An Evening in Portland: Dinner at Lovely Hula Hands

I woke up early on Sunday with a start. The cats were cozied in with Dolly-girl--nobody wanted to get out of bed 'cause of the fact that for Stumptown, it was freezing. Literally. Thirty-two degrees. Maybe a little colder. OK, so that's above zero, but this is Stumptown and we didn't sign up for Siberia, you know. We can't see it from our house and we sure as hell don't want to feel it.




Anyway, I hopped out of bed and started the joe perking on the Tappan because it was Dolly-girl's compleanno. She looks as young as the day I laid my blue boys on her greenies.

Back a coupla weeks ago, me and Dolly-girl were perambulating up on Alberta and she laid eyes on a piece of art made out of maps and nails and wood and it looked like a heart--even I recognized that. Well, I made note and then snuck back and picked it up for her. Turns out some realtor chiquita name of Kim Hamblin makes that art. I'm thinking art and real estate are probably about the same these days in terms of earning potential. Wait, I bought some art...

Well, Dolly-girl's greenies did a dance when she unwrapped the heart and it got me the sorta look through the wave that I like. We decided to take the birthday dinner out, so I got Kitty on the blower and we picked Lovely Hula Hands, a joint Dolly-girl had been to with her friend Blueberry, but me and Kitty had never darkened the door. When Dolly-girl was telling me about the place she was doing the hula thing with her mitts. She gave it the up-and-down and it turns out she was right on.



We set the brake and the three of us walked in. Didn't look to me like trouble was out on this Sunday night, so we took a table upstairs, me with my back to the room. I won't make that mistake again. I missed too much good sight-seeing, like people gnawing on meat..

There was stuff hanging on the walls and some old lights and other things that Dolly-girl calls "period" or "art." It just looks to me like they grabbed some grandma's leftovers and put them around the room


Missy brought the whaddya-drinking but we didn't pay it no nevermind. No beer on tap so the three of us were drinking skid-row. Me and Kitty went for the rosso while Dolly-girl was chasing down the bianco. Me and Kitty should've split a bottle, but we didn't think of it. They had the new one from France and it was tapping on my shoulder.




Missy showed up with the skid-row and Bull Run all around. She parked and said, "What-le-it-be?"

I told her to bring around an order of oil in the flesh--you know, the green-and-blacks. Dolly-girl said, "Cow feed--stack it high and bring us three plates. We'll split it up." Kitty nodded--she was game.



Missy was back in about four shakes. I'm thinking the up and down is keeping her gams skinny and her face long. Plus, come to find out, the joint is closing up while they "re-invent" themselves, whatever that means, in a new hash house next door. Anyway, the feed was as described and we packed it down.


We did a twice over on the whadda-ya-want and settled on what-we're-having. Dolly-girl went back to the old country and had some Chef Boyardees with Hansel and Gretel croutons in a bowl. Kitty called for clucker. Dress it with flour and fat and sprinkle some leaves on it. The clucker was so exciting I couldn't even hold the camera still...












Me, a burger was playing the National Anthem and I stood at attention. When it rolled around, it was like the Fourth of July with all the ooos and ahhs floating around my burger and fried up murphies. But, that clucker was top notch. It had a sauce that would make your ticker stand still like molasses on a frosty morning. The Chefs were the real thing--Dolly-girl had no regrets about flipping the calendar over another year if this was the reward.



Well, we made fast work of those feed bags and then Dolly-girl put down her finger. "Don't you guys be telling anyone this is the day I first saw the light back there in that coal mining town!" "Not us Dolly-girl," purred Kitty. But, I'd already put in the word with Missy. We looked at the shouldn't-have-it-but-we-will and I knew whatever came out would be on fire.






Missy made good on the request and the a chunk of Gretel and Hansel showed up, swimming in caramel and topped with a whipped up baby. No doubt about it, it was worth blowing at a candle.






Missy brought the check. I looked it over and didn't complain. Yeah, it was more than you'd expect to pay at a burger joint, but then I was the only Hamilton--Perry and Della had Jacksons. The feedbags were real tasty, the skid-row top-notch, and shouldn't-have-had-it--well, we shouldn't have had it but we were glad-we-did.

Four sawbucks a piece got us down the stairs and out the door with a "Glad you could make it," from Missy. Too bad the place is closing. But I'm guessing the new joint, "Lovely 50-50" will be just as good and worth every 8 bits you drop in there. We'll be there.

We headed out the door, the three of us. I patted my heater and fired a Lucky. Kitty and I sang the birthday song, and Dolly-girl hooked her arm through mine, turned the collar on her Persian Lamb up to the wind, and hummed Poker Face..." Another Sunday night in Stumptown.

National Novel Writing Month: 7 Steps to Perfection

57,538 words. The first reviews are in:

7 Steps to Perfection

"A tale of intrigue, inconsistently told!" J. D. Salinger (Don't believe it? Ask him for public comment...)

"An unbelievable story--let me say that again--unbelievable!" Vice-President Joe Biden

"A refreshing alternative to my book, and maybe truer! You betcha it's on my bedside table, right next to my *wink* Ruger .44!" Rogue Maverick, Sarah Palin

"If we'd had to read this aloud on "Radio Rock" we'd have scuttled that ship in the time it takes the Queen to kill a pint of gin! If the ship had had to listen, she'd have scuttled herself!" Rhys Ifans, Gavin in Pirate Radio.

"A ship can't sink that fast." Her Majesty, The Queen, Elizabeth II

Latenight Stumptown: 50,000 words later...Let's Roll, Dude!

I finished my NaNoWriMo tonight and it seems like I might need a vacation from writing. Meanwhile, there's the Xmas letter to do. But Dolly-girl and I went bowling tonight with neighbors to celebrate Kevin's 51st Birthday. At first, it seemed like we might all need help bowling our ages. In my first game, I didn't!










But I finished strong with a 163 in the 4th game! A spare in the 1st with strikes in the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th, with a spare in the 5th. If only I could have put together a good 6th through 10th frame. Oh, well, who cares. We weren't Bowling for Dollars!






It was quite the blast! It was even more fun after they turned the black lights and mirror balls on...

Noontime in Portland: The 2009 Christmas Tree Arrives

I happened to be walking by Pioneer Courthouse Square today when they were unloading the 2009 Christmas Tree. I don't know where it came from, but it arrived today and was put in place in the square. Several buses and a MAX train arrived at about the same time as the tree. The crane operator was very skilled--the tree was slung about halfway and one-third of the way up the length. As it was lifted, the operator manipulated the cables though a blck and tackle so that the tree was lifted and moved form horizontal to vertical. Nice job!

A Interlude in Stumptown

The blog is on a break while Jack participates in NaNoWriMo. I'm at 36% of the goal as of November 6, 2009.

50% as of November 10, 2009. I think this evening will be a good writing night--it's dark and stormy...

I'm on chapter 6 of 9 or 10.

I'll keep you posted...

A Saturday Morning in Portland: Memories of a Train Wreck

As long as I can remember, which is not much before this particular Kodak shot of yours truly was shot, we had an American Flyer sorta starter train set. It had an engine of the day--one that was a model of what ran on coal and steam, not like today's Zephyrs. Some of our friends had big train sets with scenery, tunnels, switches, bells, and whistles. Not us, we had our American Flyer, an oval of track, and a piece of plywood in a storage area under the eaves of our house.

Back when I set my brake on a different roadster and lived out in the countryside, before I turned in a microscope for a gumshoe's private ticket, I had the train packed in a box, under the eaves in a garage. It had quit running a long time before--in fact, I think it went in the box during a big move back when Ike was still running the show and no one looked at you the least bit funny if you fired a Lucky and an expecting chiquita took a drink. But anyway, the train was in a box in the garage.


Well, one thing led to another and wouldn't you know it, I made the acquaintance of Lili, then Mittsy--it was before they were an item--and eventually, when it was time to move on and live closer to where trouble hung around, I sold my house to Lili. She found the train and set it up on display on a beam in the open ceiling of the sitting room. Years past, Lili packed up and moved to Jersey and got into the drug business. Then she put all her whatevers in storage and moved to Sherman-town to hook up with Mittsy.


Well now, this last year, Mittsy and Lili got the Horace Greely itch and moved to The Valley where Mittsy's writing code for the government--you know, fighting the war on whatever. Lili's now dong time with the state in Capital City and so they bought a place to set their brake which is how it is that Dolly-girl was lifting this and that and helping out. I walked downstairs when I heard her come in the door and lo' and behold, there was the train, looking like it'd run from New York, to Jersey, to The Valley, and finally, into Union Station in Stumptown where it's going into retirement.

A Trip to the Coast: Lunch at the Columbian Cafe in Astoria and Cafe' 47 in Vernonia, Oregon

Dolly-girl rolled over, stretched, and yawned. A cat jumped off the bed and headed for the door. Old Mister was peeking through the window. A Saturday morning in the fall. "Jack, remember, we got a reservation over at the Coast for tonight. I figured with all the here-and-there you've been up to, another night out of Stumptown wouldn't make no never mind. I remembered. I moved my heater and looked at the clock. "Time to get rolling, Dolly-girl." I like the Coast.

The trip over took us through Astoria, a little 'burg with a big history. Indians, British explorers, trappers, Lewis and Clark. Well, it's a regular history lesson and not a bad place to set your brake provided you don't mind rain about 364 and a half days a year. But we just stopped to tie on the noon-time feedbag at a place me and Dolly-girl have darkened before--a joint called the Columbian Cafe. You can't beat the food and you don't have to worry about a crowd--the place doesn't hold but about 27 even if the stools at the counter are filled. They weren't. Missy was on us like flatware on a napkin. It didn't take us long to do the once over on the whaddaya-want. Dolly-girl settled on a crepe and a baby and I went for just about the strangest, but finest wax on a raft I've ever had. It was a far cry from a Jack Benny I'll tell you. I had them grill a rose and pin it on along with a side of Adam. The cowfeed was their idea. The pint was mine. A couple Jacksons left us full and Missy smiling. Bring cash.



