once he was started and off, I was sort of paranoid my own car was going to die, so I let my engine run, despite the signs telling me not to. I am sort of surprised that no Eco-friendly-vegan-hipster appeared from the air to chastise me, because it seems like that might be a felony there. I am probably a wanted fugitive from social justice now. 

The Parental Pick-up went off without significant incident, and I was home a mere 6 hours later, thanks to Sunday traffic.

They say the neon lights are bright on Burnside.

Like any true Portlandian, my friend is appalled by the gentrification of anything. This makes the Pearl District and downtown area a less than ideal area to have her come hang out with me, but she was gracious enough to do so. We both needed some downtime after The Clown Incident, so she went home to nap, and I went to my room to catch Pokemon.

As both my phone and I recharged, I realised that no matter how many sprinkles it had, one ice cream sammich was not going to sustain me until dinner. My original plan was to hit a food truck, but it was hot out, and I had heard that the swanky seafood joint across the street had a good happy hour, so I decided to check it out.

I ordered happy hour mac & cheese and some peel and eat shrimp thinking that because they were $3.95 they would be tiny plates. Once again, I was Very wrong. This mac made my top five mac lists, and I am kinda an expert when it comes to this particular dish. The shrimp were good too, but man... that mac.

I also got a wacky basil-grape drink that was pretty tasty. Someone put Pokemon lures on the bar, so I wound up sitting there for a few hours catching-them-all and chatting with the bartenders. 

By the time I headed back across the street to change for dinner, the neon-ing had commenced. More on this later. 

I met my friends for dinner reservations at Henry's Tavern on 12th. I had read good reviews and they seemed to have an everyone-pleasing menu, so we decided to try it out. Unfortunately they decided to seat us in the middle of a gaggle of girls who were taking up 3 tables and THE LOUDEST THINGS EVER. We were treated to a lengthy discussion of crop tops, among other things.  I ordered a rootbeer float as an apertif. It was the fanciest float I've ever had, but the gaggle made me wish it was spiked.

That's a whole shot glass of frozen maraschino cherries topped with whipped cream and chocolate. I'm not sure why. I don't think I've ever had cherries in a float, but they were delicious. Weinhard's rootbeer is probably my favourite of all the beers, overall it was delicious. Portland is a crazy foodie city. Everytime I come here, it seems a little crazier as places compete to stand out. Apparently the same thing has happened with strippers here. There are so many of them that they have started to specialise to stand out. As a result, they are all fire dancers.

Dinner was a rare burger that came with mac and cheese on it. It was delicious, but I couldn't even finish half of it after the float, let alone the gorgonzola fries that came with it. I put the remains on ice in my room, then let it ride home in the trunk the next day. I had it for dinner that night, because I live on the edge. No food poisoning has resulted.

This trip back to the room, the neon is bright enough for the TAL HO to be reflected in my room window.

We wound up going out to an 80's new wave video dance party at Lola's room at the crystal ballroom after dinner. It was a pretty good time, and totally packed by the time we left around 11pm, because we remember the 80's and are old.

By the time I got back to my room, the neon was at full strength. There were big blackout curtains, but it was still possible to see my way around by the red light. Apparently there were also earplugs in the nightstands, which I didn't notice until the next morning.

Since sleep wasn't really happening, I decided to go check out the pool, which is open until 1am, and allows people to bring drinks. Its is a salt pool kept at 101 degrees. The alcohol thing sounds like a great idea, until you realise it just means the pool is full of drunk couples trying to covertly copulate. I didn't last very long. 

I made my way back to my room, where I snapped my favourite pictures of the trip.  I am probably going to take the time to actually edit them, because they make me think of Nighthawks.

Portlandia

This has mostly been a Shut-In Summer, during which I have spent my time studying and avoiding sunlight. My volunteer work is on hiatus, and my friends in the city have led the shut-in brigade and refused to leave their houses, so I don't get out very much. 

What this mainly means is that when the opportunity to drive to Portland twice with my parents came up, I actually jumped at it. The first trip was back in June, when I dropped them off at PDX for the trip out to Bonaire. It was the first time I have driven my parents anywhere on a road trip, and the power of being able to choose the music and where we stopped was overwhelming. My mother mostly slept, complained about the music ("Don't you have anything NEW? Like Sam Smith or Ke$ha?") and woke up to ask where we were from the back seat. Role reversal is a bitch.

Trip the Second was this weekend, and I decided to make it a tiny vacation, because driving 6+ hours in one day is not as much fun as it seems.  I booked a room at McMenamin's Crystal Hotel, which is in the Pearl District of downtown Portland. McMenamin's is a super Portlandish company that buys old buildings and refinishes and repurposes them and also makes beer. I've stayed at a few of their other properties, including an old train-robber friendly hotel, and a creepy-ass former-elementary school. I highly recommend them if you enjoy shabby-chic and don't require a television in your room. They are fun, but definitely not for everyone. 

The rooms at the Crystal Hotel are all themed after songs that have been performed in the nearby concert venue that McMenamins also runs. I was really hoping for Blondie or Nick Cave, but the desk clerk forgot to ask my preference before she checked me in, and i wound up with Little Junior Parker's "Mystery Train". Well, at least I was "Heart of Glass" adjacent.

