Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 28

Anchorage, Part Two

We had headed back to our glamorous hotel suite for a cocktail, Gentle Reader, when I left you. As you may remember from Anchorage, Part One, we had been scouring downtown for the gay bars that I was sure were there, in pursuit of dinner, drinks, and dancing – but we’d been thwarted. After our refreshments, then, we turned to the same fickle Internet that had evidently misled us earlier.

My beau, Mr. Temple, hired a taxi and we were off. When we arrived at the Kodiak – the first on our list – the doors were boarded up.

The driver seemed leery of letting us off there – but we knew that our backup destination was only a block away. First, we needed to find a place to eat.

We had a lovely dinner at the nearby Jade Steak and Seafood. The decor was lovely, the lighting low, the atmosphere upscale and quiet. Over dinner, it suddenly seemed that we were the only people in the joint who weren’t English. Since we’d been searching for the British Consulate for much of the day, it came as quite a surprise.

Passing a gay community center, we found Mad Myrna’s, the most popular gay bar in Anchorage – and, judging by the lack of options in its largest city – perhaps the most popular gay bar in all of Alaska.

Myrna herself, apparently

We approached the blond, buff bartender clad in tie-dye and shorts. He was awfully butch – maybe even straight – and very friendly. When I embarrassed Mr. Temple by informing Bartender “that he’d been living in Anchorage for 8 months and hasn’t even seen another gay person” he gave us some decent info on the local gay underground. The truth is, there isn’t much – quelle surprise – but Myrna’s boasts dancing, drag shows, and other events. It’s pretty Alaskan there – rough wood walls, unfinished stone accents – a sort of viking feast hall crossed with an old-time saloon.

Our ears pricked up at the mention of dancing, but alas, the dance floor was closed that evening. Instead, we perched on our stools – Mr. Temple with his vodka cran, me with my gin and lime – and perused the locals. We debated hitting the other gay bar in town – well, the other one that was probably still open, the Raven – but Temple had heard that it was pretty solidly a kink bar. Dressed as we were – pretty posh for a night on the town – we thought we’d better give it a miss.

And I think I’ll leave you there, Gentle Reader, with the rest of the trip our own. My thoughts on Anchorage? Parts of it are like any other city, parts of it are run-down and residential, and parts of that northern vastness speak to their frontier past, but all in all? Anchorage has a rugged beauty that’s well worth seeing.

Tagged: Alaska, Anchorage, Date Night, Gay Bars Far And Wide, Rambling Cities

Post the Twenty-First: Anchorage, Part One

Sometimes, Gentle Reader, you’re on the cusp of moving to Europe to be a vagabond. Sometimes, that will inspire old beaus to spring for airfare so that they can see you once more before you go. Sometimes, you just have to say yes to people’s kindness.

Thus it was that I accepted Mr. Temple’s kind invitation to visit him in Anchorage, Alaska. My family has a lot of ties to the frozen north, and I spent a winter there myself many years ago. However, I’d never spent any time in Alaska’s most populated city, and I was excited to explore it hand in hand with an old flame.

He flew me first class, which I’d never enjoyed before – the leg room was very welcome, as were the cocktails that the flight attendant veritably insisted I try. I landed; we embraced; we went straight to the hotel – which was very swanky. I felt spoiled; that feeling continued when I saw the array of nibbles and the absolute ocean of wine laid in for our long weekend.

My first day up north, Mr. Temple had to work – quelle dommage! – and I decided to attempt an expedition on my own. We were a ways from the city center, but I’d looked up the public transit system so I was sure I was set. After twenty careful minutes on the sheet of ice that was the hotel parking lot, though, I turned back – if it had taken me that long to go so short a distance, perhaps I shouldn’t be out on my own – especially with my bad knee acting up. I returned to the hotel room, where I curled up with a novel until my beau got home from work. I greeted him, and we had what felt like a very domestic cozy night in.

Okay, so there wasn’t any vacuuming going on.