Our spots were hit, but Missy tuned us into a place to get a cold one to settle the feed and put us on our way. We walked into the Fort George Brewery, settled into a couple of stools, and ordered what we'd come for. The brew was a tasty one and they'd put the barley, hops, malt, water, and yeast together right in the joint. Missy served it up in a jar which is not my idea of a beer glass, but you do know you're getting what you paid for compared to those "it's not a pint but it looks like one" glasses they use over in Stumptown.


We finished up, wiped the foam off our kissers, hopped in the roadster, and headed for the part of the Coast we'd come to see. It's hard to beat our part of the Pacific--the beaches are beautiful and empty. Of course, if it's dipping a toe you're after, you'd better be dressed like Mike Nelson 'cause the water's colder than a bad girl's heart. We spent the night in what I'd call a motor hotel, but Dolly-girl told me was a "quaint inn at the Coast" in a town called Gearhart. Not long after we checked in, a storm started blowing in so me and Dolly-girl did the Sunday morning on a Saturday afternoon--she was turning the pages of a new tell-me-a-story and I did a Rex Parker. We had a cocktail in our suite, then turned up our collars against the wind and rain and walked down the street to the local spot for a passable, but unremarkable (and unphotographed) end-of-the-eating day. Dolly-girl had them cuocere una pizza while I had fins and nails. Just OK and come to think of it, I don't even recall the name of the place. You can't miss it, and you won't when you leave.


The morning cracked like a free-range egg in a hot skillet--perfect. We took a walk on the beach, perambulated around the town, then packed up to take the back roads home. We meandered here and there in the Coast Range, through Jewel and Mist and Pittsburg and wound up in Vernonia, just in time to set the brake and see what Cafe' 47 was serving up for the noon whistle.



Cafe' (yep, that's the Vernonia version of an accent aigu) 47 is on the main street which is called Bridge Street, I suspect because it goes over a bridge even though it's the main street. Where I grew up Bridge Street went over a bridge, but it crossed Front Street, which was the main street even though Main Street was in a part of town where it never was and won't likely ever be the main street. Well, it doesn't really make any difference because it's damned near impossible to drive through Vernonia without passing Cafe' 47 regardless of the name of the street. There was one piece of continuity: Bridge Street, that's the main street, is Oregon Route 47. I think that's how Cafe' 47 got its name.




First thing that strikes you when you walk into Cafe' 47 is that someone, and maybe more than just one, really likes license plates. The things are all over the place and you have to believe there are some rare ones there. And if you don't believe it, they have a laminated sheet of paper on the table that tells you they're rare. I'll believe them. There're lots of other decorations, too. After being away and isolated at the Coast, me and Dolly-girl caught up on the news while we waited for Missy to stop by with the whaddayas which turned out to be just the whadda-want because they weren't hitting any sort of beverage spot--follow?


Missy brought the local Bull Run and gave us the low-down on what the place was known for. She told us a few things they didn't have. "Sunday." I guess that was an explanation. Maybe they were busy, maybe it was the end of the week. "Sunday."



I went for it and ordered the potage Murphy along with a Jack Benny on wheat. Dolly-girl went for Jack on wheat as well but slaw in the alley was singing her tune. Missy was back in a minute. "Sunday. Outta wheat. White, sourdough." "Make mine white," came out of my yapper. Before Dolly-girl could answer Missy said, "Yours is sourdough, honey. We only got enough white for one. Sunday." Her explanation.


We split and each ended up with a white and sourdough. The Jack's were what you'd expect and more. Lots of wax, and the raft was on the grill just long enough to give it the crunch and a little taste of the Adam and Eve the hash slinger must have been cooking in the morning. The soup was as good as it gets and I've had plenty where the gettin' was good. It would stand up to all comers. It's worth the trip to the place on the main street, Bridge Street, in Vernonia, Oregon.


Dolly-girl was treating and three Abes covered the damage with a thank-you-very-much for Missy. We headed out, happy as clams, hooked arms and walked down to where the roadster was curbed. Sunday.

A Sunday Morning in Portland: The King Farmers' Market

Dolly-girl was in the kitchen putting another percolator of joe on the Tappan when the blower sparked. It was in the hallway in one of those little arched spots where you're supposed to have your blower and the look-em-ups. We do. I picked up. "Felice Domenica. Possano tutti i santi vi protegga oggi." "Mornin' Jack." Kitty. "Buon giorno!" "Working on your eh-talian again, eh (she pronounces it like Dolly-girl). What part of Italy was your family from? Sounds like you speak Italiano iGoogli..." "Very funny, Kitty. What's it?"


"You and Dolly-girl up for a trip to the farm market? I got some people coming tonight and I need to gets some fill-em-ups." I gave Dolly-girl the quick once over on what Kitty was saying and she was game. "We're in, you're on, come over, we'll go." "Got it. See ya."






Half around the Timex and we were headed down the street. It's a nice fall day so we're riding shank's mare. Kitty and Dolly-girl are yapping while I bring up the rear, keeping an eye out for trouble to fall out of the trees like samaras from a big-leaf maple, which is a lot these days. They're paying me no nevermind and I suppose I could take the day off, but then if I did, trouble might not, and then I wouldn't be ready and word would get around. Follow? Plus one good thing about keeping your peepers peeled is you see some things that make you wonder about what goes on in the heads of the people you can't see. In my business, that's sort of time well spent. Like who needs a radio-telescope in their yard and what's with keeping your chiffarobe outside?



We walked up to where we would have set our brake at the King branch of the Stumptown Farmers' Market if we'd been in the roadster instead of trying the whole "good for the body, good for the earth" thing that Kitty and Dolly-girl spout. First stop is to get some cackleberries from a hen rancher we've been talking with when he's there to be talked to. He runs about 700 head down The Valley in Champoeg. I'm here to tell you these beauties stand up and crow!



Kitty and Dolly-girl were checking out the this and thats from a bakery that sets up shop. Before long baked things were being broken and swapped and purrs were coming out of mouths. Fall flowers were everywhere. And there were things maybe you don't see at markets in cities other than Stumptown.














What's-up-docs were easy to be had this time of year. Melanzana were piled high in baskets, just waiting for Dolly-girl to cook up Nonna Bianchi's recipe for melanzane parmigiano, although Kitty prefers the Tagliavore approach to the whole eggplant thing.




There was still a good supply of vegetables, although there was a different feeling to the market today. I watched people shift from foot to foot and back again, turning from the wind, and looking like they didn't like what everyone knows is coming when Old Mister starts dropping low and Stumptown turns the collar of its London Fog up for a few months. But that's the time that brings my business out of the woodwork, and after a few months of not doing much, I'm ready to start working some cases, talking with people who need talking with, whether they want to talk to me or not and finding people who need found. It's what I do.





But something was starting to smell fishy this day at this market, and it wasn't the fins, flippers, oysters, and clams in the cooler. I walked by a joint selling herbs and vegetables. There was something not right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I got to thinking that maybe, just maybe, someone not wise to the whole farmer game, was setting up shop. I reached in my jacket pocket, in the little slit next to my heater where I keep a notebook. I made a note. "When what's-up-docs aren't, and roses aren't breath, the soups gonna taste like pumpkins and peppers." I'm sure when I find that note I'll wonder "what the hell was that about..."




The three of us made a final walk-around and check-it-out, each of us looking for something different, and you know what I had an eye out for. Then we headed back to where we set the brake if we had a brake to set.

Dolly-girl and Kitty were talking this and that while I went over what sort of caper could have been up back there at the mercato degli agricoltori. I guess time will tell me if she ever learns to speak.

For Your Viewing Pleasure: The 2009 Plymouth Alive! Docudrama

For Your Viewing Pleasure: The 2009 Plymouth Alive! Docudrama is now available on YouTube!

Part I

Part II

Part III

A Friday and Saturday in Plymouth, PA: How much fun can you have at the Plymouth Kielbasa Festival?

Come the end of August, Nancy and I headed back to the Valley with a Heart where Nancy's baby carriage set its brake. She was going for the fun of the 6th Annual Plymouth Alive! Kielbasa Festival--2 days of the most intense exhibition of grease-drenched food in the world. I was going to start the road trip with her father. Fourteen kielbasa vendors were on hand along with the requisite potato pancake stands, to feed the fawning public. Eleven contended for the prize of the King of Kielbasa in both fresh and smoke categories. A docu-drama is in production as I type.

Julian, our nephew, and I did the Tour de Main Street, wait, it's really the Degustacja Kielbasi--the kielbasi tasting. Between us we tasted them all and enjoyed full-fledged sandwiches from more than a few. Nancy, eschewing kielbasi, because she's a "vegetarian," focused on potato pancakes, butter with an ear of corn under it, and a deep-fried Oreo. I'll take the meat, thanks.










Along the way, I interviewed a number of people, like these kids working the Komensky's stand and Chief Collins of the Plymouth PD, and that spurred the idea for a docu-drama. It will be coming to a You Tube near you as soon as I can figure out how to edit it and get it to be less than a gigabyte. In the meantime, here are a couple teasers.

All of the vendors had free samples so you could try the multitude of things that creative and innovative people do with a simple kielbasa. And there's also plenty of horseradish to taste as well. Decisions, decisions. Plain white horseradish, or the beet horseradish. Oh, what the hell, how about a little of both. And a Lipitor (registered trademark goes here) . Then there are the combos, like kielbasi balls cooked in a horseradish cream sauce.




They have a different look on public health back there in the Valley with a Cholesterol Clogged Heart--on the one hand, a vendor selling books about heart health and next to him, a 24/7 fitness place selling chocolate covered bacon. The heart-healthy person sticks with the deep-fried Oreos.







There's judging, of course. Here's the mayor of Plymouth, the Honorable Dorothy Petrosky, judging the fresh entries. It's all a double blind contest, so no chance for local favorites, which may account for why the local favorite, Fetch's Market, hasn't won since the very first festival when they may have been the only entry. I wasn't there so I don't know, but it didn't measure up on my kielbasi meter. They did try to influence the passers-by, in my opinion, by bringing in some "kielbasi candy" as it were.

But, when all was said and done, the Inagural [sic] King didn't score in the top 3.
But these guys did!

Bosack's Choice Meats, first in Fresh, second in Smoke
Plains Meat Market, first in Smoke, second in Fresh
Komensky's Market, third in both categories.



