an open space

Keep Portland weird, please.
My friend Tyson is a bit of a weirdo. Last year, I used to hate the ambiguity of that word. But this year, I've seemed to accept that often times, the leftover words that fit into no other category, can be articulated in no better way than "weird". Tyson was, at one point, the nation's best unicycler. He likes folk, and while his musical taste is impeccable, he loves the cheesy angst of Placebo. He makes belts out of old tires, and is wonderfully resourceful in the most bizarre of ways.



Today, he mapped out all of these odd places he wanted us to see in Portland, and we rode our bikes from place to place, unsuccessfully finding the alien museum, and running out of time to see an old drawing Matt Groening did of Bart Simpson in the concrete when he was still in high school. But we went to the Velveteria, a quirky museum of velvet paintings, which Anthony Bourdain visited once on No Reservations, featuring Anderson Cooper in a speedo, unicorns, naked women, and dozens of Elvis's. We also got lattes from Stumptown, burgers from Deschutes, and of course took our mandatory visit to Powell's books.



After awkward parties, good DJs, ganache brownies at Palio's, and getting pruny skin from sitting in the hot tub for way too long, I'm finally falling asleep, dreading the windy drive back to the double walla, for the busyness of each week to start all over again and again.