Author: alohawild

I rose late on Monday and slept until 8, with only a few waking, looking at the clock, and falling back asleep. All day, I dragged and went slow. I started nothing except the daily blog, even reheating leftovers for lunch. Monday had no plans, and I treated it as a free day for PJs until after 1, when I tried to enjoy going slow. The AI monthly meeting has moved to Tuesday, so nothing is on Monday.

This morning, coffee was a need, not just a beverage. I also had a terrible lack of focus; my mind was a moth circling flames of things I should do, but I did not want to be burned and actually do the thing. I did little on Monday; no guilt. While not a gateway drug, coffee was my gateway to getting anything done. I woke up enough to finish the blog (spending plenty of time on texts and calls), do one load of laundry, not put it away, and ignore the growing pile of dishes. I also enjoyed the political news (the polls are now taking a liberal swing) and counting down for the election; news from NC was mixed–family is safe and in camping mode, but the western NC water system is gone.

I drink deep liberal coffee from my French Press, dreaming of a better world in every cup. I don’t dream of a Lovecraftian world of strangeness and stories or sword-wielding and spell casting (but that would be cool), but a new world, much like the current one, with justice, compassion, and kind communities being the focus. I am not looking for a Hollywood Revelations-style destruction of sinners and for the old earth to pass away, but for the world’s awakening (i.e., woke) to the possibilities (from Douglas Adams) of being nice to each other.

I have oatmeal again to go with the coffee. But I am a moth bouncing here and there all day, even with the caffeine (I just bounce faster). I rewatched the “Lord of the Rings: Rings of Power” season conclusion, and now that I know what to expect, I really enjoyed the sword fights and the resolution of some of the stories. They continued with some of the less exciting stories for the next season. I still like it.

I read and am tired still. I am surprised by how close the book and the TV show match for Slow Horses, and I nod off and sleep for thirty minutes. That with all the coffee. Yes, I did overdo it last week. The early mornings, the short sleep, and the social butterfly-ing all had a cost.

Tired of this, I head to Hillsboro, tour the Old Town, and get more steps in, 4,700+ for the day. I searched the antique stores (Deborah asked me about them, and I would think they are more like thrift stores but with older stuff) for things I needed but did not know I needed. A dangerous thing to do, but f**k, I am tired of being tired (re-tired?). The better store, Le Stuff, had things that got my attention but had little use, and I avoid furniture purchases, as I have enough (even when it is cheap and well made–resist!). I also resist all clocks. I learned that the metal, mostly brass, wears, and complex repairs are often required. I am not starting a new hobby/business: fixing mechanical clocks.

The rundown and slightly smelly Sniders Hill Theater Antique Mall (with uneven floors and difficult stairs to balconies now stuffed with old stuff) often provides me with desirable items. I found a cigar box with a locking lid made of wood for five bucks. All my leftover and replaced gaming pieces now reside in the box instead of bags stuffed here and there. Excellent. A $12 bottle of “Dr. White’s Dandelion Alternative” reproduction joins my Call of Cthulhu props. Lastly, a slightly worn copy of Julis Child’s cookbook for $25 (no shipping or sales tax in Oregon) is added to my collection of cookbooks. I always wanted to read her comments in the anniversary edition. Excellent.

Aside: Corwin always laughs when he recalls me saying, “How many feet of cookbooks do you think we need.”

I also found a collection of plastic horse models that my sister once collected. Being the loving brother I am, I sent her a picture of her toys, now considered antiques, and got an appropriate response. It was rather profane.

One of the questions I wonder about is how often the stuff changes in these stores. I looked at how my memory compared with the current contents and concluded that less than half the stuff was replaced, but much had changed. I hope that is sales and not replacements; however, I fear for our society if we consume half the antiques in three months. Our homes will be exploding with stuff.

I called Corwin, and he agreed to meet me in Hillsboro for an early dinner (the town all but rolls up the sidewalks when the sun goes down). I continued to wander. I saw a police officer from the Washinton County Sheriff’s patrol head to a person. They were passed out in a wheelchair in the park around the courthouse and looked in distress. The officer woke them up, stayed with them, and waited for help.

