In Portland

I went to Portland. Total travel distance: 188 miles. Stopped (briefly) in Centralia at a Burgerville for lunch: a Tillamook Cheeseburger. The psychic jukebox played "Five O'clock World" and "Same Old Song", not in that order.

This place has a whole lotta bridges. Makes Cleveland look like a rank amateur. We're staying at a swank hotel that has ruined me forever for hotel stays. As of this day, I am incensed if the front desk won't deliver a goldfish to my suite upon request.

You heard me. His name is Copper.

The entertainment center has a tacky wallpaper of popular philosophers. Sartre, Plato, Kant, and Wittgenstein are all represented. Let me reiterate that: pictures of Sartre and Wittgenstein decorate my room's entertainment unit and mini-fridge.

Fuck yeah.

I found my mecca in Powell's, a jizz-inducing book store the size of a small town and its satellite venue two blocks east that contains a plethora of technical texts. They have a NeXT box. It's just sitting there, collecting dust amongst an adding machine, an old Osbourne, and at least three kinds of vintage Apples.

We caught a pleasant collection of British TV ads and public service announcements at the art museum and dinner was at (surprise, surprise) the Portland Rock Bottom.

I took beer notes. They are, in their entirety:

Swan Island Lager: fucking close to water
Volksweizen Wheat: fruity, lavender taste
Sunny Day IPA: light hops in nose, strong hops taste & grassy flavor; makes me wish I were dead; like drinking (cat) pee
Oregonic Amber: still too hoppy; pussy to IPA by comparison
Maltnomah Porter: Yes. Yes. Chocolatey.
Morrison Street Stout: watery, mellow
Belgian Trippel specialty: good hefe nose; sweet

We ordered digestifs at the hotel restaurant and "Same Old Song" was again played on the overhead speakers. From there we ventured over to Voodoo Doughnuts (their logo: "The magic is in the hole"), where the alt chick behind the counter didn't even bat an eye when I nervously asked, sight unseen, for her to give me a Triple Chocolate Penetration. The result was a Devil's Food doughnut with chocolate frosting and a topping of whole Cocoa Puffs. It tasted the way I imagine an angel might, if you killed it and ate its flesh in a profane sacrilege against the will of almighty God.

Just like the hits, the job offers don't seem to stop coming, either. As much as I love Seattle, I'm told that Portland has better strip clubs, and there is a record store somewhere downtown that may make me fall in love with this place.