The next day, we set out by bus. I’ll admit, I was pretty curious about the public transport there – the roads, while plowed, were bounded by high banks of snow, essentially layered like an icy lasagna. After we’d made our way to the bus (seriously, we had to walk ridiculously slowly to avoid death by ice) my questions were answered – the bus ride was the same as any other, except when it was turning. When it turned, you could feel half the bus tilt as it rode up onto the high-piled snow.

Eventually, we at last hit downtown Anchorage. Mr. Temple showed me the concert hall, the theaters, a number of cute local shops – all of which were closed. Some were closed for the winter, but most were just closed because it was Monday, as we learned from a woman selling sculptures in the lobby of the Captain Cook hotel. It was a pleasant little sort of walking tour – like any other rambling date with no aim in mind, just wandering city streets. We discovered a Gumbo House, the Mexican Consulate,  a little park filled with charmingly melting ice sculptures, and other wonders.

After my experience finding open-armed welcome in Portland’s Gay Bars, I had looked up Anchorage’s scene, and found information on four separate establishments, reportedly downtown. We spent a fair amount of time looking for them – and even found a boarded up club advertising “Those Amazing Bears!” – but we couldn’t seem to locate any of the places I’d found.

Let the scene fade as we head back to the hotel room to do some further digging, while we take some appetizers and perhaps a cocktail before our evening plans.

Tagged: Alaska, Anchorage, Date Night, Local Flavor, New Experiences, Public Transport, Rambling Cities, Romantic Encounters, Travel

Anchorage, Part One

Sometimes, Gentle Reader, you’re on the cusp of moving to Europe to be a vagabond. Sometimes, that will inspire old beaus to spring for airfare so that they can see you once more before you go. Sometimes, you just have to say yes to people’s kindness.

Thus it was that I accepted Mr. Temple’s kind invitation to visit him in Anchorage, Alaska. My family has a lot of ties to the frozen north, and I spent a winter there myself many years ago. However, I’d never spent any time in Alaska’s most populated city, and I was excited to explore it hand in hand with an old flame.

He flew me first class, which I’d never enjoyed before – the leg room was very welcome, as were the cocktails that the flight attendant veritably insisted I try. I landed; we embraced; we went straight to the hotel – which was very swanky. I felt spoiled; that feeling continued when I saw the array of nibbles and the absolute ocean of wine laid in for our long weekend.

My first day up north, Mr. Temple had to work – quelle dommage! – and I decided to attempt an expedition on my own. We were a ways from the city center, but I’d looked up the public transit system so I was sure I was set. After twenty careful minutes on the sheet of ice that was the hotel parking lot, though, I turned back – if it had taken me that long to go so short a distance, perhaps I shouldn’t be out on my own – especially with my bad knee acting up. I returned to the hotel room, where I curled up with a novel until my beau got home from work. I greeted him, and we had what felt like a very domestic cozy night in.

Okay, so there wasn’t any vacuuming going on.

The next day, we set out by bus. I’ll admit, I was pretty curious about the public transport there – the roads, while plowed, were bounded by high banks of snow, essentially layered like an icy lasagna. After we’d made our way to the bus (seriously, we had to walk ridiculously slowly to avoid death by ice) my questions were answered – the bus ride was the same as any other, except when it was turning. When it turned, you could feel half the bus tilt as it rode up onto the high-piled snow.

Eventually, we at last hit downtown Anchorage. Mr. Temple showed me the concert hall, the theaters, a number of cute local shops – all of which were closed. Some were closed for the winter, but most were just closed because it was Monday, as we learned from a woman selling sculptures in the lobby of the Captain Cook hotel. It was a pleasant little sort of walking tour – like any other rambling date with no aim in mind, just wandering city streets. We discovered a Gumbo House, the Mexican Consulate,  a little park filled with charmingly melting ice sculptures, and other wonders.

After my experience finding open-armed welcome in Portland’s Gay Bars, I had looked up Anchorage’s scene, and found information on four separate establishments, reportedly downtown. We spent a fair amount of time looking for them – and even found a boarded up club advertising “Those Amazing Bears!” – but we couldn’t seem to locate any of the places I’d found.

Let the scene fade as we head back to the hotel room to do some further digging, while we take some appetizers and perhaps a cocktail before our evening plans.