I sit on a bench, admire the redwoods, and try to remember my first aid. I am no longer certified and should take a refresher class once I am a year out from my brain surgery. Now, it is best I just stay out of the way. The event seems to be resolved. I see Corwin in his truck, and we will meet soon.

I suggest The High Ground, a funny name for a roof bar that overlooks the Washington County Courthouse. So yes, we take The High Ground and have locally made beer. We share an insane appetizer of Buffalo tater tots with blue cheese and Buffalo sauce. The view was excellent, and we enjoyed dinner: me, a salad, and Corwin with a burger and extra paddy. Corwin still is disappointed that his recent bout of COVID-19 has cost him weight. He is a weight lifter and wants the weight. We dream that someday we will cross numbers with me below Corwin’s.

Corwin is now mixing and sampling sound into what I would call Electronica music. I gave Corwin a spare pair of high-quality noise-reducing headphones. With the headphones providing a new level of fidelity, Corwin is enjoying a more complex mix.

We walk back to Air Volvo, board, and Air Volvo drops Corwin at his truck. I return to The Volvo Cave, a short trip from Hillsboro, and relax. I do not do the dishes or put away the dishes and load the dirty ones. I read, rest, and recharge (Maybe the three new Rs).

I shower and get in my PJs as the house turns to pro-Orchid night temperatures. I am sensitive to cold now (chemo), and my feet feel cold (but are not—part of the chemo stuff), but I finally sleep. I dream, all forgotten now, and wake a few times stupidly early and stumble my way to prove hydration. I never sleep for more than a few hours but still rise on Tuesday refreshed.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

Sleep was elusive. I was thrashing in my blankets and was at risk of being tied down by an improbable combination of sheets turned into restraints. I was partially constrained at 3ish when proof of hydration became required (other options, while non-destructive–I still have a waterproof mattress cover–require considerable clean-up) and untangled myself. I discovered that my colon had decided it, too, would participate in these bodily functions. Returning to my covers, now straightened and entering a less restrictive arrangement of blankets, I tried to sleep comfortably. I rose after thirty minutes for another round of colon processes; again, alternatives would be messy.

I tried to sleep, but that was not possible; I was awake. I rose. I found my laptop and the kitchen. Everything was as I expected (I thought the house elves were slipping, but then I remembered I don’t have any–Susie likely freed them). The timer on the orchids had not yet snapped on their 14 hours of daylight. The orchids were reveling in the 66F (19C) morning.

I discovered I was at the last of a bag of Equal Exchange brand French Roast. I realized I had 1 and 1/4 of the grounds to make coffee in my French Press. This would leave me with dregs tomorrow to combine with a new bag (I checked I have plenty left). What the f**k! I dumped it all in–I will feel this one! There was over an inch of coffee floating in the hot water–well, maybe there were two pots left–but I was happy to get this coffee after sleeping only for a few hours. Yes!

I stick to a comforting cup. Indeed, mint tea in Morocco, liberal coffee here in Oregon, the dark boil of Turkish Coffee in Istanbul, Masala Chai in India, and chicory coffee with beignets in New Orleans are my drugs of choice–an honest hot drink even on a steamy day in exotic lands. And it is unlikely to get you jailed or shot for a hot cup of joe, and I won’t discuss the latest economic theories with my orchids and expect their input. Coffee is joy.

Saturday, the day I was writing about yesterday, was busy, and I took hours to record it and put some effort into organizing it into a linear story. I also take some time to write better now that I am retired, and my time, so far, belongs to me. I struggle with Grammarly (I use it to find the easy mistakes I miss), which is on a Hemmingway kick. The AI keeps changing my comma-laden complex sentences to short little sentences, even if that means removing my original meaning. I have to ask them to scan some Emmerson or give me a setting (“Why yes, I will take the Emmerson AI for just a few dollars more, especially after accidentally turning on the Seuss setting”).

I finished the long blog and posted it, and I still have plenty of time. I have toast with my pumpkin spice and pecan oatmeal from Trader Joe’s. I could feel the coffee and lack of sleep. I doubted the wisdom of driving to and from Portland for a few hours of the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival and then back to Matt’s to play Dungeons and Dragons. Yesterday’s parking ticket was still in my mind, and I was still mad about it. Thus conflicted, I dressed in my grey suit with the grey vest and a traditional white dress shirt with a button-down collar for church and to look 1920s at the festival.

