InVader of the North

So, from time to time I go on random trips with my family. Just my wife Joy, my son William, and I heading out for an adventure. The idea to is to go to random new places and make new discoveries. It usually involves getting in the car, heading in a certain direction, and having no destination except for the journey.

In the past we've headed West, ending up as far as Newport and visiting a museum. In the South we went spelunking (well, not really) and in the East we searched for holes. For our first trip in a while we headed North. In this direction we've really only had three types of travel: Mount St. Helens, Seattle, and Vancouver, BC (again, an adventure for another time). Only having an afternoon to explore, we stayed on the I-5 corridor.

The first location that really attracted attention was Vader, a name that called to our Star Wars fandom. You have to head couple miles out from the freeway, and along the road are houses with yards so full of debris they seem destined to end up protagonists on Hoarders. The nicer ones had decks. My wife and I got into a conversation about how much she likes decks. Big decks. Long decks. Just so long as they weren't those old decks that no longer stay up.

Once we got to "downtown" Vader we made a turn at the first thing that caught our eye, the historic jail. Seems that it's a part-time museum, but in a town this small, it doesn't really have hours of operation. Probably have to call the town council to set something up. But in the adjacent park was a bit of an interpretive center with some placards going over the history of the town.

Turns out this was a turn of the century boomtown. It was once called Little Falls, but the North Pacific Railway company already had another town with that name on the line. They named it Vader in honor of a one time mayor. The population was almost entirely employed by two different lumber companies. When things started taking a down turn (company moving out or going up in smoke), the citizens took out home insurance policies and burned down most the town (of course, this is mere speculation, if the insurance companies ever found out for sure, they'd probably hunt down the descendants to get their money back).

We explored the town for a bit, but with a population of about 600 and a foot print less that a square mile, there's not much to see. We hit the road again and found the Little Falls graveyard. Many of those buried in the section we explored were born in the late 1800's. Most of the tombstones had pentagrams attached, took a while to realize these were Masonic in origin. Just before leaving, William found a pipe leading into one of the grave plots. The inside was filled with beetle-like bugs I've never seen before. That was creepy enough for us so we took off.

Following the road out a bit further, we found some Burma-Shave jingles at a tree farm. Continuing we made it to Ryderwood, a community for the silver linings crowd. By this, I mean that you had to be over 55 to live there (although we did find a house at the end of town that had an exception to this rule). Just as you enter, the first thing you see is "Deer XXX" (offering new meaning to "reindeer games"). We also saw a poor little house who's massive front lawn tree had fallen across the porch, bounced off the house, and crushed the front walkway. This town was literally the end of the state highway we were on, so we had to turn back. On our way through Vader again, we stopped at a little store that probably doesn't see a lot of business, considering the rack of out of date sodas they had on sale near the front counter. Then again, this could be explained by the death march you had to take to get to the coolers, way in the back, through a store that largely looks like the aftermath of the apocalypse.

We hit the freeway once more and headed toward home. Made a quick stop over in Castle Rock but it had little to offer except a couple murals celebrating the boom era from the early 1900's (although the per capita number of hair salons was astounding).

Our final stop was in Battle Ground. Biggest town we'd seen all day, but it turns out their state park costs too much for a short stop over, though we did see alpaca on the way out. Heading back through town we found a gaming/comic shop and browsed. Got myself a couple more Boba's for the collection and William picked up a couple packs of Magic cards (for all you nerds out there, one pack had a foil rare dual land, worth about $25). We had dinner at a small pizza buffet place and then made our way home with the setting sun.

What have you discovered while being spontaneous? Ever redeemed a disastrous vacation by adding a flavor of the random? Tell me about your road trip adventures in the comments below!

Viva Las Vegas

So, I grew up in Southern California along the I-15 corridor. My dad liked to travel quite a bit and on any eastward trip we would pass through Las Vegas. Of course, I was just a kid on these trips, so the best the city had to offer me was Circus Circus. The first time I visited while old enough to participate in all the sin was for my dad's wedding, but William was about two and not allowed in the fun areas.