Tagged: Alaska, Anchorage, Date Night, Public Transport, Rambling Cities, Romantic Encounters

Poetic Interlude XLIV

This poem, and others like it, are available in  Patchwork Narrative, my slim volume of poetry, available here and here. Enjoy!

On a Cloudy Day
A patchwork grey of fog and cloud
Blankets all my days,
And, in evening, I drift ’round
In alcoholic haze.
I’m told that I should mend my ways,
Or find an avenue of praise
To end these weary roundelays -
But I grow old, and I grow thin.
I’ll steep myself in sin, and gin.
 
Heaven growls in apathy,
Never raining, never dry.
A placid span of onyx sea
Mocks my likewise liquid eyes.
Between the years, and lies, and sighs,
And history I’ve dramatized,
I think I’ve finally realized
I’ll find a modicum of hope,
Or else I’ll find a length of rope.

 

©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: Despair, Epiphanies, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Self-Realization, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

New Music, Part One

In accordance with the Almighty List, I am on a quest to discover 25 bands or musicians that I’ve never heard of in 2014. Here’s your first installment, Gentle Reader – five groups and my thoughts on them. If you have any musical suggestions for me, I’m wide open! Leave a link in the comments.

The Task: Discover 25 bands etc., like I said above.

The Execution:

1. Walk Off The Earth

While fooling around with my Ukulele and looking for plausible songs to play, I ran across a site with all sorts of tabs accompanied by videos to let you hear the song before you gave it a shot. I found Aux Champs-Elysées, a song that I remember fondly from high school French class, and this amazing video:

Now, bear in mind that most of their other songs are nothing like this cover, and you should be alright. Personally? On seeing this, I desperately wanted to BE them. Bonus? Hot boys who hi-five with cymbals.

2. C. W. Stoneking

Oh, Pandora, how I love and hate you. One of the many entries on this list that I’m sure Pandora will be responsible for, C. W. Stoneking has an old-timey sort of blues feel to his music. I also really dig his voice.

Also, his band is called the Primitive Horn Orchestra, which wins a bunch of points from me, and apparently he uses a special type of guitar that was popular with street musicians in the twenties and thirties. Yes, please.

3. Margot and Nuclear So-and-So’s

Another selection thanks to Pandora. When I first heard their song Paper Kitten Nightmare, I just had music on in the background while working on something else – either the novel, or the blog, or whatever else I might have been writing. Deep in thought after a troubling paragraph, I had to stop and ask myself – “Is… is that fella meowing?”

He was.

When I finally looked into the lyrics, they were rather more disturbing than one might think from the music, if one weren’t paying attention.

4. Eleni Mandell

This was recommended after listening to a song by She & Him song on the Youtube, and I can absolutely see why – Eleni Mandell’s voice, and musical style, remind me quite a bit of Zooey Deschanel’s band, back before she got all famous with the acting and whatnot. At least with this song, there’s a certain serenity to her music.

She also reminds me a bit of Eliza Doolittle – no, not that one. This one.

5. Sara Bareilles

Shameless pop music? Well, maybe not shameless – I have issues – but yes. While I was in Anchorage, visiting an old beau, he introduced me to this song by singing it in the shower. Grinning bashfully, after he’d toweled off he showed me the music video:

Damn it, that song’s catchy, and the video pokes enough fun at itself to really enjoy. I especially love the ending, where she’s out-of-key and being asked to leave the store.

The Verdict:

Well, obviously this item isn’t done yet – not by a long shot. So far, though? Obviously I’m enjoying finding new music.

Do you have music that I should be listening to? Bands that I should be aware of? A favorite song by one of these artists? Let me know!

Tagged: Artists, Bands, Exploring Musical Tastes, Music, Songs, The List

A Love Letter to a Stranger

Aw, cripes – another item from The List? I know, Gentle Reader, I know – but you’d better get used to them, because January’s nearly over and I’ve only finished five, and we have a long way to go.

The Task:

Write a letter to a complete stranger, telling them how much they matter in this world and stuff.

