So, it is true, I was turned away from that Canadian Border and am now happily hanging out in Charleston, South Carolina.

Before the detour at Niagara, I did enjoy The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, paid a ridiculous amount of money to toll booths for the privilege to drive through Indiana and Ohio, and had spicy Buffalo Wings, where Buffalo wings were invented at Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York.

After quickly realizing that the city of Cleveland has a limited amount of worthwhile attractions to tantalize the senses, although, I understand that the Cleveland Museum of Art has pretty decent Picasso collection, I decided to camp at a Howard Johnson Motel and prep for a long day at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame provided six and a half hours of entertainment, information, and rocking. It is a very thorough and extensive museum & showcase of rock and roll, the people that influenced the music over the years, and the culture that surrounds it. There really is too much in the Hall of Fame to do in one day. Too much music, literature, video, and artifacts to divide ones time amongst, and in truth, not everything needs to be seen to really appreciate the museum. The actual “Hall,” alphabetical signatures of all the inductees, was especially well done. Only the glowing signatures of the rock legends illuminate a spiraling hallway that takes you from Aerosmith to ZZ Top. And the sound of the inductee’s music comes from a two-story theater at the end of the hall that cycles through footage of all the inductees in order of the acceptance into the hall. A well done presentation.

After the Hall of Fame, the drive to Niagara Falls was just a quick shot down the turnpikes, but Niagara would be the furthest north that I would be allowed to go.

There really isn’t much to Cooperstown, NY. A small strip of downtown, cluttered with stores and restaurants all with baseball theme and décor, a well-groomed baseball field set back into a neighborhood filled with old wooden houses, and of course the Baseball Hall of Fame. The Hall of Fame is as much a church of baseball, as it is a history museum. The format of the museum is an extensive timeline that documents the evolution of baseball from the first games conducted by Abner Doubleday (A surprisingly significant person in history, who’s name would come up again during the tour of Fort Sumter in South Carolina) in the fields of Cooperstown, to the modern game that is played today. Along the way, the museum showcases the notable baseball individuals and achievements with displays built around the actual jerseys, baseballs, gloves, and shoes that made history. The artifacts, coupled with amazing video footage, capture the greatness of the game and the people who played it.

The actual Hall in the Hall of Fame is built like a church, lighted like a church, and feels like a church. Along the walls where stained glass would be in an actual church are the placards with the bronze faces and captions of the members of baseball’s elite. At the end of the Hall, under a glass roof, are the faces of the original five inductees to the Hall of Fame: Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, Christy Mathewson and Walter Johnson— The Class of 1936. I have to admit it was pretty cool to walk past the Ruth’s jerseys, Cobb’s cleats, and Wagner’s glove in one room, and then come face to face with their bronze likeness forever captured today in 2006 the same way it was in 1936.

A highlight that I will never be able to fully convey to someone who has not stepped inside the Hall of Fame is the pure love of baseball that the Hall of Fame docents have, and how addicting it is when you are in the building. Upon entering the section of the Hall dedicated to baseball’s ballparks, I was greeted by an old-timer who asked me, “So, what’s your team?” I let him know I was a huge A’s fan, duh, and that was all the prompt he needed to go into an entire history of the Athletics franchise, baseball’s move west, and the successes and failures of the teams that have moved from their former east coast homes. He told me in great detail, while looking at pictures of the Old Polo Grounds in New York, about how he jumped and yelled for joy after the "Shot Heard 'Round the World," when New York Giants’ outfielder Bobby Thomson hit a walk-off homerun at the Polo Grounds to win the National League pennant on October 3, 1951. He continued to prattle on in an amusing and joyful way through the records and no-hitter displays. This man, no less than 80 years old, had managed to somehow consolidate, without omission of great detail, nearly the entire history of his relationship with baseball into about half an hour. It was inspirational and moving. It was a story of love and respect for the game that I had never witnessed in person. It explains why “Shoeless” Joe Jackson and Pete Rose are blacklisted, and why the steroid induced records and milestones of the modern game should not stand. The game is bliss, the players are heroes, and winning can be the greatest triumph in the world for a fan, but the cheaters ruin what is pure and perfect. I guess I needed to go to the church of baseball to be enlightened. Go A’s.