Well, it's been the better part of a decade since then, but Vegas has called me back. I won't bore you with the details but I'm there to attend an annual Adobe convention. While I'll be working during the day, the evenings are my own. I just don't want to become "that guy": the protagonist in a cautionary tale. When on a company expensed trip, what happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily stay there.

I arrived Thursday afternoon via my frequently flown Alaska Airlines. I used to stay awake through an entire flight, regardless of length (a flight to India is basically 24 hours in the air, not the most fun), but now I fall asleep every time. I awoke over Vegas only to find that Portland's weather had followed me there: cool and rainy. No matter, the experience of Vegas is indoors mostly anyway. Took a cab to the Aria hotel and casino, then settled into my room. And what an amazing room it is: spacious, fully stocked and automated, and with a great view. I probably have nearly as much square footage as my apartment back home, a king bed, and the back wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. The mini-bar comes with liquor, beer, and wine. I can control the lighting and the twenty foot curtains from a button pad, a bedside touchscreen console, or through the TV remote. My view is out to the west, away from the hustle and bustle, with the Rio and the mountains beyond.

After settling in, getting some work done, and playing with these new toys, I have one item on my agenda to accomplish: visit the Hard Rock Cafe. It's practically across the street (read: The Strip) from my hotel. I visit a Hard Rock whenever travel sends me to a city with one. What can I say? I love their steaks, drinks, and collecting their location specific glasses: pints for me, shots for my wife. I went with a bevvy of my co-workers so we could talk shop.

When dinner was over, I returned to my room and settled in for the night. I have zero interest in gambling and didn't want to stay up too late before having to work the next day.

Friday, with the work day over, we were supposed to join a company dinner. But most of that same bevvy from the night before opted to dine at Mon Ami Gabi, under the Eiffel Tower at the Paris. It was a nice little restaurant that was so French I couldn't pronounce most of the menu items. But I had the Steak Poivre, a nice spicy dish.

Later, I went back to my room to grab my camera and tripod for some night photography along with a couple coworkers. We walked down The Strip to Excalibur and just missed a shooting. Another of my coworkers was actually at the Tournament of Kings when it occurred. But this is Vegas, the show went on uninterrupted.

Not having any more plans on this end of The Strip, we went to the MGM to hitch a ride on the monorail to the other end of town. As we're going inside, two girls in club clothes are entering as well. It's hard not to notice because one is wearing this black leather corset/tube top that is just holding on for dear life around her impressive [insert Euphemism for Boobs]. While trying to figure out how to make our way through the crowd (did I mention that this weekend is also the National Finals Rodeo?) to our destination, it seems these girls are also attempting to find their way somewhere. It soon becomes apparent that our paths will overlap for awhile so I suggest to my comrades that we follow them. I've seen the effect astounding cleavage can have on a hoard, it's like Moses. Sticking close behind them is the same as tailing an emergency vehicle with its sirens going: everyone gets out of the way and gives you a clear path. What's more fun is watching the faces of those that are making way: men's eyes dart in and leap out sheepishly, old grandmothers say "My God! Did you see the size of those things?!"

Eventually the girls find their night club and we find the monorail isn't the free trip we'd hoped it would be. Not a total loss, but we head out of the casino and wander back down The Strip to the fountains of the Bellagio. This is where the majority of my photography comes in. We continue our trek and turn around at the Venetian before heading back to the hotel and once again ending the night.

Come Saturday, I've only got a half day of work. The rest of the time I plan on picking up some souvenirs and visiting some of the crazy candy shops I'd seen previously. The first such location is Lick, in the Monte Carlo. There I find a giant gummy bear, I think it was about one pound in size. But what's better is the "If you like this item" pictures on the back of the packaging. I ask the store person if they have one of these particular items. They do. It's a three foot long gummy dildo worm. I opt not to buy the nearly $50 candy but I do pick up an innuendo laden shot glass for my wife. We also stop at It'Sugar, which has much of the same candy novelties (and sexual undertones), but is actually less expensive.

Having completed the shopping and tired of walking, we spend the rest of our time drinking, the perfect preparations for the flight home.