I arrive at church early as I am speaking today. At the end of the service, I will finish the Safe Sanctuary policy training. I will cover some bullet points and then ask questions from the test provided in the Central Methodist Church material. Last time, I was nervous, but I think I will be better this time. I am stretching my speaker skills, which have been dormant since before the pandemic.

Ken gave the sermon, and we completed the sermon series on rest and the Sabbath. Pastor Ken covers that humans were created before the Sabbath and that its establishment should be with joy and not endless rules and inconveniences for people. One of Mark’s gospel translations makes me wince, “cornfields” instead of grainfields. Maze is a modern creation and was not planted in ancient times. Yes, Jesus did not grab a few ears, peel them, and munch down on some sweet corn to the frustration of the local holy police who try to give him the equivalent of a parking violation. And unless the sacred bread in the temple is cornbread, then Jesus’ remarks are less meaningful. Returning to the story and Ken’s sermon, Jesus made the point that eating the same thing that makes the holy bread when hungry by pulling some off the plants should not be a violation, as was when King David ate the sacred bread when starving and was held blameless. The Sabbath is for people, and people rule it; it should be about joy. The message is that we Christians should focus on joy, justice, and community, not rule-following (though with a denomination called ‘Methodists,’ this might be harder for us. “Would you like to serve on a committee?”). A tour of Sunday morning TV would likely show any viewer how far we have to go!

Wincing again, I rose after Dondrea, our worship leader, called me to finish the training. I reminded the listeners, especially after the sermon, that our denomination’s focus on Safe Sanctuary policies and processes was not corporate box-checking or rule-making. We needed to focus on protecting vulnerable folks, and this policy is one of the tools that enables us. Dondrea and others told me I managed to teach and make people laugh. I completed the training and even got applause.

Aside: I have learned from doing magic tricks and reading about WC Fields (yes, the drunk guy) that you can pretend you are not good at this and get the audience to cheer for you. WC Fields was a juggler before he was an actor and famous drunk. According to what I read, he found that this perfect juggling execution bored the audience, but when he pretended to be drunk and almost dropped the plates and stumble and made impossible recoveries, he was a hit. The audience was engaged. While others may emulate Lincoln or Jesus or Moses, I try to engage my audience, get some laughs, and remember WC Fields and his juggling when speaking, “What would Fields do?”

Returning to my narrative, I escape to the house, tired and stumbling a bit. I stay home and disassemble my outfit. I make beef and broccoli from a Trader Joe’s frozen Asian-style dinner. This mainly involves defrosting and reheating already-made food, but it is still good to go through the process. The broccoli is cooked and slightly steamed first. The beef is fried or more like reheated in some oil. This is recombined with a spicy sweat sauce (according to the packaging, it says “spicy sweat sauce”) and is excellent. I have this with some Basmati rice that was ready but not quite simultaneously. Sequence issues on my cooking. But soon, I had it all assembled and enjoyed “Lord of the Rings: Ring of Powers.”

The episode is the final one for the season (there is another season), and is packed through with action and an amazing amount of gymnastic writing to align the season to some various degrees to the cannon of LOTR. The unexpected sword fight between Galadriel and Sauron, with Sauron using Morgoth’s Iron Crown as a weapon, is excellent writing, wonderful action, and fits the story well. But we know they both go on, so it is unnecessary and a waste. Celebrimbo’s dying words (we know he was doomed from the beginning, not a spoiler) bring back one of the most powerful elements in the cannon, The Oath, and the Naming of Sauron as Lord of the Rings while the song for the ring is played darkly in the background. This felt more like Tolkien. We also learn the wizard’s name, The Stranger, and we again see Tolkien’s power of naming (no spoilers). The Dwarves are always my favorite, and they start the episode. This section is likely the best part of the series to date–no spoilers. While many would be unhappy with the acting and lack of reliance on the cannon, I still enjoyed the season and will likely watch it again from the start to see how it is woven together. I liked it and look forward to the next season.