The judging was a difficult and serious undertaking. Here, Nancy's friend from high school, comments on his role as a judge.

These guys from Quinn's Market also finished out of the running, but for my money, they had the best sandwich on Main Street--the fresh patty, grilled, with horseradish cheddar cheese, and some extra horseradish on the side. They'll be back next year!

A Beautiful Evening in Ashland: Dinner at Amuse

When me and Dolly-girl go down to Ashland to see the plays by that Bard guy (hey, did you see old Jack was mentioned in the Ashland Daily Tidings, down near the bottom...) she likes to cozy up at a feed trough called Amuse. I don't get the name myself. It doesn't seem that funny to me. The feedbags are pretty upscale, the missys don't sing or do tricks or bring you cakes with those candles you can't blow out, and you don't hear people laughing any more than any other joints. Go figure. What's in a name?


Anyhoo, Dolly-girl likes it and I got to admit, when it's time to put fork to mouth in Ashland, there are some fine spots, but Amuse hits our spots, spot on. Follow? Plus the place is easy on the eyes and they sure seem to have more missys per I'm-tying-the-bib-ons than most places you go looking for a plateful. Oh, and Dolly-girl likes the day-cor. They got a bunch of looking-walls in the place and little lights that hang around all around. Plus they got themselves an outside picnic area, but me and Dolly-girl opted for the ant-free digs.


The missys are right there to say how-de-doo when you come through the doors and they pretty much stick to you until you walk out. It's not like they're sitting on your lap or anything, but they keep their peepers peeled and when something needs brought, filled, or taken away, there they are. They move around like ships in the fog--they're there, but they're not. I think it's what Dolly-girl would call "attentive service" or some such thing that she picked up at that charm school she went to.


So we settled in, parked our bee-hinds, and ordered up some skid-row. Rosso for me, bianco for Senorina Bianchi...not that I'm saying Amuse is an eh-talian joint, cause it's not that. But whaddayaknow, before missy came by to ask us about the whaddayawant, she brought some little treats. A shot of soup--it was red-eyes with basil for me, and a little pice of whaddayacallit for Dolly-girl. Some sort of squashed thing, I think she said. Whatever, 'cause it was good so we said our over the teeths and away it went.



Missy asked us for our what'll-it-bes and we sent her to get a bowl of what's-in-the-pot for me and a stack of cowfeed for Dolly-girl. Mine was a blondy murphies and plumbers with celery oil in little green dots. Who knew celery had oil--sure as hell not me. I'm here to tell you that if that was the soup they were dishing up in Stumptown, I'd be in line. The cowfeed put the smile on Dolly-girls face and got me the first look through the wave. I knew this spot was hitting her spot and taking me off the spot. With me?


We didn't have to sit for long, just long enough to do a do-it-again on the skid row and have a gander around the place to see who else was coming in. We were early because of the fact that we were going to see what Dolly-girl kept calling "The Scottish Play." I figured it was some deal that she got on tickets but when I asked her about it all I got was a shot through the wave that told me that as far as she was concerned that gumshoe school I went to in order to get my ticket missed a thing or two in my upbringing.



The feedbags arrived and I was ready to tie it on. I had a piece of the tenderest dogie that ever did roam the range and, as you can see, I was so excited that when I took a snap of Dolly-girl's fin-flipper I couldn't even be still enough to get it without a blur. Mine came with a pile of rapini that was just about as good as a green gets to be, and they added a stack of murphy sticks that made you want to book a ticket to the Emerald Isle. Dolly-girl's flipper swam in on what Yogi's back in Plymouth, Pennsylvania would call a "patata pancake", but it had some we-want-to-be-pickles sliced into strings and warmed up. Never had them before, but I'm telling you, I wouldn't mind having them again.


I was not in the mood for the tempt-ya, but Dolly-girl had them bring it on along with a winking blond. Missy brought some sort of fruity pie that would make your head spin. I'm not much for that sort of thing, but I'm here to tell you that you should wish you were there.

I still don't get the Amuse thing, but there's no doubt that it's a first-class joint with feedbags that would put any place in Stumptown up against the wall. It doesn't come cheap--The General shook hands with Poor Richard to get us out of there, but if you want to do it and do it right in Ashland, set your brake at Amuse.

The Things You See in Ashland, Oregon, September, 2009

Nancy and I joined our friends Dolly-girl and Jack for a quick weekend trip to Ashland, Oregon, home of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. I'm pretty sure that Jack will be writing a few words about the trip, but I thought I'd post some pictures I took. We took in a couple plays--MacBeth and Equivocation, an excellent new production. If it comes anywhere near you, go see it.




Saturday morning we hoofed it on down to the food co-op and farmers' market and I snapped a few pictures of what people are eating and looking at in Ashland. Fruit is big down there. Fruit drinks too.











Everyone loves flowers, particularly ones that look like these. Nancy wrote some post cards while we were sitting in Lithia Park











Ashland can be a little dear so we headed for grittier destinations, including Central Point where we visited the Rogue Creamery. They won the recent International Cheese Competition for their blue cheese entry. It's only available from sometime in October until it sells out. They told us that's because of the milk that they use to produce it--probably related to the fresh pasture is my guess. So they didn't have the big winner and I don't like to eat things that are pre-rotted anyway, but Nancy would have. She likes the stuff.



I'm more of a bacterial fermented cheese fan myself. I do like that they keep the Caveman motif going. Nancy and Ronna have looked up the Grant's Pass Caveman's shorts as documented in 2007.










Across the street from the supposed Best Blue Cheese in the World is Dusty's Transmissions. I like Dusty's enthusiasm. If it's like most transmission shops they should also have a picture of Dusty crawling into your savings account...






We did run into this accordion duet downtown Ashland later that evening, so it isn't all dear.

And I got an interview with them. That wasn't too difficult.



And we saw the end of the day a bride dreamed of. I think her father was passed out somewhere. All-in-all, a fun day. The photographer stopped traffic so he could get a shot of her tossing her bouquet with the Ashland Springs behind them. With the cost of weddings these days, fathers should be out there playing linebacker and breaking up that pass...

The "guitar player/singer" in the foreground was not part of the wedding. He wanted us to give him money.

A Trip Across America--No Wonder Buffalo--They Are Really Bison-- Didn't Do So Well...

It used to be, back in the 50s when I first went to Yellowstone National Park, that you couldn't drive more than a couple miles without bears on the road causing a traffic jam while people stopped to take pictures as the bears came to the car windows to beg for anything you might throw them to eat. I have to admit that it was before the days of thinking much about the health of the animals and the problems that were emerging. Yes, I threw Bit-O-Honeys to bears.

Well, bears have been replaced by buffalo, or American bison. They are back in numbers, at least in the park. People don't seem to throw hay at them. Here's a link with lots of information.



They hang out in groups--I believe they are called "herds"--with the old bulls clearly in charge, but the young ones starting to be feisty. We saw some bison pawing to make a dust wallow that they then rolled in and seemed to take a lot of pleasure in the act. We didn't notice anyone urinating in their wallow which I've heard bulls will do if they feel threatened. The wallows also serve other purposes such as creating pockets where water collects.

We did get to see them up close and personal. They grunt and snort a lot and they don't really smell that good. Apparently the grunting is the way they socialize with each other. Come to think of it, we didn't see any of them at other watering holes.

Here are some more enjoying a day at the beach of Yellowstone Lake.

And, lest we forget, here's what they were almost annihilated (supposedly 541 animals left in 1888) for--buffalo hides (I wonder how they got rid of the smell). People died, buffalo died, a culture almost died, and the face of the Plains was changed, maybe for a long, long time. But, maybe not if Ted Turner has his way. He owns 2 million acres (that's 3,125 square miles--about the size of Delaware and Rhode Island put together) and he has 50,000 bison. If Ted turns them loose and says "Go!", don't be in the way. They're big, they can jump 6 feet high and 7 feet forward, and they run fast.

A Trip Across America: The Studebaker National Museum

Me and Gus Bianchi, Dolly-girl's old man, were motoring our way across the country. We pulled up short in South Bend, Indiana when we found out what was there that needed looking at. I know, you're thinking Gus is a big Notre Dame fan, but what with a name like Giuseppe Bianchi do you think he'd be screaming for the Irish? Not likely. No, what pulled us off Highway 31 was the Studebaker National Museum.


Gus fancies old cars and this was the place to see them on parade. Mint condition. Stylish. Building crammed with them. We walked in. "Two seniors?" "Back in Stumptown, that sort of crack and you could find the Trouble Twins walking up your garden path there chiquita. I may look the part, but one and one will do us." "Sorry, I was just thinking that we don't get too many people coming to look at Studebakers looking like you and so I figured..." "Relax, I won't pay it anymore nevermind."


We walked in and checked the joint out. They had them all, starting with Conestoga wagons built back when horse power was the real thing. The beauties from the 20s and 30s lined the room, all polished up and looking like they were wanting me and Gus to drive one out the door and head it to Stumptown. And we would have done it, too, except they would have chased us down like a cheap shot with a cold beer.


It just happened to be August 31st when we came across this Studebaker Commander that left New York City on August 30, 82 years earlier, and arrived in San Francisco just short of 78 hours later. The Commander was piloted by Ab Jenkins, who later with his son would be called The Mormon Meteors for their exploits at the Salt Flats. Over the 3,302 miles they averaged 42 and 1/2 miles per hour--not bad for those days and a lot better than me and Gus were going to do--we covered 3,362 miles in 8 days!


It was pretty clear walking around the place that what goes around comes around. These styles and colors are just what people are looking for today. We tried to remember what sort of appetite for gas these babies had.


Well, I thought, we can find that out on the intertubes and, sure enough, I found that not only did they look better than cars today, but they were going 25 to 30 or more miles on a gallon of gas in the 50s--better than a lot of today's iron. So what was the problem? The answer seems to be volume and the ability to mass produce millions of ugly cars. The Big Three could do it, Studebaker wouldn't. My theory is that when they started to make cars that looked like the Big Three's, well, they lost their mojo.

What was left in the wake was a collection of beautiful autos in South Bend, and the wreckage of the auto industry today. Me and Gus waxed on about the ills of the world, but maybe a bumper sticker that said this summed it up best...