Just one more thing to mention, and that is my need to collect strange items. The first is from work. We were having a series of quizzes and other competitions throughout the convention that could earn us team points in the form of poker chips. The team with the most points won a prize, which wasn't my team, but at the end of the contest they were just giving away the chips. There are worthless on their own, had no value at the casino, but they were custom made for our event and had the convention logo on one side. There was a table covered with them and a few people were grabbing them. But most of the crowd had passed by already and there must have been thousands of them left. I grabbed one for fun. Then I grabbed a couple more in case I wanted to give some to poker playing friends. I wanted at least ten so I could use them to practice chip shuffling. But then the guy who was in charge of them encouraged me to take more, and gave me a bag to hold them. He said what was left would end up in his office, and I suggested he make a fort out of them. In the end, however, I had one hundred and sixty of them, exactly. But I ended up giving one of them away to a coworker before leaving Vegas.

The other thing I collected is a bit notorious. You've probably heard about how on the streets there are people handing out cards with naked women on them. Well, it's totally true, and you know what a sucker I am for naked women. I compulsively collected these from every single person handing them out. In the end I had a huge collection of the things from probably every escort service in Vegas. Most of the pictures on the cards are obviously not the women you'll get if you call up or visit their websites (NSFW) for a good time companion. Hell, I recognize several from the pages of Playboy (NSFW) and similar publications. What's truly insane about the whole things is how many unique cards I ended up with, and how few were duplicates.

Too many Santas

So, I've been on a lot of pub crawls. But there is one with a very special place in my liver. And that is SantaCon.

I'd heard rumors about this phenomenon for some time after moving to Portland, but it wasn't until attending a reading by Chuck Palahniuk at Powell's downtown (which reminds me of another adventure I'll have to tell you) that I got some juicy details. He was promoting his latest book, Fugitives and Refugees, when he told a story of Windex and mobbing the Lloyd Center. It was a holiday tale about Santa and I wanted in.

It was a couple years later that I happened upon a blurb in the Willamette Week telling me about the upcoming event. Finally! I knew when and where to go to join in on this madness.

Sadly, it was a rouse, in classic Con style.

About 50 Santas showed up in Hillsboro, at the end of the Max line. No leadership, no plan. Just a bunch of milling about being watched by some nearby cops. After waiting around awkwardly for a while, someone took the initiative and lead us to a bar. And soon we were hopping from one dive to another. We were eventually notified, in a very discreet manner, that we had been SantaConned, and that the real event was next week, downtown.

I was dying for the authentic experience.

When I went, I didn't yet own a Santa suit. I had a Santa hat with beard attached, a t-shirt with a Christmas/Santa slogan, and little hope of blending in. But I brought the gift of liquor (shhhhhh! at least the bottle was wrapped like a present, it even had one of those stick on bows) and a ton of enthusiasm to participate and help out as much as possible. I started meeting and befriending the inner circle of troublemakers and mayhem stirrers who call themselves the Cacophony Society and started down a long road of new adventures.

This year I attended my fifth annual con.

Like that first year, SantaCon splintered into several events, run by different societies. And despite a host of options, multiple happening each Saturday of December, I was only interested in two.

The first was Anticon, the North Portland version of Santa that originally started as a way of escaping the "downtown mayhem" by following the Max Yellow Line down Insterstate. This was my first year attending the NoPo classic. As tradition states, we met at the Paul Bunyan statue. The small park was roughly divided between Santas and the rival bananas, but a good deal of  cookie, candy, and alcohol sharing fostered healthy camaraderie. After visiting our first bar, we headed over to Mayor Sam Adams house. There we were given a lovely speech about the unique fun that Portland can have without drinking in public (wink, wink). Which reminds me of the other time I met the mayor (a tale for another day). From there, we had a death march to our next location and had a lovely lunch at a Chinese restaurant while waiting out the rain.

We were then supposed to meet at another bar, but were tempted into The Office, a small dive that may one day grow up to become a strip club. Only had a couple other santas, so we took off for the official location. I spotted some friends and the next thing I know I'm in a tug-of-war using sheets tied together. Seems the line was meant to be divided between bananas and santas and I was on the wrong end. I flipped to the other side and we tugged until the sheets snapped and knocked the drunken revelers over like dominoes.