Next, after resting, I head to Matt’s house. Today, we have another adventure for Dungeons and Dragons 5.0 with some elements from the 2024 new version. With other groups yet to reach the same section, thus avoiding spoilers, I will briefly say we have been pounded by creatures and encounters that we would have best avoided, but I am unsure how to prevent them. We have absorbed the most damage I think we have ever taken. I think our chances of success are low in our resource-poor condition. We are also on a clock, which means no stopping to recover our resources. Trying to make this work in three weeks when we play again will be fun. I am sure the other players will be wondering what to do.

Matt made burgers for the game. They were excellent.

I returned home in Air Volvo and soon showered, dressed in PJs, and read in bed. I was tired and soon nodded off while trying to read. I dreamed of a story when my Kindle hit me, as it fell from my hand as I drifted off to sleep. Putting the machine down, I rolled over and soon was asleep. I did not thrash or wake until nearly 8 on Monday.

Between the undeserved parking ticket and my colon deciding it had been ignored enough, Saturday ended with difficulty. Sunday morning is at 4ish, as I could not sleep anymore. Thus, I am writing the blog with the night still in the sky, and the coffee made too early but still good.

Returning to my memories and recalling experiences of Saturday, I rose with my alarm more like a Dracula than a happy start to my day. I seemed to float, rise, sit, and look at my footwear, wondering why it did not put itself on. Eventually, likely at least five minutes of waiting, I grab and put on the slippers, leave my bedroom, and search for the morning in the house. Morning was in the kitchen.

I was time-boxed again for a Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast meeting at 10AM in Portland at Sonder Listening Bar in the Hollywood district. After yesterday’s experience of being late, I planned to arrive after an hour’s commute. I first arranged for coffee.

Breakfast was paid for in Portland, so I just made liberal coffee in my French press. When others lived in the house, I would make a pot of coffee in the coffee maker and leave the pot on all day in an empty house, which seemed like a waste and created the possibility of a coffee-based catastrophe. Today, hot water is boiled in my electric pot and poured into my French press after filling the bottom with liberal coffee.

While I have told many amusing stories about coffee in the last couple of blog posts, dear reader, know that I think about left-leaning, pro-world coffee every morning. I try to be worthy of my coffee and accept the responsibility that even an honest cup of coffee can change the world. Some of you would accuse me of next asking for the clapping for Tinkerbell and other dramatic performances, exaggerating the importance of my caffeinated hot beverage, but know that what we do matters, even making coffee, and yes, clap if you think it helps (Tinkerbell would be happy).

I write the blog quickly and publish it before 8:30. I clean up and soon dress. Today, I am wearing blue-gray cotton pants, a lightly striped white and blue dress shirt with a button-down collar, another Structures tie from the 1980s, and a navy blue sweater vest. The day starts in heavy fog, and I pick the warm brown wool hat today. Air Volvo is ready for me, and soon, I will fly through Beaverton and Portland and arrive thirty minutes early. I make a mistake. I scan the QR code, put in the plate numbers, and press enter. It fails to finish, but I think I am good. Later, a ticket will be placed on Air Volvo at 8PM for $50 in honor of parking there.

Unaware of the parking calamity, I blissfully head to Sonder’s, across the parking lot from the former Rite Aid, which has roof parking. I saw Cody in his priestly vestment, alerting me I was in the right place; he was already there. A small group of us selected this, not all VIPs, Cthulu Pray Breakfast, and soon we were jockeying for a seat in the limited seating. This is the first time here, and the logistics are complex, and seating is less flexible than expected. The food is excellent, and the coffee, although I am unsure if it is liberal, is good.

Cody Goodman leads that program and even gives a sermon. There is singing of hymns to various Lovecraftian gods which ring close to Methodist hymns such that I manage to sing strongly and boldly (remembering John Wesley’s instructions) to the surprise of my table mates; churchgoers are not usually present at this prayer breakfast and would indeed object to the new words. I know the melodies! My fellow cultists expect me to be excommunicated, but I point out that I am on that committee, being a wise cultist, and that was unlikely. That did get some raised eyebrows as the internal workings of a Christian church are foreign to these folks and seem as arcane as any of the texts they purport to study. Breakfast was excellent, and the singing was terrible, as usual.

