Friday Pizza and Beer

I picked up Emma with the Air VW the Gray suggesting that it was 97ºF out on TV Highway in Beaverton, and I missed my turn and spent almost ten minutes in the chaos that is Friday afternoon traffic. Emma hopped into the car after I turned it around, and we were off. With the AC fighting to overcome the bright sun, the smoke was still visible at a distance but was below 50, and the light was bright and not yellow. There are three paths to the N Mississippi across the bridge in Portland, and, due to the usual parking-lot transformation of Highway 26 on Friday afternoon (I used to drive it every week to play games), the options were presented as only a few minutes difference. Emma and I agree on the over-the-hill Cornell Road, which would be shady and full of green. The road even has a wiki page (here).

We do the local until we connect to 405 to cross the Willamette River, and Emma is amazed as we then do this weird, both unpredictable and unimaginable, spiral of industrial streets that take us to N Mississippi. I point out the Cyclopean-like off ramps of the 405 that shoot out in various directions above us. “We were on that one, I think,” I tell her. Feeling like I am in one of my Howard stories (my hero in SciFi/horror), we locate our objective, Von Ebert Brewing, and I manage to parallel park the EV into a slot.

While not perfect — I turned too soon —I have enough space to rock the VW into the spot by going forward to a close, turning more, and slowly gliding in. No “cement” gray was lost. Again, Howard would describe that “While parking, I try to imagine the space in four dimensions, and usually then it the EV seems to ‘beam’ into the parking spot.” The rear camera and the forward sensors make this easier.

It is just a moment later that we are in the taphouse (no food sold and thus the name, “taphouse,” and outside food is welcome) and we are enjoying Potions and Substances. We are early, and I take a photo to send to Mariah, who had called this meeting. She finds a less complex parking spot, joins us, and, unlike us, picked their $3 special in a large mug. Still, my unusual IPA is good, and Emma approves of her potion.

We chat, and Mariah tells many stories, with us adding here and there. I give her the President and Betty Ford magnet for her collection. We did not pay the bill (open tabs will be charged a 20% tip if not closed by the end of the day, meaning forgetting to pay is OK), and we went on a quest for food in the nearby streets as the bartender said there was great food a block away. Trucks, pizza places of the edginess needed to make good pizza, and other places that require a pronunciation guide. Yes, Portland. Pizza is agreed on: Mississippi Pizza. We wait outside (with the pizza oven and fans; it was hotter inside, but the AC was streaming in from a lounge (Atlantis?) next door, and a band was setting up for a grayer crowd that I would easily fit in (when did I become part of the old folks group?!), likely Queen songs will be screamed out soon. I stay with Mariah and Emma (Odysseus-like, I survive the siren call). Mariah points out that we can eat this pizza at Von Ebert, and we carry beyond other food establishments, now with lines, that whisper to us, “next time, it will be great, come back soon.”

But the pizza is good, if not amazing, and is hands-ready; more beer, and Mariah and Emma have a beer slushy with various berry flavors. All goes well with the Spicy Boi slices (from their menu: “little pepperoni, sausage, fresh jalapeño, Mama Lil’s Peppers,” plus the sauce is excellent and the cheese isn’t too much for me). We check if there is something at OMSI, but the show is sold out, and we say goodbye to Mariah. We agree that we must access the Von Ebert across town (two traffic jams away) in Glendover that still serves the smoked chicken wings that are so good, it is reported that the chicken volunteers.

I drop Emma off and return to the house. I get a late, for her Eastern Time Zone, good night from Deborah. We like to start and finish our days together. I binge-watch the last three episodes of Season 2 of Ted Lasso. My mind is still bouncing around, and I often find myself not paying attention to Ted Lasso, not like me. I manage to focus on the season end and see my predictions match on Ned. The story seems to be that people are complex, with deep waters of feelings they are not sure they understand, but that people lean (mostly) to the best when we give ourselves permission to dream (but Ned shows that the dream can be poisoned with darkness that we need to avoid).

I read more Civil War and reach 1862, and the North realizes this is total war and not a dispute. The South believes it is safe and that the world will bring the war to an end for King Cotton, that Europe needs their cotton. It is a selfish dream that never materializes. Europe still remembered the Crimean War (1854–1856) and refused to be drawn into another distant, strange war. Plus, Europe recently agreed that slavery was banned and politically could not reverse this position.

Aside: I highly (extreme?!) recommend the story of the end of the slave trade as told by the book Bury the Chains. Adam Hochschild’s book changed my thinking about history and how to make change in this world.

McClellan appears in the story and is always one of the stranger stories of the American Civil War. Overcautious? Traitor refusing to finish Lee when given the chance? Right to conserve an army that will die (as did Hood’s in 1864) if attacking a reinforced position? A complex character in history. He runs against Lincoln later and loses as his own army votes to finish the war (now under “Unconditional Surrender” Grant) and not negotiate.