Santa then headed to The Tardis Room, which, unsurprisingly, is much larger on the inside, and we were divided into many different little parties. Eventually we moved on to the Dancing Bear Bare where santa let all the good little girls sit in his lap to talk about (deep, dark) desires. Let's just say the rest of the night is censored. Oh, except for dancing to a live band.

The following Saturday, Santa gathered again, this time downtown. We were running a little behind and missed the initial santa gathering spot. But we soon found everyone congregating at Dante's. Great venue, but only two bartenders verses a couple hundred santi resulted in me spending the majority of my time waiting in line for the one drink I had before leaving. Marching to a nearby park, we had a tug-of-war, this time with a right-proper rope. My side was winning, so the other santas tied their end of the rope to a lamp post. Not to be out done, we did the same on our side. Soon everybody/nobody was winning. I'm just glad we didn't destroy anything. I then helped by leading a contingent across the street to the Big Pink, but we were kicked out before even a dozen santas entered. We were only going to march through! No trouble, right guys? Still friends?

Kelly's Olympian was the next stop, but it's such a small joint that a group of us splintered off around the corner to the Rialto. Much bigger space, far fewer santas, and much less clothing. I, uncharacteristically, stayed pretty well dressed until we made it to our next destination: O'Bryant Square. I have partaken in many a rubber band and other battles here. But my most epic showdown was about to begin. A fight against the living mannequin at the men's underwear store across the street. I stripped to my santa boxers, flexed, and posed until a woman gave me a dollar. I win!

Visited a very crowded Mary's next (are Mary's and the Dancing Bare related or did the same person do both of their web sites?) but was soon tempted to visit the Glowing Greens for the best/worst round of miniature golf ever. This was a side mission where about ten or so santas load up in a van and leave the rest of the group behind. We did this again later for a karaoke stint at Chopsticks, a place where santa (not this santa) had gotten us into a bit of trouble a couple years ago. In between we hung out at Embers with the staff we know and love so well. But then my wife and I retired for the evening. Santa and Mrs. Claus had enough of the crowds and now just needed each other's company.

Thrills after dark

So, I'm not much of a dancer. Two left feet doesn't even begin to describe me. I have a pretty hard time doing anything with my legs beyond running and climbing. I'd say I was clumsy if I didn't have such excellent balance. I even find it difficult to switch my weight from one side to the other. Rhythm utterly escapes me.

Yet I am also a child of the 80's. MTV (you know, back when they actually played music) very effectively brainwashed me. And it was the anthems of Michael Jackson that most effectively planted a dance bug deep into my subconscious. We all wanted to moonwalk when I was a kid.

Thus, when someone said, "Hey, come do Thriller with me," there was no way I could turn it down.

Next thing I know I'm down at OMSI rehearsing. Our dance instructor took us through a lot of the original choreography from the video but with a slight twist to match our dance space, the cut of the song, and the whims of an artist. We did this for several weeks, culminating in a visit to our teacher's normal stomping grounds, the Diva Den. This may not come as a surprise to you, but most of the people participating were women, and normally the Diva Den is sans males, but this training was a special exception. That's right gentlemen, I have visited the forbidden inner sanctum!

Why were we doing this? All this bending of rules, practice, and hard, sweaty work? Well, the last Wednesday of every month is OMSI After Dark, an adults-only visit to the hands-on museum with a special theme. And just what was the theme we were preparing for? It was "I love the 80's" night. So we dressed in our John Hughes best and headed to the event.

And what is the 80's without music videos? Nothing!

So there was a dance floor where some of the greatest New Wave classics were played on the big screen. And without announcement we broke out into "spontaneous" dance when the Thriller video came on. Some people got excited and asked if they could join in. I said if they could keep up they were welcome to it.

In this video I'm that guy at the back of the dance group, in the upper right of the screen, with the hat, white shirt and vest. You know, the one flubbing all the dance moves and such.

And that's not even the end of the story. Because all of this took place last year. This year, someone said "Hey, come do Thriller with me." And the whole thing started again.