High Priest Cody’s sermon again starts with the disappointing (and obvious) news that the apocalypse did not happen last year. Cthulhu still sleeps, and the Way is not open. Cody explains that normal folks accuse their neighbors of various crimes without evidence, using a picture of Cody with a pet as an example. Cody is shocked to report that we cultists appear to be more reasonable and respectful than most political organizations (“When did we become the ‘sane’ people?”). That factless conspiracy-based beliefs are no longer just for us cultists. But Brother Cody is hopeful that this year will be our last because of humanity’s general loss of connection to kindness, inward focus, and global warming’s impact. “We lurk.” We chant and know in our optimism there is no chance we will meet again next year.

Various music events follow different levels of success. Breakfast breaks up as we approach noon and the start of Day 2 of the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival here in the Hollywood Theater. I find my usual seat, the third-row aisle on the left side, and Elizabeth takes her seat behind me and even brings her parents, who are surprised to meet me and to learn that we have years of experience sitting next to each other.

I sat through the start and then headed out, as the movie was starting too late for me to see more than one-third of it. I give up my good seat and head to Battle Grounds coffee and gaming store, a few blocks away. I am early for the Dreamland game offered at 2:30 to 6:30 (overlapping the films). Stephen is there for any folks overflowing for the Dreamland game, and I chat with him. I have brought Ottoman Sunset, a solo board game that simulates your efforts to save the Ottomans from history; the empire fell in 1919 after World War 1. He is fascinated and looks through the game while I get coffee and tour the store; I have time.

Stephen is teaching Arkham Horror Role-Playing Game, which is based on the board and card game and on the Mythos, not the DC comic. The system is a single box with a single story and is more traditional for RPGs, as it has a group of players and one person to run the adventure. The box set is impressive and includes puzzles and handouts (both parts of Mytho-based adventures in many other systems).

Jason appears. He is the author of the new Dreamland role-playing game. I soon realized this is not a Call of Cthulhu role playing game version based on Lovecraft’s other stories, such as The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, but different rules to be more connected to dreaming and story creation. Today, I play a merchant and a dreamer in the “real world” who manifests in Dreamland as “Lefty,” the Merchant. I speak and seem allied to flying and black as night night-gaunts who bring me various mysterious dusts of magic. Two other players are also dreamers. Jason begins a story that he has already mapped out in his mind. But the details come from word cards he deals out, and he displays them tarot cards-like to us.

In the game, I have a few abilities as a merchant, including haggling and persuasion, for which I can roll dice. However, I must use the word cards and make a story for other things. The colored cards are more powerful (and descriptive) words, and if I use too many, I may cause a change in the dreaming and partially wake up, which is not a good thing. The other players have other abilities, and Jason moves the story forward with each of us participating.

This is Jason’s story, and I will not recount it here as he is making a living by making this story and the game work. I was hoping he would send me the picture he took of our group, but so far, it has not happened.

I found that I would listen to the story and not notice when Jason directed it to me, meaning I had to pay more attention. Jason did well, but I could see it was an effort to create the whole story, fitting it to the players’ dreamers, teaching us how to play, and recording notes to move the story forward.

I found it to be an enjoyable game, and we succeeded, whereas most groups failed, according to Jason. Sadly, my dreamer was unable to receive any benefits from the dream as I failed my awakening roll and would only be allowed to have dark memories should I play again with the character (no, but not for any reason other than the game is still being created). Our rat catcher and fellow dreamer, who slew the princess at the end of the adventure (her soul was polluted with darkness), succeeded. The final seemed too based on dice for my taste and I thought some parts of the game need more structure, but overall I liked it and will support its upcoming Kickstarter.

The designer is Jason Bradley Thompson, and his game Dreamland from Exalted Funeral can be found on dreamrpg.com.

Tired and late for the start of the festival, I find my usual seat is taken, and instead, I pick row two and one chair over to the left. I stay through the keynote and the first block of shorts. A film creator, Aaron Horehead, for some well-known (though I don’t like them) films, gave a presentation about octopuses and how we seem to use tentacles and octopuses to represent alien intelligence. He includes tentacle-based shorts from his movies in the presentation and points out that his films were called Lovecraftian before he knew what that meant. While entertaining, I did not learn much more other than not to eat octopuses as they are intelligent.

The shorts were darker and more brutal than the previous set. There were no jump scares. The movies were based on stories about the unknown, time travel, and alien invasions. All were well done.