BRING BACK STUDEBAKER AND
BAIL THEM OUT

After giving the place the twice over, me and Gus hopped in our car--it was a let down after the last couple hours--and I pointed her west. On the road again...

A Trip Across America: Steering Wheel Cam

I took a series of pictures from my vantage point: the steering wheel. I hope you enjoy the view as much as I did.

Central Ohio--Corn Variety Trials

Central Ohio








Hammond, Indiana, looking towards Chicago

Headed towards Iowa, northwestern Illinois











Eastern Iowa
and wind farms, central Iowa











Eastern South Dakota











Western South Dakota











Badlands, Western South Dakota








Eastern Montana





















Northern Wyoming











Light at the end of the tunnel, Cody, Wyoming









Bugs on bumper, Central Idaho









Western Idaho







Eastern Oregon








Central Oregon










Columbia Gorge, Western Oregon

A Trip Across America: The World's Only Corn Palace!

Jerry (that's Nancy's father) and I had our sights set on the Mitchell Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota from the minute we climbed into our Chrysler 300 for Road Trip 2009. I'm guessing that Jerry hadn't ever thought much about The World's Only Corn Palace until I started talking about it, but he was a good sport and got on board with the fact that this one destination was going to shape the route of our whole trip. I'm here to tell you: we were not disappointed.

The World's Only Corn Palace is where you would expect to find it--Main Street--in Mitchell. We were a bit disappointed that there wasn't a World's Only Corn Palace Cafe as we had worked up quite an appetite and were hoping for the sort of South Dakota cafe I remembered from the old days. Not to be found.


Now what is it about the United States? Things always seem to have to be billed as The World's Largest or The World's Only. In the case of the World's Only Corn Palace, I suspect a number of people, not totally convinced that the world needs even one corn palace, think that the designation of The World's Only Corn Palace should be endorsed by the United Nations and any nation, including ours, that tried to create another would be the subject of sanctions and a blue-helmeted enforcement army.


Anyway, this World's Only Corn Palace thing has been going on a while. Here's a photo of a photo of the first edition (1892, I believe) of the World's Only Corn Palace. The World's Only Corn Palace featured a nice little museum about, of course, TWOCP, a souvenir shop, and a penny smashing machine. Penny smashing machines seem to have become very popular again. Note to Rouge, yes there will be a TWOCP smashed penny in your future...



The outside of TWOCP is decorated with murals of Americana made out of, you guessed it, corn. Several varieties provide a small selection of colors, along with a little help from milo and corn husks.




The murals are redone every year and luck of luck, the morning we arrived, September 2, 2009, was the day the crew started to strip the old murals off in preparation for installing the new ones. A committee decides on the theme and a local artist designs the murals.


Featured to the left are actual pieces of TWOCP that I picked up off the street where they were working. We sure would have been disappointed if we'd arrived to a naked TWOCP. I don't know what the schedule is but the big Polka Fest is coming up September 18-22 so I can't imagine it would be completely stripped for that.

I think I'll suggest that they install a web-cam to watch the progress.



Of course, TWOCP is more than just a pretty face on the street. What started as an exhibition of the bounty produced by local farmers is now a full-fledged event locale featuring arena-style seating, a basketball court, a performance stage, and, when filled with a person, Cornelius, TWOCP mascot.

Go see TWOCP--it's worth the trip to Mitchell, South Dakota!

A Trip Across America: Breakfast at Our Place, Cody, Wyoming

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a joint that looked like the sorta joint me and Dolly-girl's father were looking for. I jerked the wheel hard to the left, crossed Highway 20, and slid to a stop in the gravel lot of Our Place. I set the brake on the Chrysler we'd borrowed for a trip across the country and we moseyed--we were in Wyoming, so moseying is sort of a required pattern of movement--on in. It was birdseed time and this looked like the place me and Giuseppe Bianchi--Gus for short--would be cozying up to the feeder.

The decor on the inside made us think this would be a real good place. I saw some art that if it had been for sale, I would have picked up to hang over the fireplace back home. Dolly-girl would have been so happy she wouldn't have been able to purr or nothing. She just would have rolled her greenies at me and given me a look through the wave--one of those mysterious ones. Come to think of it, I do wonder from time to time what those looks mean.


Me and Gus were just starting Day 6 of a road trip across the country in honor of some birthdays we were having this year. We'd been looking at straight and flat for Days 1 through 5 and I'm here to tell you that we took a lot of South Dakota grasshoppers out of circulation, follow? Anyway, we were hoping to see some new kind of territory, and we weren't going to be disappointed. Not that there's anything wrong with flat and straight--it's got its own good points.


Anyway, Our Place, I'm guessing here, looks about the same as it did when Carolyn and Ida Helen, the two main missys, were girls and I'm guessing that was sometime after wagon trains but before air conditioning. People looked up from their cuppas when we walked in--the joint was full of people who looked like they belonged in a cafe in Cody, Wyoming and we didn't. Spoons stirred blonds and eyes followed us following Ida Helen to a table about halfway through the place.


It wasn't my favorite seat, but tables were turned and they were thinking we were trouble. I saw a few holsters get re-positioned just to let me know that if it was birdseed and a little idle chatter we were after, we were in the right place. Anything else and we'd better be mounting up and heading west like we had a bur under the saddle. We settled in. and looked over the whaddaya-want. It was full of old standards. If you were looking for some of that fancy feedbag stuff you see in Stumptown, Our Place isn't your place.



Ida Helen poured us a couple a cups of what was going to have to pass for joe and it sure wasn't what we'd be stirring in Stumptown, but then I hadn't had a taste of good grounds since I caught the Clipper back east to start this motor adventure. Carolyn strode up--mosey wasn't in her corral, see? "What'll it be, fellas? I see Ida Helen already got you started with our famous 25¢ joe." "She shor has," I drawled, trying to blend into the place and thinking that the mud was priced just about right. "I'll have the Noah's son in the wreckage, whisky." "What the hell kinda talk is that, stranger?" "I mean, the ham scramble with rye toast. Sorry, I thought I was someplace else." "It's yours, but mind your self in here Jack, and..." Gus looked up from the menu. "Double it, but wheat toast please." Gus wasn't looking to be on the wrong side of Miss Carolyn, if you get my drift. How did she know my name?


I could see the hash slinger through the feed slot in the business end of the joint. He had a full house on the ticket spinner, but he was working it like a roulette wheel at the casino down the street and plates were flying out for Miss Carolyn (I was showing a little more respect now) Ida Helen, and a young missy--I'm guessing a grand daughter--to pick up and put down in front of hungry cowboys.

Miss Carolyn brought us our orders and said, "Dig in boys." We did. Somebody in town musta been keeping cluckers 'cause the cackleberries were as fresh as they get. Noah's boy was the real thing, grilled, cut in chunks, and then tossed in the wreckage. The whisky was just what you'd expect a long piece from where you might rightly expect whisky, it was marbled with white like they do out there, but it hit a spot that needed to be filled. We finished up, young missy brought more joe, and Miss Carolyn came by with the damage. A Jackson more than covered it and Miss Carolyn got a better tip than Mine That Bird in the Derby. Our Place was just the joint we were looking for to put on the feedbag, but bring cash 'cause the only plastic in the joint is the Formica tables.

North of the Border II

I drove over a river today and stopped to look at the stream below. Thousands of pink salmon (also called humpies) have made their way back to spawn after a two-year stint in the ocean. I suspect it won't take the bears long to find this "all you can eat buffet..."

North of The Border

From time to time the blower sparks and Thelma tells me "They're callin' from [exhale] North of The [exhale] Border. Thelma keeps up with her nails at work. I don't mind as it makes a good impression on the clients, and frankly, there aren't so many of them--clients or nails--that doing nails at work makes a difference. Plus it keeps her from asking me what she's supposed to be doing to help me which I don't need any of most of the time anyway. I took the call.




The upshot was that there were people who needed talking with up north of where most Maple Leafs set their brakes. I'd been there before and I was game for a do-again, so I told them yes and had Thelma book me the Clipper north, change in Gastown, and then on to the end of the road. Keep in mind here that the Clipper isn't the sort of Clipper me and Dolly-girl are used to when we go to Venezia to visit la familia D'Mestiere. This is the sorta cruise line that serves something in a little bag that looks like salty snacks but are sour as hell. They call them Rocket Chips. They weren't chips and we weren't on no kind of rocket.


There's two things I look for soon as I set foot on terra frosta up north of the US of A. Coffee Crisp, the world's best candy bar, and poutine. I pronounce it just the way the Newshawk told me--poo-tin--and that gets me some good looks from the locals. Newshawk says the people who call it poo-teen call Celine Dion Se-lean instead of Se-linn. I take him at his word.




There's starting to be some places to get poutine in Stumptown, but as I told you a while ago, goats don't have any business around a poutine, at least to my way of thinking and I'm pretty sure Newshawk's with me there. Rouge, I'm not so sure about. She and Dolly-girl got some strange taste buds I'm here to tell you.





I scouted out the joints in the aerodrome and only one was slinging poutine--A&W. Now I hate to buy from a fast-food chain as much as anyone, but what's so slow-food about poutine? You got your murphy nails taking a bath, your chunks of wax, and your Mike and Ike. I told the Missy, "Dish me up one and make it quick." She looked shocked because they aren't used to being snapped at up North of The Border. I could hear and see Dolly-girl; I relaxed.



There's a few other things you gotta like. Jus de Tomate. South of the Border, ours isn't nothing like it --Canada Fancy. While I'm at it, you gotta like two languages. It's a lot easier to pass the time on a Clipper when you got a bilingual tomato juice can. Particularly when Canada Fancy translates to Canada de Fantaisie. I'm pretty sure that Jus de Tomate ain't no fantasie of Dolly-girl's!




And you gotta like Tim Horton's. Tim's is invading the USof A in case you hadn't noticed. I was disappointed that Tim didn't offer poutine, but then poutine on top of everything else he offers might just cause an acute clog of an artery or two."Give me a box of Timbits and a... CODE BLUE!' Dixie'd be all over that one...

You gotta love a country that names towns names like Sandspit. And Germans love to come fishing so the flight postings have German too.










You gotta love a country that provides health care for all its people.