This time we had fewer practices and a longer, more complex routine (nearly twice as long and about a third less repetitive). Rather than the choreography of the Diva Den, we had the dance as told by Thrill the World. And the OMSI After Dark theme? The end of the world. So we dressed in our zombie best and had another Thrill.

Gathering in a back room to finish preparations and have a final run through, a couple of us got interviewed by the local news station. Our lovely instructor went first. She is an organizer for, and talked about the, Portland Zombie Walk, from which tonight's event grew. I volunteered to go next and talked a bit about other zombie activities in town. Our interviewer then said "This isn't your first zombie rodeo then?" To which I could only reply, "No, but those zombie bulls sure are hard to ride." We promptly ended the interview so the camera man could bust up laughing. There was also a group of zombified Disney Princesses. The Snow White was the only other interviewee before we had to make final plans.

We then did a quick zombie crawl around the museum to end up in front of a live band. We staggered around until they finished their song and we promptly collapsed to the floor. Everyone but Michael Jackson. Then a full six minute version of the song started and we danced as the crowd continued to gather round, film and photograph us. I kept up with the choreography much better this time and we pulled things off beautifully.

The aftermath of this event is that it continues to give me more confidence on the dance floor, as I have a better sense of how to make my body, even my legs, get jiggy with it.

When predictions go right and wrong

So, I had this little revelation: All conventions are for Geeks. And I don't mean anything bad by that, as I proudly wear my geekdom on my sleeve. I just mean that it takes a lot of interest and dedication to supply enough related material to pull together a large group and make them pay for the opportunity to buy stuff.

Many people probably think of the classic geekery when it comes to conventions: anime, comics, video games. But there are also conventions for guns and porn. And while sports fans may be hesitant to admit it, they can be complete geeks too. Especially those who play fantasy leagues and attend its conventions. All those stats, men in armor, women in slinky outfits. Face it boys, it's just Dungeons and Dragons for jocks.

But recently I had an opportunity to attend a convention of a whole other type of geekishness, one which I turned away from in my youth. Once upon a time, I consumed books on numerology, burned incense for more than just the smell, and studied "real" magic. I was trying to fill the void more mainstream religion had not. Unfortunately, I eventually found the occult to be just as hollow.

But... I was tempted back by free tickets.

It was called the Body Mind Spirit Expo.

At first glance I saw this merely as an opportunity to snicker softly with my wife as we checked out booths dedicated to dream interpretation and aura therapy. A chance to mock New Age mumbo jumbo.

Sadly, I was mostly proven right.

Upon entering, we were given a special cleansing: a free Luna Fiber bar. Nice. But is it life changing? Well, for some it could be. Joy didn't like her's, so I ate them both. Are they strong enough for a man?

The first booth we approach offered to magically melt away cellulite. I don't know the name of the product or brand, but the handy coupon doubled as a fan.

Next up was a variety of drinks. The first was a Red Bull-sized can meant for relaxation. Lanilai, we learned, contains no melatonin. This is good because if you consume too much artificially, your body will stop producing it naturally and then you will become impotent. To quote their web site: "The most simplest description of LANILAI Relaxation Drink is a delicious calming ice tea best serve chilled!" They also had beverages with the fastest way to make your face implode: made with pure ginger, mint, and grapefruit.

While stereotypes based on race, religion, sex, and/or age may be misplaced, this isn't necessarily true of geek cultures. I knew we would eventually run across a large assortment of crystals. When we did, I can honestly say I was surprised by some of what we found. Many were in the shape of blades and others in the shape of "magic wands". I guess you need a backup plan if the psychic based dating service falls through.

The winner of the best book award goes to "How to spot a bastard by his star sign" by Adele Lang. We read through my profile (I'm an Aries) and it's mostly untrue. I swear.

And plenty of bath salts were offered. But these would make you a different kind of zombie, depending on which "flavor" you selected. Expecting your bath product to grant you happiness or make you more appealing to the opposite sex is a waiting game that can zone you out from the rest of society.