With thoughts of the coming two years, stories of slow erosion of the Confederacy, I put away the book, The Civil War (again without footnotes or references) and sleep. I do wake to return some of the liquid and manage to not rise with the sunrise.

Before this, it was a mundane day of me drinking reheated coffee until I could feel it in my veins. The morning was spent writing the blog and looking at some travel items. Linda, my sister, had decided to overlap my time in New Orleans. I had not finished my trip for that, and she needed some dates. I agree that I will be in NOLA on the weekend of September 19th.

I finish the blog and revive some frozen ham with hot water and then lightly fry slices to get the water and frozen flavor out of it. I fry two eggs and have some cornbread. Earlier, I had a banana with my coffee. It is unwise for me, I have learned while working for a living, to tank up on coffee without something in my stomach. I also chat with Deborah, and it is always excellent to chat; we miss each other. It fills in something missing in my day.

I then sit down and figure out my September trip. Yikes, weekend car rentals aren’t working, as I want a car for the weekend and to return it in Birmingham, Alabama. I also want to arrive in New Orleans on Saturday, which means traveling to Alabama on Friday. Grayhound has the answer, and I find it strange to use a bus in the American South, and more so when I find that while the buses are segregated by race now, the front seats are sold for a premium now. I buy one just behind them, and also, as a suggestion, I buy the seat next to me. It is a four-hour trip starting at 9ish and finishing at noonish. I skip the extra bag fee and believe I can manage. I am happy to try this out.

Next, Amtrak’s Crescent stops at Birmingham at 1ish, and for $36 I get an uncomplex seat in coach. First class comes with rooms, and for $200+ it seems too much for a bed for an 8-hour trip. I will ensure I have my own snacks! My experience is that these large trains have no WiFi and feel like a return to the 1950s. Still, it will be a chance to read and reflect. Or, more likely, a long nap to prepare me for the nights in NOLA!

Sadly, Le Richelieu Hotel in New Orleans has sold out of rooms with balconies, but at least I am not, again, paying a premium for a room with hard-to-lock windows a block away from the reported home of vampires (Old Ursuline Convent). It is built over the old barracks area from the American Civil War and thus is not haunted like other hotels I have stayed at that are built over execution sites. A new check for hotels for me.

With that done, I am close to having my trip done in September. I have to decide on a hotel in Nashville and Birmingham and book a few nights. I also discovered that Hope 2026 is ending late Sunday, and I moved my flight and added a day to my stay in NYC ($60 for the flight change and lost my Comfort chair, and then $240 for another night in Midtown Manhattan at the New Yorker Hotel).

And with that covered, I have covered Friday’s story. Thank you for reading, dear reader, and I hope the new structure works for you. Change is necessary, and learning is good.

I am looking forward to maybe a retired Howard headed to the American South and then to New Orleans. Besides the usual fear of salad and veggie parasites, flies that cause flesh-eating larvae in humans and bovines alike, H1N1 in the birds, and COVID-19 evolving a new version, BA.3.2, and nicknamed “Cicada,” Louisiana is reporting flesh-eating bacillus cases. Sounds like we need Howard to investigate this!

Howard, now older and sort-of retired, as much as a sorcerer, writing, and eldric detective can be retired, slides into his flight from Detroit, direct to New Orleans, his comfort seat. First class was tempting, but not for such a short flight, he agrees with himself. “Yes, perfect,” he says, and the might-be-sleeping person beside him ignores the comment, if they heard it over whatever is playing on their AirPods. He stopped in Detroit from Portland, his current home in retirement, in 2026.

A nice but generic hotel for a couple of nights over the weekend. Eastern Market is a pleasure to walk, and he met his source for some very hard-to-find ingredients from plants that were once extinct. Figuring out how to cultivate them is an unusual specialty that is available, at a price, from some growers. Howard is happy to support the local growers!

And it is a pleasure to have lunch there. Later, a cooking classes for Cuban-style food bring back memories and smells from a time drinking with Papa Hemingway and having a tropical suit made there. Howard still enjoys good clothing, and he smiles. Yes, Detroit is turning into an excellent break, and to visit in winter weather, often sunny and frozen, instead of the gray of Portland and rain. Snow and cold seem fun to Howard now, he thinks as he recalls the crunch under his feet.

But now it is New Orleans and work. Without much thought, he suggests in a language that was dead before humans learned to make cave paintings that “New Orleans needs to be polished by minions of Chtulhu.” The plane wobbles as he says that. “Oops,” he calls out and stops. The momentary “rough air” stops. Howard chastises himself for using spell languages while in a tin can in the air, being hurled at hundreds of miles per hour. “Don’t do that, Howard,” he says to himself.