I was pondering all this while wondering how fast propellers go on a clipper like this one. I figured 1250 RPM once using a different camera. This little movie camera can't freeze them.

Well, enough reflecting. The Clipper circled over Kitimat and headed into Terrace for a smooth touch down. I could still taste the poutine and Coffee Crisp and the Jus de Tomate, and, unfortunately, the Rocket Chips, but it was time to get to what I came up here to get to.

A Beautiful Evening in Portland: Happy Feet on Rainbow Lane

"Jack, Lili's on the blower. Wants to know if me, Kitty, and you can meet up with her and Mittsy tonite. There's people need talking with over off The Beach at Rainbow Lane. Kitty already gave it the up and down." The Beach is a main drag in Stumptown and one of the few on our side of the river that runs at an angle. Lots of action on The Beach and apparently some of it was going to spill onto Rainbow Lane. "Count me in, if trouble's on his way, Mittsy and Lili can use the help."


Lili Barbarula and Mittsy LaCroix were friends from back before me and Dolly-girl set our brake west of Big Muddy. Fact is, me and Dolly-girl saw the first time Lili and Mittsy locked lips. It was after what some would say was too much skidrow one time when Dolly-girl was saying hello to a new decade. Others would say that it was just the right amount of rosso, if you're with me. Anyway, Mittsy's called that from back when he was tending goal for the Les Maringouin des Chicoutimi, a junior hockey team up on the Saguenay. His mitt was so fast that mostly he hardly had to use his stick or blocker.


Lili's a people-sort-a-person who kept folks in line for a drug crowd back east. She left that behind like a bald tire in Pine Ridge, South Dakota, pulled Mittsy out of the penalty box in the Greek part of Gooberland, and did a Horace Greeley. Now they live down The Valley where Mittsy uses the web instead of a mitt and Lili's doing time with the State in Capital City. Lili's sister lives on Rainbow Lane and they were some of the who that needed talking with.


I tucked my heater in my belt while Dolly-girl picked up an applesauce cake and Kitty grabbed a cooler full of cold ones. "Hey, this ain't no picnic at The Beach," I told them. That got me a look through the wave and a "That's exactly what it is, Jack, a picnic. A block party. Food, music, fun. Leave Messrs. S&W home, will ya?" Well, you can imagine I felt 2 inches tall. Here I thought there was some sort of caper afoot but instead, there's just some foot-longs and some capers in a dip. I got to quit taking Stumptown so serious.


We arrived and right away, things were looking up. Turns out, Rainbow Lane is about in the backyard of a place where they brew some pretty good brew and someone had rolled a barrel of Hop Monkey down the street and it was cold.





OK, so The Beach doesn't have to be all business. There was plenty of food around which helped me get past that all-business-in-Stumptown sort of attitude. Plus there were kids, dogs, Tiki torches, and music. I decided to let sleeping dogs lie, got a plate, had a couple of brews, and talked with Dolly-girl, Kitty, Mittsy, and Lili.










The band, called the Slimjims were jammin' up a storm and they were easy on the ears. The pedal steel man knew his way around all sorts of guitars, the lead was singing songs we hadn't heard sung (some for good reason) since back before Stumptown was where we were setting the brake, and they had a chiquita banana on fiddle that was playing everybody's tune. Wasn't long between the Hop Monkey and the steel, and the fiddle, before there were happy feet on Rainbow Lane.


The band kept playing, the blue lights came on, and Kitty was cutting the rug on the street as you can see just to the left.






Me and Dolly-girl swung each other around a bit like Lawrence Welk and little Janet Lennon, and Dolly-girl was working up to a polka, but mostly we tapped our toes, sang along, and watched the Happy Feet on Rainbow Lane!

When the night was done and Kitty and Dolly-girl and me packed into the roadster to head back to our part of Stumptown, we agreed it had been a keen time!

A Beautiful Afternoon in Portland: Stopping for a Burger at the Stop and Go Burger

Dolly-girl was at the jawbones dealing with, as she calls it, dental destiny, so me and Books decided to talk with some people around town that needed talking with. It was just about an hour after the Stumptown noon whistle blew, so it was a good time to stop by the Stop & Go Burger go for a little fill-me-up. Books passed.

Stop & Go is a joint on our side of the river, but a ways from where me and Dolly-girl set the brake. The hashslinger/Missy was in the little silver shed that Stop & Go calls everything-we-got, which isn't quite true since they have a covered area with a few tables where we could enjoy the summer day, watch Stumptown motor by, and eat a Prince burger. Yep, the whaddaya-want was a royal offering, starting with Prince, then Queen, ...OK, I'm guessing you follow.




I settled on the Prince with yellow paint and a hemorrhage, pucker-ups, wax, and a rose pinned on. The sign said "Fresh Grilled" and the joint lived up to the billing. Me and Books rested our tails while hash/Missy burned one. She yelled out, "Yours is up, Jack", which I could guess since, being 45 minutes past the second whistle, nobody else was around. I work what you call a flexible schedule, follow? Anyway, Harry of Wales arrived in a little paper sack, on a piece of brown paper, on a plastic tray. Cute, Dolly-girl and Kitty would be giving the Stop & Go a D minus in the Save-the-Earth column. Especially after they saw that on top of the paper and inside the sack, the Prince was in a little paper cup thing...




The Prince looked like advertised and I dug in. Books looked over and gave me the whaddaya-think? "As good as one of those fast-food places for twice the price," is what I thought. But then it wasn't that fast, which isn't all bad, and I'm thinking the stockholders were doing the grilling. With me? Stop & Go won't stop you in your tracks, but I'd give it a go.

Oh, you won't find poutine...it's not that upscale a joint.

A Cloudy August Afternoon in Portland: A Visit to Powell's City of Books, Jake's Happy Hour, and Bailey's Taproom

The Clipper touched down at Stumptown Field right on time. I heard the announcement, "Now arriving, Clipper 461 from Detroit, Milwaukee, the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Rapid City, and Boise." I stood on my toes to look over the crowd and saw Books as he stepped off the aeroplane. Books, or Libretto D'Mestiere, was here to visit us and we'd been looking forward to it. Dolly-girl named him Libretto because she said he was like a book of lyrics, but "Books" was more to his liking and was a pretty accurate description of his favorite activity, not to mention the way he earned a buck--balancing and making, and not necessarily in that order, if you get me. We shook hands, hugged, and he said, "How soon can we set the brake at Powells?" There was no getting around the fact that me and Dolly-girl weren't the only draw in Stumptown--there was The City of Books, too.

"Soon as you want to," came out of my mouth which brought a "Well, how about now?" "On it. Let's pick up Dolly-girl." We did and a few minutes later we were on the other side of the river at a place Dolly-girl calls a second home. Books and Dolly-girl disappeared inside while I kept my eye out for you-know-who. This is a part of Stumptown where the bad and the good share one thing, a love of books, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the Trouble Brothers drop their attitudes at the door. I took up a spot on the corner and did my civic duty, the sorta Neighborhood Watch a neighborhood like this one needs but doesn't get often enough. After all, some of the business may be dull*, but the sun doesn't set on shenanigans in this part of town.


* It's true, an architecture firm named Dull Olson Weekes Architects. Wouldn't you change your name if it were Dull, particularly if you were an architect?

A couple hours later, after Ambassador Franklin and General Grant shook hands with a cashier in the City of Books, Books and Dolly-girl found me at my lamppost. "Lookin' for your keys, Jack?" "You know what I'm up to Dolly-girl and one of these days you'll be the better for it, too." She liked to kid me about how serious I took serious business, especially when business was serious. I knew she was kidding, but every once-in-a-while it put a burr under my saddle, follow? Anyhow, I knew they'd by ready to put on the feedbag after all that perusing.


"Jake's?" Dolly-girl pushed the wave back and smiled. "It's ringing my bell, how about you Books?" "Never been there, willing to try." We got on shank's mare and headed over there. It wasn't far. Jake's is a serious seafood joint and a fixture around Stumptown. It was Happy Hour, which in Stumptown means regular prices on the whaddaya-drinkin' and almost free on the whaddaya-want. That was hitting our spot.



We walked in. The place was crowded even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. Jake's is a place business--and some of it shady--gets done; you could tell that from the pictures hanging on the wall. The missys were dressed in white jackets or black skirts depending, follow? They were buzzing around the place like yellow jackets on fresh grilled albacore. Our Missy brought us the whaddaya-wants, Bull Run all around, and an attitude. "Ready to roll? Remember, the plates are big." We were. We didn't.











Books was ready for a cold one, "Float me an amber down Gastineau Channel." "North to it." "The heavy one that's been to the Sub-continent and back for me." "Terminal Gravity IPA, it's yours. You, miss?" "Czech it, something local, bring me the HUB lager." "Czech? Check." Missy knew her game.

We gave the whaddaya-want the twice over. There's always a temptation to order like it's going to be some nibble in a cup like they pass out at the A&P on Saturday. Mark us tempted and tried.


Missy was back with the brew. "What'll it be for youse?" "Give us a couple orders of flattened left hook, some rings of the deep, an order of the southern murphies, and a couple seaweed wraps and dunk em'. Oh, throw in the dirty dishes, too." Missy rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks, doing an imitation of us by the time the big had was on the six. We settled it and nursed the pints.




Missy and a helper showed up with the food. "Must be some mistake--we ordered Happy Hour feedbags." Missy rolled her eyes. "Salmon cakes, calamari, sweet potato fries, pot stickers, and the tempura sushi. Now, I told youse the plates were big--eat up and make me proud. Do it again on the malties?" "Sure, give me a Kolsch from over the hills. Books will have a Laurelhurst, and wash it out." "Right, a Double Mountain and a pale ale. Yours?" Dolly-girl gulped and passed.

She was back in a flash with the one-more-times while we did our best to get to the bottom of the feed bags. We almost made it but ended up giving the rest of the rings of the deep to Birthday Girl and a pal-o-mine of hers at the next table. "We just hang around here, nurse a beer, and wait for people to leave--there's always oats in the bottom of the bag..." "Check. Happy day."