I was tired, and it was 9:30. I headed to Air Volvo to find the ticket on the windshield, which really soured my mood. The return across Portland and Beaverton was in high traffic that was moving fast, with some cars racing. Passing in the tunnel is never a good idea, but the blasting sounds of engines filled the tunnel. I was traveling below 65 this time, which was my slowest trip, as cars were everywhere and speeds seemed random.

I am disappointed to find no reference to paying for parking despite using the app. I will have to pay for the ticket. It is unfair but accurate. I have no proof of payment as the app did run me through the process and then did not charge me. F**k.

I showered and went to bed. I was back up at 3 with proof of hydration, and my colon wanted to empty unexpectedly after 3 and 4:30. Realizing I would not get more rest, I rose.

But that is for another day’s blog. Thank you for reading!

I am time-boxed this Saturday morning and will only cover the highlights of Friday.

I rose and made liberal coffee, which I have been drinking since President Trump was elected. The coffee reminds me to be vigilant and “wokes” me to the possibilities of a better world. The bitterness reminds me of how hard that will be and how long it will take. Trust liberal with your coffee and taste the possibilities.

Rushing, I wrote the blog while having breakfast and finished it before 9:30. Today, it is the black suit, looking more Lovecraftian, with a blood-red vest and another 1980s tie. I leave at 10 with an hour to get to my game. It is raining, not just Oregon Mist, and the traffic, seemingly never experiencing rain before, is extra slow. The roads, still with summer’s mess on them, are slick. I crawl in Air Volvo towards the Hollywood District in Portland. Through the tunnel, a car slows and then brakes. I react, but the safety controls slam the brakes, anti-lock braking takes over, and Air Volvo stops within a few feet of the vehicle. I believe I would have stopped the car in time, but Air Volvo was sure it was time to stop, bringing us to a complete stop sooner. The cars behind me do not take me out. We continue to crawl across Portland, undamaged

I arrive at the Hollywood district with minutes to spare, enjoying an ambulance’s passage on Highway I-84. I park Air Volvo on (really ‘on’) the old, now defunct RiteAid; you park on the roof and have to walk down the ramp. It is wet, and I have to walk four blocks. I am a few minutes late and damp; a spare seat is there.

Battle Grounds, a new gaming store and coffee house (a good combination), is a neat, clean-smelling gaming store on Sandy, just a few blocks from the Hollywood Theater. We all had $20 credit each and a separate space with a door. We could close off the noise of the rest of the store. They brought me coffee (a holy ritual producing a European-style cup) and, later, for lunch, a sausage and cheese bagel sandwich on pepper spiced bagel. It almost made my eyes water. Sean from the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society was hosting the game with props, some sizable, and provided us with characters that we selected at random; I was Colleta, the local librarian and widow.

This is unpublished and professional material, so I will not recount the story here.

Sean tells a great, terrible story and voices and acts for all the characters we meet in the story. While the rules of Call of Cthulhu Role-Playing Game are manifold and explained in two one-inch texts, like most games, there was seldom any reference to the rules and not a single rule text on the table (I left mine in the cargo hold). This is a prop-heavy theater of the mind game and adult fiction with enough horror that the story still bothers me. Perfect.

Sean said they will likely soon publish this adventure and may release a prop set for purchase. I would be willing to invest in this story, set in the Great Depression year of 1935 in Providence, Road Island, and H.P. Lovecraft’s home. I will lurk and hope it shows up soon. While playing, my character managed to go insane temporarily, and as I was a librarian, Colleta was later found reading Agatha Christe at the local library. After my characters’s brush with insanity and the mythos, most of my words involved books; I threw books at bad guys and wandered often. I make every sanity check after that. Colleta had seen this before and accepted it, like any scary book.

We finished the game with only partial success, which is usually all you can hope for. We broke up, and soon I found solace in pizza nearby. The Festival did not start until 6 and was always late, so I had time for pizza. Some of my fellow agents located pizza, too, and we chatted. Soon, I was in line to enter the Hollywood Theater in the shorter VIP line, shaking hands with friends not seen in a year. This theater, built in Portland in the 1920s, is pretty but violates many safety rules, and one must be careful. I did not fall, but I did need to be more cautious than my last visit (before the brain surgery).