The real gem of the show was a seminar about names. I wanted to know more about how we choose our names before we were born, but came away with a new revelation. Our names are important, they are part of a label that helps separate us from others. Not in a negative context, but in one that grants more respect upon you (sets you apart as an individual) and responsibility upon others (they must learn and remember your name). While how you say something is often just as important as what is said, there is a tone that comes with the letters used in your name. I always talk about how angry the German language sounds. Say "I love you" in German and you seem pissed off. If your name has Germanic roots, anyone who calls it may sound angry. Which could prove stressful. And while I may not believe we choose our names before we are born physically, we can certainly choose our names when we are born into new life stages. When we start our career, we can tell our co-workers what name to call us by, thus helping to direct our destiny.

Afternoon of the Dead

So, some days you just wake up dead-tired. You shuffle about seemingly without direction and are lucky to get started by noon. Your clothes are torn. Your face is haggard. Next thing you know, there is blood everywhere.

Don't you just love those kinds of days?

Now, zombies may be over-played and cliché, but I don't think they'll ever not be fun.

At the behest of friends, and despite the drama that may occur with other friends, I attended the October event from the Stumptown Crawlers. This was the 2nd Annual Zombies & Monsters Pub Crawl. (I was in attendance for the 1st Annual last year as well).

Where would the drama come from? Well, I attend a lot of events which are run by different groups or organizations (corporations?). And some of these groups have taken issue with some of the other groups for the theft of ideas, who's making what money, exploitation, misunderstandings, and all the other rubbish that lead to the Hatfields and Mccoys duking it out. My attendance was not meant to snub anyone, nor a means of showing support to someone else. I am not about to get involved in the politics of the matter. Maybe so-and-so is a douche to whatshisname. It matters not to me. I went to have fun with my friends.

Now that we've gotten that disclaimer out of the way, let's talk about what went down that day.

My wife isn't into horror, guts, and all that rot, so she sat this one out. Instead, my friend Laurie was going to be my date for the evening. She came over to our place so we could destroy the wedding dress she made to get married to the scumbag she recently divorced. I slashed apart a hand-me-down suit from my father-in-law. We were a truly torn up couple.

Heading downtown on the Max I attempted to perfect my dead-eyed stare, but couldn't help cracking a smile before really creeping anyone out. Arrival at the first bar was almost exactly on time for the official start (one of my most disgusting habits). The bar staff was all done up in zombie/monster style, and there was a make-up service on hand to professionally augment anyone who wanted it. Here we met our friend Velocity, a member of Niall's Zombie Control Service. It is only though the efforts of this team that any hope of keeping a massive, shambling hoard in order is remotely possible.

After a couple drinks and meeting even more friends (some dressed as the post-apocalypse version of the Scooby Doo gang) we moved outside to pickup our undead protest signs. I wanted one that said "Zombies are people too" and searched through the stack to find: "Zombies were Human too"! Someone had pre-read my mind. (Later, someone edited it to say "Zombies, we're Human too", but at least I got to put a big, bloody hand print on it.) Then we dragged the crowd to, and through, Portland's living room to fight for our ghoulish rights. I, in true zombie fashion, performed a dead leg limp, which gave me considerable trouble at every curb while crossing streets. Did you know that brain eating is our right? Well, there was a sign...

A quick fuel stop was made (where I saw signs for both "rage" and "brains", and it had nothing to do with us) before heading down to the real heart of the storm. A shack for the voodoo spirits, who may have been the reason we continue to walk the earth, held a couple surprises.

First, we had a gentleman preaching loudly on the corner. His sign said something about blood and "at-one-ment" but it was what he said that was so much more entertaining. Not sure what it was about but when he would use words like "resurrection" or "eternal life", I would echo him quite loudly. The folks in line also found this entertaining and I ended up on the cell phones of uncounted strangers.

Second, I tried playing a massive game of Twister. Not easy to breath in a suit that's a couple sizes too small when tied in a knot. (The small size of the suit contributed beautifully to destroy my coordination and lead to a more authentic shuffle).