We rolled out the door and onto the street. Funny how when you stand up, two things happen. Feed settles and good ideas rise right to the top. "How about we finish this festa off with a trip to Baileys?" "Gads, Jack. You can't be serious. How can you possibly think about heading over there after this?" A look through the wave told me I was going to have to do some convincing on this one. "Yeah, Dolly-girl, but Books hasn't been there and they don't have places like Bailey's back where he sets his brake and who knows if we'll get back to this side of the river and, and.." Another shot through the wave and I knew I had her. "It'll be exercise. OK." We headed over. It wasn't far. The taproom was hoppin' what with it being Friday afternoon. A lot of people who started the week asleep were waking up now and giving themselves a pat on the back for making it through another one. We slid in and joined them. Missy poured us a taster of Captured by Porches Invasive Species, Lucky Lab Superdog, Fanno Creek IPA, Ninkasi Sleigh'r, and cask-conditioned Lagunitus Dogtown Pale.

Dolly-girl was right. We drank them down and waddled on back to our side of Stumptown. A grand day out!

A Beautiful Evening in Portland: National Night Out and a Festa at Good Neighbor Pizza

The blower sparked. I was in the middle of thinking about a case that needed some serious thinking. One Rocky Fell threw my way. Someone snatched a fur from a chiquita banana down The Valley and he figured it might've ended up in Stumptown. I was on it. I thought about letting Thelma get the blower, but by then my train of thought was on a Union Pacific siding across from Lupita's down in Woodburn. "D'Mestiere Investigations. Go." Dolly-girl. "Jack, National Night Out. Kitty's on it. I gotta go read some verses to people who need to be versed. I'll meet you there. Follow?" "OK, we'll be at Good Neighbor for a cold one by the time you get back to our side of the river." Click. Dolly-girl wasn't much for chit-chat once the plans were laid.

Kitty and I perambulated over to Woodlawn Park and did the once around on what was happening there. It was a slow night. A few hawkers were set up, trying to pedal either BBQ or blood pressure screenings. Didn't seem to me like either one did much for the other's business. Well, maybe a good shot of BBQ would give those screeners something to look at. A small crowd was gathering to watch The Wiz--we passed.

We headed on over to Good Neighbor, a joint that makes a good pizza pie and is known to have some cold ones to wash it down with. Me and Dolly-girl have them bring it by where we set the brake from time to time, and Kitty likes to stop in the joint on the way home from her 9 to 5 and wash the dust out of her mouth, if you know what I mean.






It was a nice night to be out. Old Mister was feeling good on our backs and people were in the sort of mood that means the pop you hear is from a bottle of suds preparing to head downtown rather than from some punk's heater. We took a table outside, near the street, where I could keep any eye out for trouble just in case it decided to get up, scratch its butt, and start something. Like I say, I wasn't expecting it, but when you're in a place that sells Old German for a clam a can, you never know when some hot head full of cold brew is going to think he might just have some of what he calls fun but what the Stumptown Police Bureau calls felony.




Missy was working the joint by himself. Me and Kitty nursed a Walking Man and a Bull Run waiting for Dolly-girl and then decided to go ahead and get us a festa on a tile--run it through the garden and pin a rose on it. Oh, and give some zeppelin a ride through the oven too. "On it. Do it again?" "Never think twice." Kitty was thirsty. Missy was back in a while with a round and a little while later with a pie that made him look like he knew what he was up to. He makes the sauce, starting with seeds and soil, so it may take a while to get the feed bag, but when it comes, it's one of the best in Stumptown to my way of thinking. Dolly-girl's roadster squealed to a stop, she set the brake, hopped out, and got there just in time to shoot a look through the wave and grab a slice. Purrs from the two chiquitas told me that Good Neighbor was just the neighbor they were hoping to run into.


We settled up. It was a breeze, mostly 'cause Kitty paid, "I owe you from the other night, it's on me", but the damage wasn't much considering a couple of beers each and the festa. A chiquita's bag on the bar said it all--there's plenty of reasons to be a Good Neighbor...

A Quick Trip To Ashland: The Oregon Shakespeare Festival

Doorbell. Then "Telegram." Dolly-girl opened up, tipped the kid, and took the yellow envelope. "Javier. We're on for the weekend. He booked us into the Blue Moon--that OK with you Jack?". It was. Dolly-girl and me like to take in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Dolly-girl likes The Bard--got interested when she was at finishing school--so at least once a year, we pack up the roadster and head south from Stumptown to see what there is to see on the stage. Mostly they put on the old ones, but every once in a while they come up with something the guy just wrote. I ask Dolly-girl about whosis, like how come I never hear him interviewed on the Zenith, but she just laughs at me. I told her he sure isn't from our side of the river, I know that from the words he uses. That got me an "Are you serious" though the wave. Who knows, but I know that I never learned about any guy named Bard when I was studying up for my private ticket. And I don't know what this festival has to do with fishing tackle.

Javier Boleyn is a pal-o-mine of Dolly-girl's from back before I knew her. They were in the same business back then and met learning to be bookies. Good thing I met her. You just can't tell where making book is going to land you. Javier is still in the business after all these years, but he lives in Frisco now. Claims to like the fog. Even though there's been big advances in what some call technology, Javier is old-fashioned about some things--telegrams, for instance--instead of just picking up the blower. Go figure. Anyway, he's an all-the-worlds-a-stage sort of guy so he meets up with us down south, or up north if you're looking at the world from where he sets his brake.





The day broke, we packed the roadster, and headed out. Kitty was keeping an eye on our joint for us in case someone I'd had my eye on decided to pay a visit while we weren't looking. We meandered south, stopped for an hour where I could dial a blower and talk with some people that needed talking with, and ended up at the air field just in time to see Javier's clipper touch down. He stepped out, turned and waved to the stewardess, and walked across the tarmac, valise in hand. Dolly-girl ran to meet him (she's like a kid at Christmas when it's time to start trading barbs about this guy Bard with Javier). They started doing their catching up on what needed caught up on while I pulled the roadster around. We loaded Javier's trunk and headed to the Blue Moon, one of those what you used to call Tourist Houses but now people call them beeandbees for some reason. Anyway, this one's a nice place to stay. It's got art on the walls and there's always some sort of snack. Dolly-girl tells me it's fresh baked pastries. I guess. Dean--he's in charge--even gives you birdseed in the morning. You don't get a whaddaya-want, you take-what-comes-out-the-door, but you don't have to pay or leave him a tip or nothing. Go figure.








Dean told us birdseed would be on the table at nine sharp but that we'd be able to get a couple cuppas earlier than that and it's a good thing because if Dolly-girl doesn't get her blondie by punch-in time, she's looking for my heater and a chance to light a fire under someone's schedule. Not many things set her off, but waiting for joe to show is one of them.



Javier and Dolly-girl picked some seats that left me at the end with my back to the wall. She knows what I like in a seat: if trouble's joining us for a sit-down, I want to be the one who see it set its brake and walk in the door. Everybody else staying at the Blue Moon showed up too and I listened to people chewing the fat while they waited for the hash slinger to load up the feedbags. Dean started bringing plates out and telling us what was on them.


I'll tell you, this was no birdseed joint like me and Dolly-girl go to, you know, the places with your-call cackleberries--wrecked, flopped, Adam and Eve on a raft--and Noah's boy in the alley. No, Dean said we were getting a fritater, but the murphies looked baked to me. He said the fritater was eh-talian (he pronounced it like Dolly-girl does) but I'm telling you, Mama D'Mestiere never put nothing that looked like this in our feedbags, so I'm guessing it's one of those things like Chef Boyardee makes. It looked real pretty and Dolly-girl and Javier gave it the eyeball and dug in.


It was good alright and pretty soon 16 jaws quit jawing and started doing the up-and-down, tending to the business they were made for. Dean said everything was fresh from the garden, but I didn't hear any cackles, so I'm guessing if I'd said anything Dolly-girl would have shot me a "Suspend reality, Jack" through the wave so I kept my yap lined up on the food. I could taste tomatoes and basil and oregano and Parma's wax on the top and I'll take Dean's word for it having hen fruit. Speaking of Eve's goof, there was a big plate of it and it went along like a Sunday drive with the fritater.


We had some time to kill before we had to load the roadster and head north, so we saddled up shank's mare and headed into town for a look see. Ashland ain't no Stumptown in my book. There were people learning a goofy dance near the place where we'd seen Henry VIII, one of those stories by the Bard guy, the night before. It was a good enough yarn about this Henry guy (never did get the vee-eye-eye-eye part) who had a perfectly good chiquita banana, but decided he wanted a different one from a newer bunch so he dumped her and took up with the new one. Nothing new in that story, at least not around Stumptown. Maybe Ashland is different.


Yeah, well it is different. One of the watering holes claims to specialize in drinking chocolate. That would get you some raised eyebrows on our side of the river, I'll tell you. We're more of a shot-and-beer town than a kiss-and- marshmallow place. Dolly-girl and Javier were talking the odds of this joint lasting. They decided: not good.









Javier spied a bookie joint and Dolly-girl's greenies lit up. "I'd like to lay off a little in this town before we hit the road, let's see if they got a couple numbers I've been wanting." They had a lot, but not the horse she was looking to bet, I guess. She finally found some cards to play and that put her teeth in front of her lips. Something about independence. I didn't catch everything she and Javier were yapping about.
















I saw this one but decided against it





Anyway, it was time for us to head back to Stumptown; Javier was staying on. I think he was trying to meet that guy Bard. Maybe get his autograph, who knows. If you ask me, he should take him shopping, update his clothes, follow? Then, teach the guy how to write like people talk. He'll never pass what they call the test of time if he can't do that much...

Illustration credit Martin Droeshout

A Beautiful Evening in Portland: Dinner at the Lincoln Restaurant

The blower sparked. Dolly-girl rolled over and elbowed me. "Jack, the blower, it's gotta be for you this time of the day." Tootsie. She and Slim were planning a check-it-out trip to Stumptown to see if they couldn't find a piedatterra. The Valley wasn't doing what they needed done in terms of keeping them busy doing anything but busy work on the weekends, follow? Slim was pushing Stumptown as a get-away from what needed getting away from. Anyway, they wanted to know if we wanted to tie on the feedbag. We did. Dolly-girl reads about joints in the broadsheet. She stirred, figured what me and Tootsie were talking about, said "Lincoln Restaurant," and rolled over. It was set.