Yeah, Boston’s a nice little city. The city of bad drivers, limited parking, relentless traffic wardens, zero city planning, beans, beer, and oh so much history. Never drive to Boston. It’s just a really bad idea. They don’t want your car there, and you don’t want to have your car with you. In two days in Boston, I had my car sideswiped and towed. Both minor things to happen considering the alternatives, but nevertheless I couldn’t wait to move on to the safe underground parking havens of New York City. I really don’t blame current Bostonians for their reckless, road-raging, life threatening antics, because very little city planning was put into the design of Boston’s roadways. However, with MIT and Harvard just across the Charles River I feel that the great minds of the east coast should band together and attempt to remedy the disastrous driving situation. Just a suggestion.

That's all for now. I already have a lot more to say, but am falling behind.

Fear and Loathing at the Canadian Border.

I had the pleasure of spending a solid hour or so in the custody of Canadian Customs, on the other side of Niagara Falls, before being denied entry into Canada for reasons that were never specified to me. For those of you planning on crossing the border by car into The Great White North, I would recommend making secondary plans just in case, because not only did the custom officers not pay any attention to what I was explaining to them about my trip, what I was doing, and where I was from, but they were just flat out rude in their conduct. The fact that I had an itinerary, travel maps, and proof of all the places that I had been recently, didn’t seem to sway the custom workers’ convictions that I planned to infiltrate their land with the intention of inhabiting, exasperating, or eradicating. Like I really care enough about hockey, round bacon, snow, and large populations of people who speak French, to want to stay in Quebec for any extended period of time. I pleasantly had all my papers checked and my car and bags searched... (Read: ransacked.) I honestly answered all the questions about my origin, purpose, monetary accessibility, and dietary habits and then an hour later some older guy, who I hadn’t seen or talked to, gives me a slip of paper and tells me to go back across the border. “Entry denied.” Boom. No explanation, no chance to explain anything, no chance to talk about it, and no passport back until I was already on the bridge headed back towards New York ... I did get to see Niagara fall. The falls are pretty spectacular at night, but not worth the drive by itself … Oh, and I did stop at Anchor Bar in Buffalo, on the way to the border disaster, and had some buffalo wings at the very place Buffalo wings were supposedly invented. They were a seven on the buffalo wing scale, worth eating once, but not worth going back for. A little sad, considering, but at least I have a one-upper on food conversations during Monday Night Football games.

The sad thing is that I really did want to go. I really did want to see Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec City. And I wanted to see them over a four-day span, and then leave. Spend my money on Canadian things and then move on, but they didn’t want to hear that. So, that is it. I’m going to go spend my money in Cooperstown, New York instead, and then on to Boston a few days before schedule. I can’t believe that this is even an issue. Apparently, young people don’t road trip in Canada… Or, if they do, they get denied entry enough for the Canadian government to need to play “tit-for-tat” with the US customs. You just have to respect pissing contests.

Well I realized that I am now in New York State and have yet to discuss Yellowstone. I know you all have been waiting on pins and needles for the next segment so…

