Highway 62

Portland is an eminently civilized city, by the by. I’d been reminded of that in my last trip out here for the Stumptown comics fest last October. But you have to love a place where you can get off the plane, get your luggage and then walk to the train that takes you downtown. That just totally rules. No taxis, no waiting on buses, just public transport bliss. I listened to the guy two seats down tell his friend over the phone that “If it was me, you know what I’d do, I’d tell him to go fuck himself to his face.” More than once. I guess he really meant it. Outer Portland rolled by, some of it crumbling beauty and some of it curiously vital amongst the vast swathes of green forest that belt the outskirts.

About then, I’d noticed that Southwest’s throwers had done a number on one of my suitcases, bestowing it a bit of character by cracking one of the big plastic plates on the top. You’d think that it’d take a thing with the strength of an overdeveloped gorilla to do that, but you’d evidently be wrong. Maneuvering my newly-hobbled luggage proved to be more challenging than I’d thought, taking a couple of spills over the too-tall curbs of downtown concrete. At least the weather was beautiful, right? I made my past the collection of food-vendor carts, reveling in the choices laid out before. Later, my sweets. I’d be seeing you later.

First I had to divest myself of some luggage. Now, when you’re carrying two suitcases full of books (one of them about the size of a coiled-up bull alligator) and a big stand-up display that really should have gotten me more trouble at the security checkpoints than it did, and the doors don’t open when you push on them, that’s a lot trickier than it should be. I swore at them, but only a little, as all my luggage tumbled over while I did my Harold Lloyd impersonation trying to open the door without putting anything down. Comical, really. And people say I have no sense of humor. I do. It’s just coal-black.

Finally made it upstairs to Mercury Studios where I could drop things off and maybe take some weight off and enjoy the Oregon sunshine (a rare thing so I’m told) streaming through the windows. Was met there by one Jeff Parker (you know, one of the Marvel Adventures/Agents of Atlas guys) who had been suckered, er, had agreed to play host to me and my many unusual predilections over the weekend. Oddly enough, the studio was pretty quiet that afternoon, aside from the cybernetic bleating of Cleo the lamb. Nobody knew what made it talk. Nobody really knew what made it shut up, either. Just when you thought it was safe, it would let loose with a digitized BAAAAAAAAA and scare you out of your socks. I swear, there’s a TWILIGHT ZONE episode waiting to happen with that thing.

I fled that side of the uncanny valley, ostensibly to get some lunch, but everyone from the studio understood, Cleo had creeped me out to the point of abject terror. It apparently happened to more than one visitor. Lunch awaited.

The lot directly across from the building that houses Periscope is lined with food vendors in grounded trailers, feeling like a permanent carnival row more than a food court. And yes, that’s a vast improvement, in my eyes. And the choices before me, oh the choices. Barbeque pork, Chinese, burritos, soup and lemonade, regular old hot dogs, and Czech food. Yeah. Czech food it was. I’d seen the stand last time I was in town and would not be denied a second time.

Ah, schnitzelwich, wonder of the age. It is both schnitzel, hot and crispy with a crunch that French fries would envy, and it is sandwich, easily-eaten miracle of technology. Slathered in horseradish, cold biting and creamy and paprika spread earthy and subtly smouldering, the sweetness of the onions in perfect contrast and the chewiness of the roll. You may call it schnitzelwich, but I call it sublime. I can tell that if I lived in Portland, I’d be much more rotund than I currently am now. Which is rotund enough, thanks.

Spent the duration of the afternoon running over some old material and doing some world-building/woolgathering which may indeed indicate that I am indeed ready to start a new project (as threatened above). Then Parker had to go ruin it by laughing at my music. Curse him anyways. Evidently the Cowboy Junkies’ take on “Blue Moon” is too wussy for him or something. Oh, and got a chance to read over the Marvel Adventures Free Comic Book Day comic, co-written by him and Paul Tobin. It’s good stuff, but you probably suspected that already.

Jammed myself onto a Max train for the ride down to Lloyd Center so I could set up early. Again, that I could even set up there, I have to thank Parker and Periscope Studios for. See, space was completely sold out when I checked a couple weeks back. Who’d have thought it, huh? But the Stumptown show is growing by leaps and bounds, it seems. The crowds Saturday would amply demonstrate that. But tonight, it was time for a drop-off and quick set-up. Then another train ride back to the house. That was fine, but I could have done without having to trudge my luggage up and down the pedestrian bridge. Even in the evening-cool air, I was breaking a sweat after that.

Dined at a local German restaurant, where I had schnitzel for the second time in a day (though this was the more tender variety rather than the crispy variety as was had earlier in the day.) Then retired. Travel always takes it out of me. So does being my own varlet.