The rooms are all painted with lyrics and other decorations from their designated songs, and are super cute. 

True to my previous record, I managed to get the Woody Woodpecker room, with the hotel neon shining just outside.  

Fortunately there was an ice cream sammich from Ruby Jewel to distract me. It was Almond Cherry ice cream between sprinkly snickerdoodles. It was also my lunch. I suck at adulting. 

One of my local friends and I wandered around downtown for a while, killing time and catching Pokemon. We shopped for shoes, scoops, and spices. Then we were attacked by a giant, weirdly Freudian clown. This is the best picture I was able to snap, as I slowly backed away. He ran across the street to us, to ask us for money. I can't even describe how terrifying this was. Especially when he stuck his head out of its chest-vagina. I didn't think clowns could be scarier. I was so wrong, So Very, Very wrong. 

Rhetorical Questions

On the long (long, long, long) list of things I hate, political and campaign bumper stickers feature prominently. I have been known to mock them with my own aggressively divisive stickers, before realising the irony was totally lost on everyone but me. Maybe I just don't understand them, or my brain takes me out of the target demographic. I've only ever seen one that spoke to me ("Bernie Sanders 2016: because fuck this shit." Whether or not I support Sanders, that's just a funny sticker). My braining about the matter goes something like this:

Are they an advertisement? Is it just to show me how many people like a specific candidate so that I can know if I'm part of a minority? Is it just so that people know each other and can recognise anyone without the same sticker is part of the Enemy? Isn't that what armies do? Are we sneetches?

Is it an attempt at conversion? I mean, seeing a colourful sticker IS pretty persuasive to me, but it has never, ever made me want to take a particular political action. I suppose on the bright side, it has never made me want to bully an honor student either. Are all candidates looking for people who are dumb enough to be converted just on the basis of having seen a sticker? The amount of mega-sheepdom it would take for someone to be won over by a name, a year, and some stars boggles me, are those people worth the cost of printing?  Are you recruiting them just so they can help the stickers proliferate? Is this some sort of vinyl-based virus?

I feel pretty much the same way about facebook posts after A Tragedy. Political rhetoric, gun control arguments, and bible verses don't convert, comfort, or help anyone, no matter what pretty pictures you post them over.  All they do is clearly mark battle lines and show that you're willing to use another human's pain as propaganda, and make you look like an asshole. The willingness to use death and destruction to get across a political statement is what causes this crap in the first place, don't be part of that. Dividing people politically is about as useful to victims as the token thoughts and prayers that pop up during these situations. Stop recruiting, and take a minute to be a human for a minute, instead of being a political party or a religion.

Because: fuck this shit.

In Memoriam: Pornata

Dear Pornata: 

Your time has come. The day of candy reckoning is upon us. Sticks will be wielded. Your short, sticky life will flash before you as you disgorge your sweet payload of delicious candy guts. 

But first, photos were taken. Your future attackers posing with their victim, full of anticipatory glee.

"What do you think is inside?" I asked them. 

"Hot dogs," said Luke. "I heard it is hot dogs."

"Huh. I heard it was veggies." (Lying shamelessly to children is part of my particular skill set.)

"I HATE VEGETABLES!!!" he declared, kicking and punching with all his might. 

When mixed martial arts, and hitting with a flower made of glow bracelets didn't lead to your demise, dear Pornata, we armed the children. A heavy stick with a ball on the end. "Three hits!" they were instructed. No more or less. The other children counted loudly to make sure that no one got an extra. Luke, still anticipating hot dogs, was at the front of the line.

Even the dog got into the action. The children dutifully let him touch it three times as they counted aloud before he was removed while attempting a fourth. Dogs must follow rules too.

The Party Girl took her chances, managing several big dents, and a near break during her symbolic battle with candy-filled cancer. She was given four hits, just in case, with nary a grumble from the children. Apparently dogs also set dangerous precedents.

The second time through the line, things got violent.

You put up a valiant fight, Pornata. Perhaps too valiant. (Next time: fewer layers.) But you were no match for Michael, who smashed you to pieces for his mom like a Viking warrior. Candy and catharsis all in three hits.

CAAAANNNDDDDYYYY!!!!!!!!!!

The children swooped in on your fallen corpse, giggling vultures seeking candy carrion.

Now that cancer had been ritually vanquished, the real work began...

Bags were filled, parents were consulted, trades were brokered. All as your now-empty husk slowly rotated above them, a reminder that no pinata is immortal, and that hitting things til they break leads to candy and prizes.

Your life's mission was completed, Pornata. I never asked you if you had a (candy)bucket list, but I imagine you were mostly satisfied looking out at the neighbourhood and mocking the children playing in their backyards. 

Your vengeance will be swift, Pornata: these children may not sleep for days. You will be responsible for lost teeth, cavity creeps, and sugar crashes galore.

But they are ready for the next round. Even as the candy-bals feast on your innards, they quietly contemplate how many hits will be allowed next time, and whether your descendants really WILL have hot dogs.

Rest in (candy) Pieces, Pornata. Your sacrifice will be remembered.