Oh, Give Me a Home Where the Boxy Cars Roam

It's about 3 p.m. on the West Coast and I've already counted 20 Volvos, including the Holy Grail: the 240 Series station wagon in creamy white. One creative driver painted his Volvo in pink racing flames (like Greased Lightning in the movie Grease only on a boxy Swedish car). Another had a seashore scene on the hood. Who says social democracy has to be boring? I think the one pictured above has it all: Obama sticker, bike rack, and patriotic Swedish flag sticker.

I realized the other day that this is how I go on vacation: find some work-related excuse to travel to exotic, Volvo-suffused places. Don't get me wrong, the research has been fruitful. Yesterday I was going through clipping files that had letters to the editor of papers like the Park Ridge Shopper written by right-wing ladies decrying the creeping influence of communism and one-worldism. Today it was radio commentary scripts about similar topics. Although I was disappointed not to find anything about water fluoridation, I did learn that public housing leads to overcrowding. Hey, why didn't I realize that before? In any case, it has been an altogether relaxing trip compared to the hectic pace of research in Indiana, where I really did feel under the gun at all times to get my case histories transcribed. Here are some of the extracurricular things I've done.

Solo martini night! Richard at Bar 201 was kind enough to mix me a proper Ketel One martini (stirred, not shaken) and serve me a cheese plate. He was a little shaky on the service with the latter ("This is cheddar, no wait, it's blue, this is Chèvre, and this...I don't know what this is"), but he was cute. Drink and cheese plate together cost $12, and you know on the East Coast it could have easily cost $25. This meant a second drink was an option. But I'd skipped lunch and I was edging toward loopy. I decided against another martini, bid goodbye to Richard, and started a FoodQuest. I found a resto promising "Northwest Cuisine." I don't know what I was expecting. It turned out to be a steak and salad kind of place. I walked in and the host asked me if I had tickets for Spamalot, which was playing across the street in about 45 minutes. "Me, Spamalot?" I asked. He laughed and showed me inexplicably to a six top. My server came and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I didn't realize there was a drink menu. I asked her if they had an IPA, and it turned out they had two local brews. Of course, how could I not want to help local breweries? I also ordered a burger with some very aggressive toppings. I think it was two kinds of cheese, bacon, avocado, L&T, sauteed onions, and rich, creamery butter. Ha ha, there was no butter. Even though I was chowing down on this big burger, the IPA was getting to me. I ended up leaving about an inch of beer because I was getting drunk and feeling embarrassed about it. I got on the bus to go home. Now, the streets in West Eugene go in the order of the presidents (although they skip John Adams for some reason). The closest president street to where I am staying is Polk. I pulled the cord at Madison Street, because I thought Polk was a few presidents away. I'll leave it to you and Wikipedia to tell me how many blocks I walked that night to get home, because somehow I was nearly gone after less than two drinks, and I can't remember.

I also went to the movies at this converted church. That was interesting. Unfortunately I was in the dark most of the time, so I could not see the theater too much. Also, I watched The Watchmen. Have you watched The Watchmen? If not, spare yourself. I feel like I spent about two and a half hours learning about glowing blue penises but not much else. If you have seen it, you know what I mean.

More later. It's a lovely day here.