The Execution:

I needed to write a love-letter to a stranger. This isn’t an entirely original project – Hannah Brencher has been rather famously doing it for a few years now. Rather than leaving a letter out in the wild for someone random to find, I wanted to be a little more direct and send a letter directly to a deserving stranger.

One problem, though – how was I to find one?

Thank you, Internet. I can always count on you. You – yes, you – came through with all sorts of suggestions on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Well, despite all the excellent suggestions – I picked a name out of a phone book, after all, which was my original plan.

Veronica Song. Veronica Song! VERONICA SONG! That is the name that I chose.

So I sat down to write, and the first paragraph was easy – I knew that I wanted to express how everyone on earth matters, and that sort of thing. However, I had quite a bit of blank paper left over – I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.

Writer’s block. Writer’s block is what happened next.

I didn’t want to talk about myself at great length to someone I was writing to unsolicited – that’s probably rude and absolutely is self-centered. I ended up waffling a bit more about universal love and acceptance and smiles and love again and honestly, I made myself a bit sick with how twee the letter ended up being. Now, mind you, the Internet gave me multiple suggestions on how to find a stranger to write to – but after just one of these, I had to find something to get rid of the saccharine aftertaste, so I scrapped the other letters. One love letter, for River Veronica Song.

Yes, it’s blurry. No, I won’t transcribe it. Cheers!

The Verdict:

I can so get behind this, if I had had just a little bit more to work with – If I knew literally anything at all about Veronica Song, I could have written her a much better, much more heartwarming letter. As it is? Yuck.

I would probably try this again, but I can’t even think about it right now.

Tagged: Correspondance, Feeling Sappy, Sending Messages Into The Aether, Strangers, The List, Veronica Song

Fairy Land

Gentle Reader, I’m currently in Anchorage. Today’s piece is a guest post by Mr. C.W.L. Darling – a lovely piece of fiction – or is it? – from a magical summer we shared with our dear Miss Ward.

Fairy Land

I think that we’ve all been there once. With the unformed minds of children we were caught up in our first experiences of wonder. We played in Tarabithia and Neverland; we were queens and kings with sticks for scepters and flowers in our hair. When sunlight shone gold off of your best friend’s tawny head and you saw, really saw his golden crown. That was when magic was possible, and alive. That was where adventure lay.

Some of us fought to keep it alive a little longer.

In the somewhat foggy past I see three friends on a beach. They’re awkward and unfinished in that teenager way. One of them pushes masses of red curls away from her broadly grinning face. Her laughter rings across the sand like bells. Her companions are another redhead, a boy this time, and another boy, with longish dark brown curls. The redheads are Madame Butterscotch & Dr. Hackenbush, the other boy is Jack Darling. Mark the strangeness; these are assumed names. These three friends are on a journey, you see. One that has a determined beginning, a mysterious middle & a most tragic ending.

They’ve decided to walk as far as they fancy on this stretch of Pacific Ocean. It is summer but this part of beach has no sunbathers upon it. It’s been a while since they left their shoes on the other side of the sign marking the public beach. Trespassing is its own thrill. They stride without hurry, posing few thoughts about what might lie ahead. They know that the surest route to where they want to go is best found by those not searching for it. They walk and talk; the Madame’s laughter is caught by the wind and carried away behind them.

The sun glinting brightly off the waves must have caught the good Doctor’s eye; without warning he sprints off toward the surf; his long legs carry him swiftly and soon he is splashing along parallel to the shore, his khaki pants soaking to the knee. Mme. Butterscotch and Jack laugh but do not join him, preferring to stay dry. He stands in the surf up to his calves and stares toward the horizon where the bright sky blue fades to a darker cerulean. The others wait, hands clasped at the edge of the water. When Hackenbush trudges back he is pushing his lank auburn hair from his forehead; they see the glint in his eye. There’s a shine of madness, a wildness, a joy. His eyes already gaze past what is in front of him and he is seeing another world. Butterscotch and Jack grin in unison and on a cue none of them spoke they are pelting down the beach. Bare feet make slow progress on loose sand but the tide is on the way out. They run flat-out on the damp, packed sand near the surf. Their toes squish with each pounding step.