I found Yellowstone to be a challenging, but not entirely impossible, park to see in one day. Sure, I may have missed a few hikes, mountaintops, and beautiful vistas, but as they say, “if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.” That is not the mantra that I adhere to, and I really wouldn’t recommend it, but in the case of this Yellowstone visit, I had to do what was feasible, and leave rest behind. After camping in the pleasant, but painfully minimalistic, Indian Creek campground, I headed to the vast Norris Geyser Field for my first bit of sight seeing. The Norris area, unlike Old Faithful, which I’ll get to, requires you to walk around, wait, and get lucky. Most geysers are erratic, spontaneous, random, and all those other words that essentially mean, “unpredictable.” Norris has a verity of geysers and sulfur vents in the form of mud volcanoes, hot springs, and other such geothermal creations. Like the sulfur fields in Lassen National Park, Yellowstone reeks of, well, sulfur. But not in that “ew, rotten eggs,” way, but in that, “ I’m going to really smell bad tonight,” kind of way. Which is no problem, because so will everyone else. The most predictable, and therefore “faithful,” of Yellowstone’s geysers is the storied Old Faithful. It’s not the highest, or the largest, or even the most spectacular, according to park employees, but it is the largest geyser in the world that works on a regular schedule. I chose to view Old Faithful from an observation point on a near-by hilltop, entitled Observation Point. I’m not sure if this is the best way to view the geyser, but it beats standing, or sitting, amongst the large crowds, and perhaps allows for a better perspective of size and altitude. At least I like to think so. Despite its faithful moniker, Old Faithful is also a big tease. Its cycle is approximately an hour and fifteen minutes, give or take. So, you sit there, with the camera. The naïve, like myself, snap off photos at the first sign of activity. This is wrong, and you must learn to wait. Remember the old saying, “a watched pot never boils?” Well, this theory applies to geysers as well. You must stay ready, alert, and with the right focus and aperture. Perhaps you’ve even taken a test photo of the area to make sure the angle is decent. And you wait. And then spurts, but small ones. Not the great geyser performance that you had heard about. “Was that it?” You ask yourself and the others around you. Should I stay? Leave? So, you wait some more. And wait. And you think, “Maybe that was it? This is bullshit.” Finally, when you think you may have just gotten unlucky, and this just happened to be an especially weak performance, Old Faithful comes through. Ooh… ahhh… time to hit the road. But that’s not all. Yellowstone has a predictable geyser, a really large high-altitude lake, sulfur fields, and it also has, and I didn’t know this until I got there, a spectacular canyon with numerous waterfalls.

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, as it is officially called, is a pretty darn spectacular place. I was surprised by how colorful the walls of the canyon were, created by constant sulfur activity, and how much water was traveling through the canyon. The waterfalls, although not as high as Yosemite’s, certainly pumped out their fair share of water, and made for some pretty quality photo opportunities. Yellowstone positively has more to offer, and I feel like I may have rushed the trip, but now I know that I can go back with some park familiarity and still have some fresh sights to enjoy.

Boulder, Colorado seems like a great place to live as long as its not snowing, but the road to Boulder from Yellowstone was more than mildly unpleasant. The first, very short, portion of the ride southeast took me through The Grand Teton National Park just south of Yellowstone. The sunset view, that I had the pleasure of witnessing, over the Rockies is the single most spectacular view of the trip. In a word, it was “awesome.” The view, coupled with the turning color of the trees, made for one hell of a photo op and made me wish that I had allocated more time to Teton Park, and less to Yellowstone.

Never, ever, for any reason drive through the middle of Wyoming at night. Every kind of animal that the state has to offer will dart in front of your vehicle at some point. No joke. At different times throughout the drive I had a buffalo, or bison, moose, deer, elk, owl, mouse, not to be confused with moose, and rabbit in front of my car. It’s like they have a genetically predisposition to leap, dart, run or saunter in front of moving vehicles. No big deal. No harm, no foul. But I’m sitting there rigid in the drivers seat, with J.T. the Brick quietly ranting about the up coming football season on the radio, hands tightly gripping the wheel, eyes scanning the medians and margins of the road frantically, and my foot jerking at the slightest sign of movement. I really don’t want to hit a moose, or even a deer. Do you even know how bad that would suck? Oh, GPS, just lead me safely to thy nearest rest stop so I can rest my weary head, and I will never forsake your guidance, or take your misleading directions in vain again.

Fort Collins, just north of Boulder, was packed with traffic of the worst kind — road work traffic. I was forced to take the New Belgium Brewery tour, and indulge in their tasting room. What a horrible way to beat traffic. Boulder was great.

I hope that everyone can appreciate the fact that I drove 671.50 miles today, while stopping only once for gas and thin, crispy burgers. And not only that, it was through, quite possibly, the most boring state in the union… as far as scenery, historical sites to laugh at, and diversity in landscape. The state of Kansas possesses three historical points of interest, as far as I’m concerned, and nothing else that is really worth stopping for. The Eisenhower Library & Center in Abilene, the home of Custer & The US Cavalry Museum at Fort Riley, and the site of the initial Brown v. The Board of Education, at the Courthouse in Topeka. I neglected to stop at any one of the three. The burger place that I did stop at was so disappointing that I almost swore off the Roadfood book entirely. The Cozy Inn in Salina sounds like a nice pleasant place, right? That’s what I thought. According to Roadfood, the burgers, “somehow form a perfect combination with pickle, mustard, and ketchup,” which I felt was far from the truth. Perhaps a local favorite, the burgers ranked up there with, but not necessarily surpassing McDonald’s, Burger King, and White Castle. In short, the burger stand was about as impressive as Kansas’ scenery. Important road rule: Never drive through Wyoming at night, and never drive through Kansas during the day.