Slim and Tootsie rolled in about an hour after the olives line up for their bath. Tootsie brought her niece, Bluebird, who lives over in the part of Stumptown me and Dolly-girl call hectic, but it's still on our side of the river. Slim was shaking his head as I handed him a shot of something from South of the Border. "Missed a turn. Ended up across the river. Tootsie and the kid were yappin' and I just plain missed it. Here's salutin' your serape." We did a do-it-again and then piled in the roadster and headed for the trough--it's not far away, but too far for shank's mare. Turns out it's in a part of Stumptown that would like to be a gourmet gulch but isn't Gourmet Gulch if you know what I mean. Beans were hitting the plates in a new-fangled building--jane from the outside, but a great layout and lots of sunshine pouring though lots of glass roll-up doors. You might think it had been a Ford agency at one time, but the only grease there now is what they use to cook up some mighty-fine cornmeal onion rings.












"D'Mestiere--five of us, may be under Fiora." "On it. Right this way." We sat down next to an open door/window and Missy was quick to us with Bull Run, the whaddayas, and a smile. Slim ordered us all some skidrow and we raised glasses to whatever needed it. I checked the inside out. No one behind us but a wall and a hallway that left me a little jumpy, not to mention Old Mister shining in my eyes. The sunshine felt good but I'd wouldn't have seen trouble coming if he'd been dressed in pink and wearing a Stetson, get it? Dolly-girl gave me a little squeeze that let me know she voted for calming down, but still, this part of Stumptown
makes the broadsheet for more than just feedbags, with me?

Still, it was a nice night, people were having fun. I sat back and forgot about the week of talking with people who needed talking with, except for giving the group the high points of the low down from a swimming session I had at local gin mill in The Valley with Dixie and the Slider. They introduced me to a guy I needed to meet, name of Rocky Fell. He runs a high wire act when he's not eating hot meat and pepper seed.



I looked around the place. Pretty standard table except Mike was in a little tin cup and Ike was no where to be seen. There was a little jeannie burning oil on the table. I snuffed it. You may think of me as a tough guy, but I got a soft spot for Planet Earth and didn't think we needed to be burning fossil fuels in the sunshine. Dolly-girl gave me a quick one though the wave and the next time Missy came by, she popped a lit one on the table and took my work away. I held back on the urge and that got me another little squeeze from my chiquita banana.





Missy took the orders and was back by the time we'd raised another glass of skidrow. "Here are your kick-it-offs: cackleberries swimming through the oven in cream, steamrolled doughboy with tonnato and your bruschetta. The hash slinger keeps an eye on you and he'll start your whats-up-next when he sees you stop chewing your cud." It didn't take long before I gave the slinger the high sign and Tootsie and Dolly-girl's cowfeed showed up. Dolly-girl was looking at quite the bale and Tootsie's had some kind of tropical delight cut up on it. The two of them were purring like a couple of half-Siamese I know when those plates hit the boards. And I'll tell you, they were a couple satisfied kitties (but not the real Kitty) when they chewed through that field.







The joint was jumping and the Missys were running so fast they were a blur by the skidrow glasses. The slinger had feedbags lines up like shots on the bar at the VFW.





Another nod in the direction of the Tappan and the main attraction arrived. Slim went for beef from the hanger, asleep on some of that cave-made frog wax, Tootsie and Bluebird were doing fin flips over Charley, gnocchi so good Dolly-girl tucked the wave behind an ear and dug in. I was looking at a chop from a porker that was raised with me in mind. That plus yellow green beans left me singing "I'll be seeing you..."










We did a do-it-again on the skidrow and settled down to business. Up and downs all around the table told me what I needed to know--no one here wished we were there instead of where we were. In fact, I'd been to a bunch of theres in the last couple weeks that made me wish I'd been here instead. Missy kept us in her thoughts and we didn't want for a thing.




Finish-it-ups had Slim shaking in his shorts over a slug of fudge on some ice cream they'd cranked up in the back room. Dolly-girl and Tootsie split something baked with berries while Bluebird had something light, I think she called it sore-bay. Go figure, but it was ringing her bell.

A couple Grants plus a Jackson got me and Dolly-girl out of the joint and left a smile on Missy's mug. That ain't bad for top-notch feedbags and our share of two bottles of rosso. We hooked arms, strolled into the night, and put Lincoln Restaurant on our list of places that ain't seen the last of us.

A Beautiful Afternoon in Portland: Umbrellas in the Sun at the Cathedral Park Jazz Festival

Sun poured down on me. It couldn't get better. A cuppa, a comfortable chair in the garden, and a Friday Rex Parker that was giving up to me--grudgingly, but still, giving up.

I heard her inside, talking to the cats and working at something on the Tappan. She was humming along with some big band that I could hear was playing on the Zenith in the parlor. I had an idea.


"Dolly-girl, let's me and you mosey over to St. John's and take a gander under the bridge. I read in the broadsheet that there's music over there and it could be worth a hear-see." "Jack, do you have any recollection of me telling you about the Cathedral Park Jazz Festival?" "Hmm, I thought it was my idea..." "Sure, Jack, who's the social director around where we set our brake, anyway?" OK, so I do get distracted from time to time.

We packed up some of this and some of that, loaded the roadster, and headed over to east of North Stumptown, north of where people pay through the noses they look down to see the bridge that leads to where we were going and they don't want to be, follow? We didn't have to take the bridge because it's on our side of the river. Good thing 'cause I've got a thing about bridges.

Sure enough, the skinny Dolly-girl had given me and that I'd remembered after I read it was straight. There was a torch singer playing a stand-up bass (go figure) and some others backing her up. I had to hand it to these folks; they didn't seem to be worried about anything except singin' and swingin'. In my line of work I'm generally looking for what trouble's left behind when I'm looking up at the bottom side of a bridge.

We ran into a hipster that Dolly-girl does some work with from time-to-time when there's some writing that needs re-writing. He and his chiquita--she was Jane, I mean her name was Jane--were all Christmas morning over a guy that was going to be beating this and whacking that--what you call a percussionist--when the next act, a salsa slinger, and I'm not talking burritoville here, took the stage. We said our how-do-you-dos and our nice-to-see-yous and then found a place in the shade where we could listen to the salsa being slung.


It was a great day to just sit and take it easy. Dolly-girl and me settled in and she pulled out a copy of the latest Movie Mirror and a beat-up Hollywood she borrowed from a dentist over in Hollywood, to catch up on the latest in scandal from the silver screen. Her toes were tapping to the music and I could tell this was hitting a spot. I shifted around in my chair and finally pulled out my heater and tossed it in her bag. "Honestly, Jack, you'd think we lived in the old west or something. This is Stumptown.Today. Relax!" "Yeah, yeah, one of these times you're gonna be glad I've got her with me Dolly-girl. Stumptown isn't called Stumptown for no reason, you know." "Jack, that's gibberish--listen to the music." She was right. It was. I did.



I tried to forget about being under a bridge, even if it was daytime. I mean, how many bad stories do you know that took place under a bridge? A lot if you're with me. Of course, not many of those things happened with a couple thousand people laying on the lawn, tapping their toes, with a big band playing in the background. I'd have to give you that one. Dolly-girl hummed and tapped along.

To take my mind off what might happen if those couple thousand people weren't around tapping their toes, I pulled out the Kodak and snapped a few for the album me and Dolly-girl keep to remember the good times we have. It was a good day to have an umbrella to keep Old Mister Sun from giving your nose that I've-been-hitting-the-sauce look.










After the music was over, me and Dolly-girl packed up and headed back to where we'd left the roadster. This scene reminded me why I pack that heater. I patted it and pulled Dolly-girl close so she wouldn't get jumpy over what might be in the trunk of that auto. She purred, "Oh Jack, you take such good care of me...there are so many Swedish gangsters who recycle!" I made like a beet while she laughed and laughed and I guess I sorta had to chuckle myself. But then, who would want to sleep with the lutefisk?

July 13, 2009. Rest In Eternal Peace, Cynthia Cutting

Dear Friend, Cynthia Cutting,

I don't know when you were born, but I know this day you left the earth. I can't imagine tonight a better picture to capture your life than new growth on an old-growth tree.

I can only hope to recall the wonderful grace you brought to our lives.

Rest in peace, dear Cynthia.

A Beautiful Saturday Morning in Portland: Breakfast at Fats

Saturday. Dolly-girl had a list. "Jack, me and Lavaya got our baby-blues on a place over in Gourmet Gulch for birdseed, and I want to stop and look for some new art-work while we're over there. Remember, they pass out Mimosas on Saturday and Sunday mornings and we're in the mood." I could always be in the mood to perambulate, gesticulate, masticate, and appreciate, so I was game.



Lavaya Switch is a pal-o-mine of Dolly-girl's from the Mile High that she corresponds with and every once in a whenever, they get together and talk about whatever it is chiquita bananas talk about when they get together to talk about whatever it is that needs talking about. Follow? Lavaya came to Stumptown and then over to the Coast to talk to a person she needed to talk to, and then she parked her valise at our place for a coupla days before she caught the Viscount service uphill from Stumptown Field.










"We ran into Kitty and she told us they were having a big sale on hang-em-ups and she said you and her and Fin had seen that new hashhouse looking like it was open." Dolly-girl and Kitty talk. "Alright, it's Saturday, it's July [a quiet time in Stumptown, if you get where I'm headed], and you got a list. I'm on it." We harnessed shank's mare and headed for the part of our part of town where you can get four things: a sailor's arm, a steaming cuppa joe, a mirror so you can see the Holy Mother of God when you're looking at yourself, and good food. We were after the the first of the daily 3-squares.


Me and Dolly-girl had been waiting for this place. The owner had a way about him that would generally cause me to fire a Lucky, pat my heater, and say "take it down a notch, Mac." "No one knows how to cook an egg in this town" aint' making friends when you open the shutters and start slinging hash across the street from the best egg joint in Stumptown, a place me and Dolly-girl have been to more than a handful of times. We slid in. The joint had its doors ajar, but other than Missy, it was going to be just us warming the seats.