Perhaps a fog rolls in off the shore. Strange to happen in the middle of a summer day on the coast, but certainly something obscures their path so that when they reach the wood they haven’t a clue how they got there, or how far they are from the beach, and their shoes. Jack swears he can hear the surf, but Hackenbush declares it only the rustle of the trees and that the ocean is a million miles away.

Behind them a drop, a sheer cliff for all their investigations can attest. They can’t be certain you see, because the cliff falls into a dense fog that seems to swirl just out of reach, impregnable. If you asked them how they got to the top of this cliff Butterscotch might insist they’d flown; she remembers the feeling of weightlessness. Jack would claim they had climbed it, like any sensible adventurer would do. Hackenbush would certainly declare the cliff appeared behind them and that they were never at the bottom of it at all. Putting aside how they got there, they must now approach with caution, care and respect.

Dr. Hackenbush takes the lead. He is supremely confident of what’s right in these matters having studied all sorts of lore. Trusting his skill with spells and rituals Butterscotch & Jack are behind the doctor, hands laced together tightly. They wear grins that will not fade from their faces for all their respectfully downcast eyes. Hackenbush kneels in the loose dirt that marks the edge of the clearing they stand on. His khakis are still wet with salt-water and his toes have sand between them. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a short stick. With it he traces glyphs in the dirt forming a circle. When this is done he pulls from another pocket a white candle which he pushes into the dirt at the center of his circle, so it stays upright. Repeatedly his hands reach somewhere into his oversized coat, each time returning with and placing an object in or around the circle. Three white stones around the outside, a black feather –likely a raven’s Jack thinks- placed beside the candle, a bundle of sage laid to the side. The last thing to be sought is a bic lighter which is first used to light the sage.

He finally beckons to his waiting companions and they join him around the circle. They each sit with a white stone in front of them and Hackenbush passes the sage to Butterscotch on his right after waving it in a pattern in front of him, leaving a trail of pungent smoke lingering in the air. She does the same, a different pattern, one known only to her. When she is finished she passes the smoking bundle to Jack, who makes his own sigil before handing it again to Hackenbush. The sage is placed aside and the candle lit. As one the three friends clasp hands and wait.

As happens when one sits still and remains open to what might come, something comes. They all feel it, that drifting feeling when the body is not moving. Like you can feel the pulse of the Earth, a slow rhythm. That’s when the inner eye has opened and the boundaries are thin. A person might just be able to walk across. The friends know that they have found the boundary in time, space and magic that they needed. Mme. Butterscotch is the first to shift. She tosses her head back and laughs into the silence. As if awoken by her voice the forest comes to life with sound again, though none of the three of them had noticed that the small creatures there had been waiting in silence with them. Jack looks to his left, meeting Butterscotch’s eyes and grinning again. Hackenbush is the last to stir. He is less joyous than the others, more determined. He remains serious.

“Each of you take your stone,” he says, indicating the white stones on the ground before them. “We have until the candle burns out before the boundary closes. If we become separated and you have your stone you will not be lost, it will lead you back to this place. You MUST be here when the candle sputters it’s last.”

“How long do we have?” This is Jack. His eyes shift back and forth, from the trees to Hack’s eyes.

Hackenbush grins at last and Butterscotch answers for him, “we have our whole lives, good friend. We have the world and eternity. We are free.”

They are electrified with their success at getting this far and eager to be off exploring. They break their clasped hands and each sweep up their stone into a fist. Jack’s goes into the front pocket of his tight denim pants. Butterscotch’s goes into a leather pouch she wears around her neck, and Hackenbush’s disappears back into his coat. Standing, they face the forest. Between the ordinary looking trees they catch glimpses of what lies there, flashing things and lights. Eyes that peer golden from between green leaves, but a blink and they are gone. They clasp hands again, and together they step determinedly into adventure.

Tagged: Exploring the Woods, Fairy Tales, Fiction, Guest Posts, The Pacific Ocean, Whimsy

Poetic Interlude XLIII

As I’m currently in Alaska, Gentle Reader, a poem that I wrote many years ago in Dutch Harbor. This poem, and others like it, are available in  Patchwork Narrative, my slim volume of poetry, available here and here. Enjoy!