Because I had no idea what to do with myself in Kansas City, I was forced to return to Roadfood’s guidance and get some highly recommended Bar-Be-Que at Arthur Bryant’s. It is important to note that the “grease house” as it is called, is in Missouri and not Kansas, therefore keeping Kansas’ “cool score” at zero. Arthur Bryant’s, is not your corporate fast food Bar-Be-Que, like K.C. Masterpiece, and pretty much rocked. I had a sopping wet brisket sandwich and a hefty plate of beans and fries. I know why people in the Midwest are disgustingly fat. After eating a tiny, lame, forgettable burger for lunch, the spicy sauce and the tender smoked dead cow, with crispy, fresh cut fries, and saucy beans was like eating dirt your entire life and then finally having your first real meal. Roadfood was temporarily back in my good graces. After dinner, I found out just how bad a baseball team the Kansas City Royals really are. Randy Johnson had a no hitter into the seventh inning, and the Yankees ended up winning nine to one. Not much going on in Kansas City… just another blip on the radar.

I can’t believe that the Gateway Arch is closed! “The arch is temporarily closed. And it is uncertain when it will reopen,” was all the park rangers could tell me. Oh, St. Louis, I wanted to slap someone. They don’t tell you this until you’ve entered the six-dollar parking structure and walked to the base of the monument. WTF? St. Louis does have a spectacular botanical garden, however, which they DO allow you to enter. Thanks to Mr. Oliver, I was able to enjoy the sold out Chihuly Nights exhibit which featured the artists spectacularly blown glass arrangements throughout the garden. The garden complex is definitely worth the time, whether there is a special exhibit there or not. The grounds are quite expansive, requiring a good evening of walking to see Japanese, Victorian, herb, rose, vegetable, forested, humid, and temperate gardens. In addition fountains, pools, an educational center, restaurant & bar, the garden, apparently during the summer, has free concerts, which allow people to bring their own food, drink, and seating to enjoy the music and the evening on any part of the grounds. Very interesting and entertaining place. ... I ended up staying at the Huck Finn International Hostel in a part of town that the locals at Nadine’s Gin Joint called, “The Island.” It was an interesting place out of the downtown area, which has the dive bars, coffee shops, and small restaurants of an actual neighborhood. Nadine’s Gin Joint made for a lively place to watch the end of the Steelers–Dolphins season opener and Cardinals–Diamondbacks game. Cardinal’s fans are passionate to say the least, and the few that I was sitting with, enjoyed yelling at the TV much more than they enjoyed talking to each other, unless you want to talk about how Isringhausen blows, Pujols is so not on steroids, and how the beginning of the football season makes life so much more enjoyable.

I’m sitting here, below the arch, at nine thirty in the morning waiting for whatever problem that exists to be fixed, so that I can see the sights, go to the brewery, and then drive on to Chicago. What are the odds that the two days that I am in town, the thing is closed? Pissed am I. Unfortunate this is.

Hey, but at least Anheuser-Busch came through with a stellar brewery tour and tasting room equipped with pretzels and eight different beers on tap. The tour, lasting a little over an hour, walks through the original Busch family Clydesdale stables, the frigid fermentation rooms with single vats of a beer that would take a person over a hundred and twenty years to drink at a pace of one pint an hour, every hour. Then the toasty brew house, and ten story bottling plant. The final leg of the tour is a trolley ride back across the expansive campus to the hospitality room. Some interesting facts: During prohibition, the brewery became the largest manufacturer of baking yeast in the world, to makeup for the loss of alcohol production. The brewery also produced soda and other beverages during this time. Additionally, all the storerooms on the property, the largest single beer storing unit in the world, must be replenished every twenty four hours just to keep Midwest beer distributors in stock… if I remember correctly, that was about half a million cases (24 bottles) of beer every day, just in the Midwest.