I acquired my usual seat in the main theater, an aisle seat on the third row left side with a perfect view of the screen and stage. I put my hat and umbrella there. Then, I went off for beer, popcorn, and my goodies from being a Kickstarter supporter (that is how I got the VIP status and was included in the CoC game with Sean). I return loaded up and realize I still have more time. I would usually risk the ramp to the second floor, but once was enough for me with my new revised one-sided balance system. I am also feeling fatigued. But the hallway outside of the main theater was lined with vendors. Matt, whom I met last year, remembers me and sells me Tenebrous Press’s new magazine, issue 0 and 1. I still have not finished the books he sold me last year, so I demur when offered Tenebrous Press’s latest books.

When I see him, Cody Goodman, dressed in a priestly vestment, salutes back to my raised beer. Only fifteen minutes late, a new record for quickness for the festival, Cody walks on stage with a gal dressed in a tight costume, reminding us of Cthuhu (known as Cthulhu girl), and leads us in the main theater in chants to open the film festival. Gwen and Brian, who run the show and the Kickstarter, come on stage to provide opening remarks and some instructions. Friends from the early game sit next to me. Folks from last year sat behind me, and we chatted before the start. One of the filmmakers sits in front of me. For me, the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival reconnects me with fellow cultists I see about once a year and some new ones.

In the main theater was block 1 of short films; my favorite part of the festival was the shorts made by small teams, but often scary or funny. The first film was a short educational film on how to be a good parasite-host, and while not really a Lovecraftian Mythos-based film, it was funny. Some other films were disturbing and usually focused on one terrible and sleep-losing theme. Excellent. One had jump scares (yes, I jumped), something we don’t usually see. Block 1, according to Brian, who introduced it, was a tour of styles and types of shorts. I enjoyed it, but I was growing weary.

I collected my stuff at 9, when the first break happened, and left. I was dragging and soon returned to Air Volvo, which got me home without incident, but it seemed like a long ride. In the Volvo Cave, I disassemble my apparel, shower, and find my bed comfortable in my PJs. I read Slow Horses for a while but soon fell asleep, though I was wired a bit from the horror shorts. I do not recall my dreams, which is good, I suspect.

Thanks for reading!

I rose early with my alarm to start the blog, enabling me to finish the blog before lunch plans, Scott. Scott and I have both retired from Nike. I put on my slippers and headed to the kitchen–it was still in the same place; the house was cold, 66F (13C), and the orchids seemed to enjoy it. I did not stop by the 185th Corner fruit and veggie stand, meaning I had no bananas for breakfast. Instead, I would open a can of peaches, 1/2 for breakfast, and go with a few scoops of cottage cheese dusted with sea salt and smoked paprika.

I had liberal joy in my cup. I was tasting the opportunity to help others and maybe raise taxes on those who can afford it to pay for it and make a real, measurable difference. My cup of liberal coffee glows with opportunities, suggesting a minimum tax in the bitterness to pay for helping others—not direct inflationary payments, but improving and maintaining the country’s infrastructure and creating real jobs while reducing pollution. My coffee, Equal Exchange brand, made in my French press, was flavored with “Yes We Can!”

I spent the early morning writing, reading emails, checking the news (looking at Jerusalem Post, NW Times, and CNN), and updating my transactions in Quicken. I write for about two hours to get a story done. I am fighting with Grammarly and often have to retype my sentences to return them to their original meaning. I still use it to correct wrong words, typos, missing plurals, and mixed tenses in sentences. Still, it often offers a fix to the paragraph, not just a typo fix, and those I usually reject as I later find the changes are more profound than I realized. I did notice that I had a malformed sentence, which caused the AI to go out of its mind. Once I re-wrote the sentence, we both aligned. I will carefully check that Grammarly is crazy because I have a poorly formed sentence.

Next, Apple fails to email me the photos from my iPhone. I have seen this before. I try again. No email. I text myself the images and then download them to my Apple’s picture directory. I’m not sure what is wrong with Apple-land, but the emails never surfaced (it did work for this blog). I publish the blog, dillydally for a while, and then dress and head out.

The trip across Beaverton took no time, and soon, Air Volvo had me at Elephants Delicatessen at Cedar Hills Crossing. I decide on the Italian, a cold sub, and Scott selects the delicious and artery-freezing Ruban sandwich that is so good (I might have sandwich envy). And while I often have a like sub from other sandwich shops, Elephant’s does not taste like generic deli packs laid on bread, but somehow is more complex and suggests that this is really a sub with roots in Italy.