Courtship
Shall we venture, you and I,
Linger where Earth brushes Sky,
Imbibe the echoes of perfume,
And build a bonfire on the beach?
 
There is no mirror within reach;
There is no candle in this room,
Yet there’s a flicker in my eye,
Reflected by those tears you cry.

©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: Courtship, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Romance, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Portland, Part Two

Dawn broke, Gentle Reader, like the yolk of a soft-boiled egg. I slipped out the clunking glass door, cursing as it banged open – I was up before my hosts, and I desperately needed nicotine. I don’t think I woke them, but they did shortly appear.

B had to get into the office, but Miss Spectacular was free all day; we were due to visit the Lan Su Chinese Garden, where she’s a member. The garden is set in 16th century China, and – built in the traditional way, with traditional materials – is designed to display the home and garden of a wealthy scholar and his family.

We drifted through the various courtyards and pavilions, enjoying the loving detail put into each specific aspect – the guidebook even had a window in the front; when you saw a certain symbol, you were supposed to gaze through it across five hundred years. The wood was all diligently, delicately carved by hand; the massive stones were flown in from Lake Tai. Even the mosaics underfoot were different in each area!

 

Spectacular caught a few snaps of me on the charming bridge (which have not yet arrived) and then we broke for lunch in the authentic tea room.

An old man sat in the corner, playing Erhu (I think – Google seems to think so). Anyway, if it wasn’t an Erhu, it was an instrument that looked like this:

After a sumptuous meal of tea eggs, moon cake, and sundry other delicacies, Miss Spectacular and I posed for a photo in the Moon-Gazing Pavilion (again, they’re en route), while a helpful stranger waited for other tourists to get out of the damned way in the background.

While wandering and waiting for our bus to the Hawthorne district, we encountered some interesting street people, including two tiny elderly ladies who were able to give us directions. Once across the bridge, we spent probably three hours in House of Vintage, a thrift shop that is ridiculously large and ridiculously well-stocked. There was a turquoise pair of snake-skin pants that I was lusting after, and Miss Spectacular rejected each and every one of the twenty silk kimonos we found. It was a blitz of color, a frenzy of fashion, a riot of really awful things that are too terrible not to own – and the perfect place to search for hidden treasure.

There were too many other places we visited that day to list – but after shopping, we rested at a sports bar and waited for B to be able to join us. After that, we hit another shop that I do recall: The Gold Door.

It’s a shop specifically calculated to make me want to buy everything inside: Dead things? Buckets of them. Folk art from around the world? FROM ALL AROUND THE SHOP, MORE LIKE. Antique settees? Enough strange or exotic jewelry to take a bath in? Yup. They had it all. In fact, I was so enthralled that they couldn’t pull me out until closing time.

Dinner at a local ‘farm to fork’ place was next, this busy Saturday night. The Verde Cocina had excellent food, and it showed – the place was packed. We waited in the stairwell, leaning back when steaming trays of food tripped past – they just served to add to our hunger. We finally got seats in the loft, and lingered over our meal, staying until closing time there, as well.

Back to the apartment, where we stayed up far too late, jamming on our ukes, reading tarot, and explaining some old high-school stories to B – he had never heard of Stupid Cloak Girl, which is a story I won’t recount here. It did lead to me having to explain the well-known adage “One is never fully dressed without a cloak and a merkin” – and I think we’ll finish with that image firmly lodged in your head, Gentle Reader.

The curlers in his merkin make it EXTRA fancy.

.

Tagged: Chinese Garden, Merkin, New Experiences, Oddities, Portland, Tea Egg, Thrift Shops, Travel, Two-part Episodes, Unusual Experiences, Wonders

Portland, Part One

Portland, Oregon was one of my first practice runs, Gentle Reader, at this whole living-out-of-a-backpack endeavor I’m about to embark upon. This story starts with the gift of a train ticket from Miss Spectacular.