The road to Chicago was quick and easy until about twenty miles outside the city when I realized the cardinal rule of entering a new city: never do it at rush hour. What should have taken fifteen minutes, took nearly an hour, and left me frazzled, hungry, and slightly claustrophobic. A walk through a fresh neighborhood quickly remedies all long car rides, and a quality meal of a sun dried tomato pesto and turkey sandwich and potato salad eliminates recent frustrations.

Breakfast at the Cozy Corner Diner and Pancake House was a spectacular way to start the day. Endorsed by Roadfood, which pissed me off again in St. Louis with their recommendation of Goody Goody Diner, the Cozy Corner Diner came through in ways where their previous hamburger recommendations had drastically missed — as in exceptional food, not just throwback atmosphere. Watching the chefs wail through order after order was worth the price of the food by itself. Eggs, hash browns, sausage, and of course pancakes, makes for a breakfast worth starting a day with. No doubt the kind of place that should be recommended. The day in Chicago has been another tourist assault of sorts. Drive by tourism of the legendary Wrigley Field at 1060 West Addison probably didn't give the landmark site the time it truly deserves, but I think I'll be back in the future. A stroll to Millennium Park was shortly followed by a trip up to the Hancock Building’s observatory, and then the Magnificent Mile of Michigan street. I really like Chicago, and will have to come back.

More on Cleveland, the six hours I spent at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, attempting the cross the Canadian border, and heading to Cooperstown in the next installment…

Saturday: My day in Seattle turned out to be far more spectacular, and physically insane, than could have ever been expected. Out of bed at seven-thirty. Breakfast and some Internet time after a quick shower. I arrived right as the Experience Music Project was opening, at ten, and found that I practically had the entire place to myself for the first few hours. The EMP provides an entertaining look at Seattle’s music history, the general enjoyment of music, and of course, the man and the legend of Jimi Hendrix. Currently, the special exhibit at the EMP is a collection of concert poster artwork from all different eras, venues, and styles. Very cool. They had everything from early Elvis posters, to sixties psychedelic, to modern rock bands, but the focus of the exhibit was on the art of the posters.

One portion of the museum is dedicated to playing live music in sound-proof booths. Karaoke was in full effect.

While at the EMP, I ran into my Hostel roommate and his sister, who consequently is a concert poster artist, and they happened to have a friend with an extra ticket to the Bumbershoot Music Festival that she was willing to part with for twenty dollars. Bumbershoot is described as, "the mother of all arts festivals," with the primary attraction being the eleven simultaneous music stages that are active continuously throughout the Labor Day weekend. This years lineup featured: Hawthorne Heights, Blondie, AFI, Spoon, The New Pornographers, Kanye West, Steve Miller Band, Atmosphere, and A Tribe Called Quest. Sadly, I only witnessed one day. So, anyways, at around two-thirty, I saw Blondie do all their classics on the main stage. “Heat of Glass” tore the house down… It really did. Then went up the Space Needle, which was exactly what you would expect. The views of Seattle, the Sound, and surrounding areas were spectacular, because I was lucky enough to be there, “on the clearest day of the year,” according to one of the Needle’s employees. As far as a tourist destination, the Space Needle is worth both the time and the money.

I rallied myself to go back to downtown Seattle for dinner and a little more “tourist” experience. Because all tourists naturally gravitate towards Pike Plaza, the United States’ first outdoor farmer’s market, when visiting Seattle, I couldn’t help myself and went to the Pike Plaza Bar & Grill. The Steak Dip sandwich was good. The clam chowder was excellent, but the potato chunks were far too large for the cup the soup came in. After deeking in the 1st ever Starbucks and replenishing my caffeine level, it was back to Bumbershoot for Yellowcard and AFI. Yellowcard was strange. I’m still trying to figure out if I like their unique sound, or if I was just interested in the novelty of having a violin player in a rock band. AFI was quite an experience. The average age of the show must have been 16. Mainly girls dressing in all black, with black hair, makeup, and attitudes. This seemed over-the-top ironic when AFI came out on stage dressed in all white. Now's a good time to get black clothing at Seattle thrift stores. I promise you it is not the same AFI that played at The Vets Hall six years ago. Instead of indulging in the moshing with thousands of high schoolers, I had a good time keeping a low profile, which is something I would have never done when AFI was still a “punk-rock” band. I was literally on my feet for 12 out of 14 hours of the day in Seattle, and all that was before driving to Spokane.