Scott and I talked about travel, including my recent trip to Chicago and my upcoming trip to New Orleans. Scott and his family are meeting in Italy in December. We chatted about housework and politics. It was a pleasant chat.

I return home and just hang out. Next, I dress in my blue suit with a golden vest plus a 1980s tie. I remember older friends telling me they had ties older than me. When did I become that guy? Next, I added black shoes with dark socks to my ensemble, which I had to put on three times to find a matching pair (when did I get so many black socks that don’t match!?). I pick the boater hat as this for the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival VIP and summoning party. It seemed an excellent choice on a sunny day. It is now past the summer, and the hat is not technically allowed, but still, it looks good on a sunny day. In days in the distant past, I read that hooligans would knock off the straw hats worn in the fall and warn the wearer to change to proper headwear. I received no criticism today.

I boarded Air Volvo early as Rossi Farms was hosting the summoning near the airport, and I had never been there. It was Thursday rush hour, the worst day for travel in Portland. I would rely on Nav to get me there.

Nav was unhappy as I headed to the car wash and cleaned Air Volvo because it was too early to leave. Next, Carl’s Jr. supplied one of my guilty pleasures: a single Western Burger. Bacon, onion rings, BBQ sauce on a burger, and a promise to add to your waistline and thicken those artery walls!  But it is so good, and I have anti-cholesterol drugs (my doctor is grimacing somewhere). I forgo the fries and drink a chemical-rich Diet Coke, thinking it will help.

After finishing the burger and managing not to spill food on my tie or vest, I headed across Beaverton and Portland. The traffic was, as expected, heavy, and once again, I was amazed at how polite and slow our drivers were. I queued, took two light cycles, and reached the highway, but I was in no danger of reaching the speed limit. The Highway 26 parking lot was available today. A new thing is that motorcycles run fast between lanes, likely an extra-legal expediency. I am unsure I could stomach flying between lines on a cycle with only a helmet to make my remains, post-crash, recognizable (I see no other value of a helmet in this type of driving). But I am glad something is moving (being overly polite Oregon drivers, we just smile and applaud their risk-taking).

(We listen to songs from the period or appropriate to the theme, including Mac the Knife and Anything Goes)

I was not in a hurry and running too early. I watched aggressive and useless lane changes. Also, I witnessed the frustrating vehicles that cut in after I politely crept along for ten minutes. But we, being overly polite and passive-aggressive, just rolled our eyes and let them in. Soon, I will be above 12 miles an hour, and traffic, while packed, will increase its pace. I am shocked by the apparent non-moving exit to the airport, a warning for my next trip. I exit the now-moving highway traffic and soon am forty minutes early.

(Cody summoning the festival)

I read my book on my iPhone’s Kindle app, which syncs with my iPhone and Kindle device. I see a group of folks waiting, and I join them. I started reconnecting with folks who, like me, are here yearly. We are lined up and getting our badges nearly on time, which is unusual for this event. Soon, the following line is no charge for wine and beer. I join folks (names escape me again) at a table from Canada I have seen for the last two years. Other folks I have not seen for a year connect with me, and I will see many of them in the Call of Cthulhu game on Friday morning.

I talked with a local author, Cody Goodman, about AI. Later, he led us in two summoning rituals held in Rossi Farm’s ghost town section. The second one was longer and more funny, including a prayer to stop any criticism of the ritual. I chatted about food, travel, and AI stuff. There is finger food, including the ubiquitous, for catering, meatballs in a red sauce, and country fall desserts like donut wholes and pumpkin pie.

By 9:30ish, I am cold and ready to have Air Volvo wisk me across Portland and Beaverton to the Volvo Cave. I am more tired than I realize, and the other drivers are more drunk or high than they should be. My fellow drivers seem to believe drifting across the lane lines is usual. Air Volov arrives with all its paint, and I am happy to put the blue suit away without tears, torn bits, or blood stains.

I am soon showered, in my PJs, and reading. I fall asleep while reading, put away the Kindle, and turn off the light. I sleep through the night.

Thanks for reading.