Next Stop: Cheesus Camp!

Adults with braces need not eat in front of me.

My PDX pal, Kimm, and I wolfed down some gourmet grilled cheesy goodness at my new favorite guilty pleasure food cart...

Love that logo.

Food bus, rather...green vinyl seats and all.

Grade-school yearbook photos under glass table tops. Amazingly absurd artwork above you. And the most delicious, buttery, crispy-cornered sandwiches I've had since I was 12. Just like every Thursday in middle school.

We picked a cozy table over the wheel well.

Kimm...longing for an emergency exit.

For the sake of nostalgia, I had Kimm huck a spitball at me, shortly followed by an atomic wedgie. Then I got nauseous and threw up.

I will be back. Several times.

Check out their website and menu here. Today I had the one with roasted jalapenos, colby jack, cream cheese and tortilla chips on grilled white. Then we shared "The Jaime." Go look. Hoooly shit.

I'm developing a sweet and savory crush on you, Portland.....xomario

(PS)...Upon my second visit, the gal behind the counter remembered my "name"...Jack.

Damn right.

Aww, kids. Just before they learn to be douche bags.

I was scolded by the cook for sticking my hand out the window.

The entire ceiling of the bus was tattooed with sinister art like this. Like a vaguely deviant Sistine Chapel.

Tell me it's a horrible coincidence that the back of the bus is closer to Rosa Parks Way than the front.

A toast...to boobs!

I call this one: "The Field Trip."

His mouth looks like a blue papaya. Or Smurfette's toothy vagina.

Mario not Mario

I hate waiting for that penny...when I order coffee or something where tip jars exist, and my change is one penny.

It's no-win.

If I walk away: "Thanks for the tip, you cheap bastard."

If I wait: "Oh, here's your change, you cheap bastard."

The funny thing is, a one-cent tip just about covers the effort of handing me a self-serve coffee cup.

But that's another blog.

I'm also finished with giving my real name to coffee shop cashiers.

For those unfamiliar, I've always pronounced it: "Marry-oh."  It's an An-drea/Ahhn-drea sorta thing. Strictly preference. But apparently, once I leave the northeast region, I'm saying my own name incorrectly.

When I say "Marry-oh," baristas cock their heads like dogs at a Sonic Youth show.

-Barry-o?

I shit you not. I thought, really? BARRY-O topped the list on your mental quick-correct? Let's try again.

Mario.

-How do you spell that?

M-A-R-I-O

-Ohh, Mahh-rio.

Sure. My mistake.

One time, after going through this at the register, the girl making my coffee held up a cup and shouted: "I have a tall Americano in the window for MARIA!"

I just smiled and said: "MARRY-oh."

She replied: "Oh, I'm fine, how are YOU?"

Umm...

So now I'm Jack. You can't fuck up "Jack." Right?

That's what I thought until I used it recently: "I have a tall Americano in the window for JEFF."

Nice.

PDX Minutiae

If this car could pat itself on the back, it probably would.

A common sight in Portland. Vintage puddles.

Even the dead presidents in PDX wear thick hipster frames.

The weird thing is, my friend's cat just crapped out some mediocre street art.

Okay, NOW which way should I go...?

"Go west, young man...but first, pull my finger. Young man."

Some Artsy. Some Fartsy.

Books in a bike basket...how Zoe Deschanel of her. This one contained The Alchemist. Good read for curious dreamers. But not bi-curious dreamers.

Oh no! There's a hairy Jew on my porch! Funny man Dustin Kaufman paid this visitor a visit for a night. Great set, Dustin. Great set.

Pfft. Cock(tail) Tease.

I've been told my eyes are of the bedroom or puppy-dog persuasion. Which is funny, 'cos I sleep doggy-style.

Lotsa vintage Volvos up here...all of them still running. Even this rusty bucket.

I'm thinking about trading in the wagon for a pair of these retro, eco-friendly skates. Because I feel like getting my ass kicked for the environment.