Sunday: Today was a driving day of epic proportions. After going to AFI on Saturday evening I figured since I didn’t have a place to stay in Seattle, was wide-eyed and jittery from Red Bull and Starbuck’s, and my ears were ringing too uncontrollably to sleep or socialize, and would be for the next few hours, I decided to get a jump on the drive from Seattle to Yellowstone. I was able to make it all the way to Spokane, which is clear across the state or Washington, and slept in my car in the furthest corner of a Red Lion Hotel parking lot — dark, quiet, and a little creepy. Upon awakening I was pleasantly surprised by how nice of a downtown, and river area Spokane possessed. All I was really interested in, however, was a hearty breakfast and an early start. Breakfast commenced around seven-thirty, and for those of you who know my sleeping tendencies that should be an astonishing hour indeed.

Frank’s Diner, which was my first eatery experience out of the book “Road Food,” provided the kind of hearty breakfast that you would expect heading into middle America. Four egg omlets, hash brown, grilled onions, english muffin, and coffee, even if you don't ask for it. The counter is definitely the place to sit, so you can watch the quick order chef whip out all the eggs, pancakes, french toast, and hash browns that are ordered in a methodical, fast-paced flurry. The diner is in a turn-of-the-century presidential viewing railroad car, so it only seats about thirty, and makes for a fun, throwback, lively atmosphere. The waitresses were young, cute, but way way way too bubbly for that early in the moring, so I read the sports section. Frank's is worth looking into if you ever happen to wake up cramped in the back of a car in Spokane and crave an oversized breakfast.

Following breakfast, I drove past some amazing, and not so amazing, places today. First of all, raise your hand if you knew that there is a town caller Crackerville, Montana about one hundred and seventy miles north-west of Yellowstone. Yeah, I didn’t either, but it was funny to see. Entering Yellowstone was pleasant, but not spectacular. Some nice rivers, interesting rock for formations, and broad plains decorate the drive through Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming, but it is not until you get pretty deep into the park that you see the natural wonders that you drove hundreds of miles for. By the way, if you are heading to Yellowstone, you might as well drop into Manhattan and Amsterdam. They're all together so it would make for one hell of a vacation.

Tonight, as I lie on my second makeshift, back-seat bed in a National Park, I’m beginning to realize that I may have parked on a slant and am slowly sliding towards the back of the car. But I’m already too comfy to fix the current slope. It's strange how when you are out in the wilderness basically unprepared you notice simple things you don't have that you take for granted in everyday life. Like: It would be cool to have a spoon, since I have all this cereal. Oh, well. Not exactly roughing it, but definitely “camping.”

The last twenty-four hours have been action packed, so I have a lot of ground to cover before I hit the sack in anticipation of a rocking, both literally and figuratively, day in Seattle. First off, Portland is a really cool city. Interesting people, quality beer, delectable bar-type food, cultured downtown and neighboring boroughs, and now that I’ve reached Seattle I better get it all down on the record or else it will all be replaced with new experiences.

The Rose Garden, in Washington Park overlooking Portland proper, provided a nice stroll amongst the worlds largest collection of roses, a few photo ops, and a tourist hotspot to check off the list, but it is not the leading highlight of the Portland segment. I hear the Japanese Garden, Chinese Garden Sanctuary, and Zoo are all superior, but I didn’t see them. So, when you go take pictures for me.