Next came the den of inequity where a miniture version of Marilyn Manson helped to rip pages from the Bible and stuff them down the bra of a cyber goth woman. This entertained me just long enough to be informed that there was a bus waiting outside, with free liquor, and a trip to another bar. A sort of side mission to buzz in and out of another location before returning to the rest of the crowd who would completely miss out on this adventure. They had me at free liquor.

Our bus ended up driving to no location in particular. We drove a couple laps around downtown and simply returned to our starting point. At least I got to drink for free.

Next, we headed to another fortified location and met a zombified Rocky Horror group. When people started dancing on the table tops, Laurie and I joined them. I was then told that only women were allowed to dance on the table. Sexist! Not interested in having any trouble, I let the issue lie... for several minutes. I did a quick tour of the facilities and returned to find a guy up on the tables. Fair game! I jumped up, the guy mysteriously disappeared, and I was once again told no gentlemen on the tables. Shortly after, I got one more drink and closed out my tab. While waiting for the check this mysterious woman appears and starts dancing against me. Not super flirty, but more than simply bumping into someone in line. She takes a sip from my drink. Sure, why not. I sign my check. Poof! She's gone with my drink! Your little bump and grind was not enough to qualify you for a free drink! I didn't even get your name! I am Jack's righteous indignation.

Our final destination, the terminal point as it were, was a second den of ill repute (but the place where someone will most likely buy me a drink). Here I got a chance to talk to the fine folks from Zaico. They sell insurance for the eventuality of a zombie apocalypse. This idea sounded a bit familiar... They said they could sign me up for a policy. I informed them I had a pre-existing condition.

After a nice talk I ended up on the dance floor because they started playing Thriller, a song for which I know a few of the dance moves (which reminds me, I'll have to tell you about THAT adventure too). This was followed by Dead Man's Party and some other zombie oldies but goodies.

Having wore my self out considerably, I arranged for a ride to a friend's house where a karaoke party was in progress. However, I found myself unable to sing due to a hoarse voice from moaning all day long. Despite the trials and tribulations of the evening, I managed to hold onto my protest sign all along the way.

A whole city to discover

So, the year is full of these holidays which have traditions that get people to behave ways that would seem strange any other time of year. Halloween is my favorite. It asks us to dress in a fashion we normally couldn't get away with and others are only going to compliment us on our most hideous choices. People open their doors to complete strangers and then hand out candy with only a minimal threat. And it only gets better when you grow up because there are parties, alcohol, and women dressing as slutty possible.

At the other end of the year you have Easter, which has these strange practices: hide eggs and hope the kids can find them all before they rot (since the adults have likely already forgotten where they put them), surround yourself with bunnies, and eat candy until you're sick. Oh yeah, and Jesus or something.

But littered through the rest of the calendar are these really esoteric days. And the one that presented me with a small adventure recently was Columbus Day. And just what are you supposed to do on Columbus Day? Well, just what are we celebrating? Christopher Columbus sailed across the Atlantic, did not find what he was looking for, and was a total dick to the natives.

There really is only one thing you can do on Columbus Day to do it justice: dress like a pirate and go around "discovering" things that others already knew existed, "claim" them for King/Queen/Country, and leave a flag.

This was a small voyage of just a few intrepid adventurers along the shores of Burnside. We first landed in a quaint cove, exchanged banter with the wenches, and threatened to return. Next, we sailed across the alley to a small isle, where we were creeped-out by a Crispin Glover look-alike (to be fair, we also annoyed him by not buying anything, in true Columbus style). We rounded the corner to reveal a village of natives. Here we had the traditional Columbus Day drink: a cheap margarita. We then explored the caverns under a pink mountain and trekked  to a distant shore where we espied unveiled treasure chests. After a second tour of the big pink tunnels, we made our way to Haiti for some sugary delights.

Along the way, we left a trail of notices for future travelers:

• Finders keepers. - C. Columbus
• Let me explore you. - C. Columbus
• I saw it first. -C. Columbus

We may do this again next year, bigger, more organized, and with a better claim.

We didn't end our pirate adventures for the week though. The following Friday saw us with a group of scalawags to sing the night away with classic (and not so classic) shanties. The room had plenty of space, and liquor, which is important if you don't want to be pillaged (and if you do, it can be arranged).