The trip was smooth; I slouched nonchalant in an arch of the station, puffing away on my new faux-cigarette as I waited for my ride to arrive. When she did, we caught a bus, and I overheard a slim young girl with curls pinned high on her head primly confide to her companion:

“If you can’t spot the crazy on the bus, it’s probably you.”

Sage advice, indeed.

That night, Spectacular and I caught up over the sizzle and smell of fresh stir-fry and a steamed custard. We talked about her wedding plans, my itinerary abroad, whatever became of old friends – the usual paraphernalia of reconnecting. Her fiancé, B, arrived as we wound the evening down, so we chatted an hour or two more before turning in.

I was really looking forward to the next day; after sitting in on a class in Chinese Herbalism (with a healthy dose of Chinese Philosophy, for flavor) I was on my own, with no plan, no schedule, not a care in the world. I grabbed a cup of café au lait, and asked the server what the most Portland-y thing to do in Portland was.

Quite.

“Besides the tourist stuff, like Voodoo donuts? Powell’s Books, probably. And there’s a kickin’ indie record store just down the road, man.” Well, that sounded intriguing.

Next door to the café, though, was Hoodoo Antiques – I would have walked right past it, but I saw an enormous taxidermy bear’s head in the window. Well, I thought I did – it was a vintage fake that was moulting pretty badly – much like the one the Bloggess found a few months ago.

This photo belongs to the Bloggess, and I hope she doesn’t have Victor shoot me for using it.

Obviously I wanted to try it on, but the one I found was a lot smaller and I didn’t want to get it stuck on my head. The owner of the shop was really friendly; he showed me his prized collection of plaster dental casts, charmingly displayed in a glass case.

Sixty Pairs!

After lusting after every little oddity, I peeled myself away from HooDoo Antiques to grab a bite of lunch – well, you read about that on Monday.

Powell’s Books covers an entire city block, and is four stories high – or so they say. I know that I ascended more than four flights of full-sized stairs and that I never reached the top, but books are well-known to alter the laws of space and time. In the rare book room, particularly, time felt more peaceful, passing slow like golden drops of sun-lit sap; I lost several hours there.

The oldest book here is De Bello Judaica, published in Verona in 1480, if you’re wondering.

Not having yet catalogued my own collection of vinyl, I gave the “kickin’ indie record shop” a miss, wandering instead as lonely as a cloud. There are times when I need the feel of community, and I usually head to the Mix when that happens – but clearly, that wasn’t an option.

Then I stumbled on two separate gay bars. It was almost as though I’d called them into being. Whoa.

The first, Embers, was pretty quiet – but then, it was pretty early. Mostly it was just sad older men drinking the afternoon away, as you’ll find in any bar at four o’clock. I talked to the bartender; she was awesome. She slapped a copy of the GaYellow pages down on the bar when I told her I wasn’t local, pointed out the racks of the local rag in the back, and told her if I had any questions about the community to come straight to her. She also fended off the shit-faced older lady who was trying to fondle my uke, and won basically a million points for it.

The second, C. C. Slaughter’s, is apparently not affiliated with the Seattle institution of similar name. The clientele was a lot younger, despite the hour, and the atmosphere seemed more welcoming yet.

The bartender, John, was not only friendly, not only helpful; he was feisty and kind and hot as hell. He gave me tips on the local scene, pointed out the bar boor, and flirted a little (presumably for tips – I looked like hell).

Not only was C. C. Slaughter’s a kick-ass establishment, THEY ALSO HAD FREE WIFI. Holy shit, y’all. It was like finding my people all over again.

Leaving the bar, I headed back to the Oregon College of Chinese Medicine to meet Miss Spectacular – she was finishing her shift at the herbal medicinary, where she distributes gecko egg sacks, cinnabar, and other delights to the public. Her boss let us try something that I can’t pronounce, that left a lingering taste of powdered burnt rubber on my tongue.

Delish!

We rounded the day off with a delightful dinner, and the evening stretched in front of us, itching to be filled.

Stay tuned, Gentle Reader! Part Two will appear on Friday!

Tagged: Chinese Medicine, LGBT community, Local Flavor, Portland, QUILTBAG, Rare Books, The Bloggess, Travel, Two-part Episodes, Weird Antiques