While aimlessly wandering about I came across Good Dog, Bad Dog: Sausages For All in downtown Portland. It is the kind of cheap eats place that should be recommended and enjoyed by all, except for those of you that don’t eat meat. And if that is the case, move on to the next paragraph. The menu is simple: sausages in various forms, styles, flavors, and such. The Oregon Smokey, a blend of meat, herbs, and molasses, with grilled onions, cheddar cheese, and a soft bun rocked, as I’m sure the ten other flavors do as well. Pale Ale and smothered dog for fewer than eight bucks seemed pretty reasonable at the time considering it was a pretty substantial lunchtime meal. As you sit there amongst the dog themed decorations a steady stream of various downtown folk keep the small room filled. Business suits, hardhats, women, men. Chili, cheese, sauerkraut, horseradish, relish, hot and sweet mustard, ketchup. The kind of place that a messy dog, a pint in a plastic cup, and people watching goes together as smoothly as the pale ale goes down.

The Portland Timber’s game, or I should say PGE stadium, provides for a unique soccer-spectator experience. Show up early enough on a Thursday night your ten dollar assigned seating ticket, free if you know members of the team, becomes an all access pass to a field level beer garden and patio seating literally five yards from the playing field. With four local brews, and Miller Light, on tap I can’t imagine a better place to start an evening out on the town. The game, played on the Astroturf field, which is also shared by Portland's minor league baseball team, The Beavers, is fast paced and entertaining. Alas, the game only provided one goal and sadly the visiting Montreal Impact scored it in the 88th minute. Unfortunately, it was a disappointing ending to an otherwise well-played and enjoyable game.

The post-game happy hour at the Rock Bottom Brewery has some of the cheapest happy hour bar food I have seen since I was at “The Bear” in Chico two days ago. Slider n’ fries, mac n’ cheese, enchiladas, Tuscany salad, hot wings, nachos, and calamari all under three ninety-five each. The service was a little snotty, but considering that four people can eat and drink their fill and still manage to have a tab that totals less than forty dollars makes the waitress’ coarse attitude understandable.

Dixie Tavern is an absolute trip for the unprepared. I was only mildly prepared, but was surprisingly very entertained. The atmosphere is a cross between a white-trash rodeo and head-bangers ball, with the centerpieces of the action being scantily clad girls and hicks in cowboy hats rocking on the mechanical bull, and a fully tatted chick DJ playing everything from AC/DC to 311 to Hank Williams. The rowdy, boisterous crowd that is subject to spontaneous and clumsy dance parties makes for a fine milieu to enjoy a few Pabst Blue Ribbons in. It was fun in a "Wow. I've never been to a bar like that," kinda way.

Today: Cup and Saucer Café serves great breakfast eats for the better part of the day in a Telegraph Avenue style setting on Hawthorne across the river from downtown Portland. Good thrift stores, record stores, and coffee shops all with a charming, yet dingy, aura make up much of the store fronts that line the short, but lively Hawthorne drag.

I could probably spend a few more days in Portland. Lots to do, cool people to hang with, and many more bars, thrift & record stores, and restaurants to test-drive… It’s safe to say that I’ll be back at some point in the near future.

A little pit stop in Tacoma, while heading through Washington State on my way to Seattle, to pay homage to Neko Case and her song “Thrice All American.” (“I want to tell you about my hometown, It's a dusty old jewel in the South Puget Sound, Well the factories churn and the timbers all cut down, And life goes by slow in Tacoma”) Yeah, you know the one. Pretty neat city, but a hell of a lot bigger than Ms. Case makes it out to be in her little ditty. I’m not exactly sure what people would do with themselves here except eat smoked turkey and cheese on asiago-pesto bagels, which I did, and roam the “historic downtown district,” which I didn't. I’m beginning to become convinced that the words “Historic Downtown” equate to “not much to do here, but walk around and read strategically placed plaques.” Perhaps that is too harsh a judgment, considering I come from a city with the third and fifth wonders of the novelty amusement world — being The Santa Cruz Boardwalk and Mystery Spot, respectively. Oh well, on to Seattle. To Tacoma’s credit, the bagels were good.

Finally: It’s remarkably hot here in Seattle. A one arm tanning kind of day in the car, subtly transitioning into a shorts and tank top evening… should be interesting to see what the weather is like for Experience Music Project and concert tomorrow. My left arm is much tanner than my right, by the way; a trend that I imagine will only get more noticeable as the miles in the sun tack on.

Shout out to Ronnie, Yuri, Carly, and Mike. Good times, great hospitality.