We walked in. I looked around. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. A row of blowers on the wall. So far the joint reminded me of a place on the other side of the river where you could lay off bets on the daily double at Stumptown Meadows. The floor told me why I hadn't seen Smurfette lately--I guess she got on the wrong side of Tinky Winky and some of his pals.












It was the sort of place that maybe time forgot, but judging from the clock, it may have been a place that forgot time. The clock on the wall said just past ten-thirty, but a look at my Dueber-Hampden told me it was short of ten--too early for the hair of the dog, even though there were plenty of dogs waiting to be clipped.
I made a note: this is a place that will see our shadow again.




Missy ran his hand around the room and Dolly-girl and Lavaya picked a table near the windows, backed up against the wall. Fine with me. I could keep an eye on a part of Stumptown that had a reputation for needing an eye kept on, while at the same time lining up the best feedbags in town. Go figure.





We settled our bones and right away Dolly-girl and Lavaya were cooing over the "day-coeur", as they were calling it. Looked like a joint to me. Tables, glasses, wipe-your-yaps, Mike and Ikes, the only thing different was the sand was in blocks. But whatever. Lotsa joints have blocks of sand.

Missy ambled over. It was clear this joint had an attitude, but hey, so do I and if what I've read in the broadsheets about the hashslinger is half of half of the skinny, it'll be good. "Bull run?". "Three. Two joes, make one a blond...You? No. Bull run does it...Got it." He was all business for the end of the week. We might be first through the door, but you could tell he knew we wouldn't be the last.



Missy brought the joe and it was jake. "Don't get no better in Stumptown than Stumptown..." "Yeah, we drink it all the time." Dolly-girl wasn't gonna let Missy treat us like we were from the other side of the river coming east for the first time 'cause of some broadsheet rap. "We set our brake around here. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from the joe joint next to the ink well." "Can't call your bluff on that one, green-eyes, they drip a first class cuppa over there." He set down the whadda-ya-wants, winked at Dolly-girl, and said, "I'll check back." I started up, but Dolly-girl put her hand on my arm and said, 'Relax, Jack, he didn't mean no nevermind. I didn't see no sparkles." I got a thing about those greenies.

The whadda-ya-want was full of bring-it-to-me-nows. Lavaya and Dolly-girl settled on the cackleberries, bubble & squeak, and a raft. I went for a couple wrecked with diced Noah's boy, some cockney wax, the breath of life, and frog sticks on the side. The Canadian started to say, Eh?", but whoever heard of poutine without curds? Chevre? Wait just a Manitoba Minute!




Missy was talking to the slinger, and moving every which way which was a good way to move seeing that a crowd was just about to arrive. He was working the joint alone, but then another missy showed up and the two of them were jiffy-quick getting more joe java and Bull Run where it needed to be. This wasn't Missys' first what-can-I-get-ya job.




Missy brought three feed bags and we tied them on. The girls got quiet--just some murmurs let me know that cackleberries on a raft were floating down the Columbia, headed for sea. My wreck'em right was wrecked just right. I asked for a squeeze out of the yellow bottle, but the joint is new--Missy looked around but they didn't have it. "Put it on your list--I know you got one." "On it."




Forty-five minutes and three Hamiltons after we walked into the joint, we were on the street, saying this won't be the last time Fats finds us looking at the whadda-ya-want. Our part of Stumptown, the place where Dolly-girl and me set the brake, and where the people on the other side of the river don't like to say they like, but they like better than their side of the river where they call a front porch home, has got another great trough.



The three of us walked on down the street and picked up that art that me and Dolly-girl are sure is going to finish off that spot above our fireplace that's just been waiting for the right piece of the Louvre. It reminds us of that Europe trip we took.

An Editorial Revision of An Evening in Ellensburg: Dinner at the Valley Cafe

Once again, polishing characters, I'll bring my loyal readers up to date with a change in Sarah, first met in Ellensburg, who is now Kay, Kay Anthony...

Time and space lead people far and wide. Kay Anthony and her pipes were working a club in central Washington, and I'm not talking the District here. Turns out, her guy Anthony Kay, won a piece of the joint in a card game back east somewhere. They packed up the roadster and headed west to find the fortune. But fortune, fame, and trouble hide in funny spots. They hit the west coast and next thing you know, Kay's doing time with the state and Anthony's picking up a new career, waiting for her to serve. Word on the street is that she's working the farm labor scene while he's just gotten philosophical.

They'd been together for a while and were thinking about taking each others names, but then she'd be Kay Kay and he'd be Anthony Anthony, so they decided to leave sleeping dogs lie.

A Beautiful Evening in Portland: June's Last Thursday

I screeched to a stop at Stumptown Field and set the brake. I hopped out, handed Dolly-girl's valise to the baggage man, and pulled her close. I kissed her, hard. It had to last to the other coast and back. It would. I could hear the gate agent on the loudspeaker: "Last call for Mrs. D'Mestiere, Fi-or-a D'Mestiere..." "I told you we'd make it in time, Jack." Dolly-girl doesn't care for anything about air travel and always waits until the last minute. "Have a good time with Fin! Tell him I'd be here except I got people who need talkin' with back on the coast." She gave me a look through the wave, smiled, turned on her heel and walked past the agent, waving her ticket, through the gate, and onto the Constellation. The door closed, engines 2, 3, 1, and then 4 coughed and fired, it taxied out and roared down Runway 10, non-stop to Gotham. I waved.

I got home, fed the cats, picked up the blower and dialed 3-7-3-2. Kitty. She's in the same exchange so I only have to dial the last four. Technology, it's great. "Yeah-low, Kitty." "It's me. Last Thursday. Fin's in town. Wanta?" "I'm game." Fin is a pal-o-mine from way back when I did investigations down the valley. He was going to help me talk with some people who needed talking with the next day. Kitty knows Fin and since he doesn't get to Stumptown that often, I figured she might like to say how-do-you-do. She did.


I call Fin Fin because, time was, he was a pretty fair swimmer. I coulda given him some tips, but mostly I just keep my mouth shut, got it? Fin and his chiquita, Sparky--she's a swimmer too, fact is he can't keep up with her--still live down the valley. He deals in environmental services, if you know what I mean, and Sparky runs the feed-bag at a retirement home. They like to dive for sunken treasure in their spare time. Helps keep beans on the table and skidrow in the glass.









Last Thursday on Alberta is an unwinder that draws 'em in from all over Stumptown. All types, all kinds. Dolly-girl, Kitty, and me have been there before and you got the rundown on a joint we like not long ago. Maybe last Last Thursday, or it mighta been the Last Thursday before the last one--every month has got one. Anyway, you get my drift, right? Lots of jakes and jills, lots of art, lots of food, and more than just a little bit of drink. With me?











We took it on shank's mare from where Dolly-girl and me set the brake. The three of us slipped into a place me and Dolly-girl like to go from time to time, a joint called Mash Tun not far from where our Tappan is in the kitchen. They brew their own there, but they got some from other people too if you don't like what they've drained out of the barrel lately. They got food, too, and it's worth the shoe leather to get it. When Dolly-girl has bar food on the Zenith, Mash Tun's playing her tune, with me? But that was another time.



Tonight it was packed. I wasn't happy about it, but I could hear Dolly-girl in my ear, "Relax Jack, a crowd's the best place to be." She was right. I reached for a Lucky. Damn, forgot them. Make a note: Get Luckies before the Feds take them away. There's a new broom in town and he's sweeping up the vice business. Missy stopped by. "What's it?" We ordered brew, three of them. Missy was back double-quick, we clinked, and started catching up.



Seemed like a snack might be good--no one was much in the mood for a sit-in-one-place night. Missy was by again. "Feed-bag?" "Just some grazing--an order of Irish lads and make it quick." "Gotcha, TTs. Hey, ever try our Tatchos? Nachos made with tater-tots?" Make another note: Tatchos. Have to be when Dolly-girl is out of town...
The lads arrived, Missy brought us a do-it-again, and we dived in. One of those things nobody will say they like, and nobody ever eats them, but when it's all said and done, it's all done and never said.










We settled up for a likable price and headed out to see what the street might hold. Turns out, it held a lot of music and dance and people and art and dogs and this and that.

We perambulated down Alberta and first up was capoeira.




Just watching all that jumping around raised us a little appetite, so we stopped in al Forno Ferruzza pizzeria and got us a bite. It's maybe the best pizza in Stumptown. Try it out.

A marching steel drum band passed us by...



And drummers were drumming on the corner...

We kept on going and came across a group of Indian singers...

Dark was falling and all that perambulating had worked up a thirst in this trio, so we stopped by the ale house, you know, the one me and Dolly-girl go to for a couple to hit the spot. We headed out, ready to call the night by its name--a night--but the lights of Fats Pub, a new eatery in Gourmet Gulch, drew us in. Us and no one else. Tables were set, bar was stocked, door was open, but not a person in sight. I yoo-hooed. No response. So, I looked at the whadda-ya-want, the whadda-ya-drinkin', and took a couple snaps with the Kodak. Make one last note: go back there soon.

An Editorial Revision Post of April 29, A Monday Evening In the Valley: Drinks and Eats at 101

For loyal readers who are concerned that if I change the names and backgrounds of characters they won't keep up, I've revised the post of April 29. The BJ nickname was not working for me. Didn't work for Dolly-girl either. So BJ is Slider and Slider is Dixie's guy. So what's writing without editing?

Check out the revised post here or read what's different below:



Dixie's a chiquita from Florida. She and Slider met in a bar in Appalachicola where he stopped to eat some world-famous oysters on his way northwest when he was traded up from the Brevard County Manatees to the Montgomery Biscuits. It was his base stealing ability that got him a promotion from a run-down bus league to a beat-up bus league, but he blew an ACL in his first AA game and so he headed back to Appalachicola and the nurse he met doing shooters at Papa Joe's. Yeah, it's a sorta Bull Durham story, but with oysters and a nurse instead of cheap bourbon and a part-time teacher. How they got to The Valley, now that's another story for another time. Leave it at Slider couldn’t play ball anymore, but he could slide into the big pipes on the California coast. They're pals of Tootsie and Slim too and there's always a lot of laughs when they're around. Dixie works in the medical field--she gives people chest pains and they pay to get them. Go figure.