Fairytale of New York: NYC Trip Day 2; Green Domino's and Silver Warhol's in Union Square.

I woke up around noon, New York time on Wednesday, June 20th. Serge and Jason were still asleep so I read a little bit more of, "The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer," and checked my phone for texts from my Oregon friends. There was one from Jesse, a fellow Rocky Horror cast member, who texted me stating that he didn't know what the hell time it was up there but kick New York's ass. That made me feel good. Once Serge and Jason were awake I rifled through my tightly packed red duct taped miniature suitcase for the day's outfit. I settled on my white Jean-Michel Basquiat T.Rex art piece shirt with my black faded shorts, my knee high sock dreams socks with the pocket watch design, and finally my Brad Majors glasses. I only packed one pair of shoes for this trip and they were my black dress shoes I got at Value Village.
We got coffee at a small coffee place down the street from the apartment called, Piccalo's Cafe. It was small, with wood paneling throughout the walls, floors, and tables. I remember for just a split second looking at the people sitting at these wood tables and thinking, "These people live in New York City. They are having coffee in New York City and they get to LIVE here." Since the heat, while for me was an enjoyable escape from that rainy hell dimension of Portland, was still in fact very much hot, I got iced coffee, and Serge, Jason, and I walked down to Union Square.

I had told Serge before I got to the city that one of the things I had wanted to see was the Andy Warhol Monument located near Union Square(next to one of his old apartment buildings, which is now unfortunately a Petco)so we headed in that direction walking through the Farmer's Market that was taking place there that day. Along the way I was stopped by a young girl who after complimenting my outfit asked if she could take a couple of pictures of me. I learned that she was a fashion student, and she asked me where I got each piece of clothing. The Brad glasses were from Naked City on Hawthorne in Portland, the Basquiat shirt was from Buffalo Exchange, the shorts were from Kohl's, and the socks were from Sock Dreams. With this information she then took two photos of me, where I tried to pose in such a way that wouldn't make me look fat in the actual pictures. After she left I ran up to Serge and exclaimed with excitement that that girl wanted my picture!! Already my first day in New York and I'm getting immortalized in someone's fashion project. I texted Brendan what had just happened and he texted me back saying that New York had claimed one of its own.

Once we reached the Andy Warhol statue I took a few pictures of it, and admired it's plastic tin-like silver shining in the sunlight. Warhol's expression a near smirk while holding a bag that read: medium brown bag. A couple of people were also taking pictures, which made me smile. The three of us sat down in one of the several umbrella shaded tables that took up a section of the street. While we sat Jason told me about Mayor Bloomberg and the many things he was working on doing for the city, once of which was the tables in the streets. While I still don't know much about Bloomberg, I do appreciate his street table ideals.
We started to walk around the area a little bit more, making pit stops along the way at the cell phone store, Duane Reade(which I guess could only be described as the New York City version of Rite Aid) and the most fancy McDonald's I had ever seen.

We walked into Strand bookstore. Looking back, it was nowhere near as big as Powell's City of Books in Portland, but at that moment of going inside it felt as big as that one. Perhaps it was the bookstore's labyrinthine rows and rows of books. Serge took me upstairs where all the art/film/photography books were.  It was here that one of the Strand employees saw my Totoro bag and said, "I love your bag...that's all." And then she walked away. For years many people, New Yorker's included, told me that most New York city dwellers are often rude. And so in that moment I figured this woman was still trying to keep her angry, rude demeanor while at the same time being unable to resist complimenting my delightfully fun bag. Looking back of course I feel differently, but I'm curious as to why she felt the need to say that was all. Eventually Serge decided to buy a Montgomery Clift postcard. While we waited in line to pay for it downstairs, I ended up talking to a very attractive young black gentlemen. He was wearing a bowtie made from green domino pieces that lit up in the center. I told him I loved his bowtie and he told me that he had made it himself. He then told me that he liked my Basquiat t-shirt, so we talked about Basquiat for a few seconds. It seemed as though he was flirting with me, though I've never been good at disecting such actions. And I can't remember if I told him I was from out of town or not, but the next thing I knew we left Strand and him behind. As with every adventure to a new place one has certain regrets of chances not taken and places not visited. Of the variety of things I regret not doing while I was in New York, one of them is not getting that guys number and having passionate sex with him.

We went to a few other places that which Serge said he never had excuses to go into. We went to a comic book store called, "Forbidden Planet." I had been in places like it but only in California. They had some pretty fun stuff, including the Barbara from Night of the Living Dead action figure that I had only ever seen online. I didn't buy anything though, and them not having any Poison Ivy things of any sort helped that. We also went to a costume shop, walked through St. Mark's, and visited a tiny little vintage store that Serge and Jason's friend Ruby worked at. She made a hilarious statement about teenage Asian girls coming into her store to take pictures of dresses that they were going to buy and then cut up to show off their vagina's. This statement became even more hilarious when as we were leaving an Asian girl walked in.

After walking buy a guy at a bustop with his shirt open to proudly show off his enormous pube patch, the three of us went to have lunch at a place in St Mark's called, Yaffa Cafe. Described on Facebook as, "Buddha meets Elvis," this was my first New York City restaurant. Based on that fact alone, it was destined to become one of my favorite restaurants in the city. But in addition to being the right place at the right time, I fell madly in love with the decor of dark reds, and Meddeteranian atmosphere. Paintings of large flowers and bullfighters adorned in plastic fruit that hung from the ceiling. We sat at a table next to the window that faced the back patio area. Jason and Serge sat beneath a painting of chrysanthemums and I took their picture. Having not eaten since the Iggy's pizza the night before I was quite famished. I ordered the mushroom and onion crepes with brie. To drink I ordered almond soda, which I had never tasted but since I was a fan of almond milk and eating in such an exotic setting I had to try it. The almond soda was quite tasty, as were the crepes. Nothing quite beats brie and mushrooms, I do say.

We left Yaffa with one of Jason's friends who met up with us there. He had a tattoo of a dagger going through the skin on his right arm. Jason had a similar tattoo on his arm as well, which I discovered the night before. Essentially all three of us had the same tattoo. Which I found amusingly strange.

We went to a beer store where the shop lady was very nice and waved goodbye while stating, "Enjoy the beer!" Once again I was surprised to see a New Yorker exude pleasantness. It was here that Jason left Serge and I on our own. We walked around for a bit, and during our walk I discovered of all things a Buffalo Exchange store!! The clothing exchange store that's all the rage with the Portland hipsters. Even though I had no desire to buy anything I simply had to go inside this little slice of home. The store itself was rather small, almost boutique like. Serge had a little bit on anxiety when it came to clothing stores but was quickly taken in by the cheap prices Buffalo had to offer. I talked with some of the workers and told them about how I was from Portland and how Buffalo Exchange was one of my favorite places to buy clothes. I noticed that behind the registers was a dress labeled, Gucci. Or maybe it was Versace...Oh you know, it was one of those fancy expensive clothing lines. And I thought to myself, why of all places would someone sell that dress at Buffalo Exchange? I hope whoever it was got good money for it.

When we got back to the apartment, Serge showed me some of his films in preparation for the one I was going to star in that he was currently filming. My favorite was a short film called, "Trashtasia." This was to be the film of Serge's that I would go on to quote on many a drunken party nights. As the night went on we watched many a film/t.v. show. We started with Pedro Almodovar's first film, "Pepi, Luci, Bom." Being always and ever so much the passionate Almodovar fan, I was excited to see his first film that was damn near impossible to find elsewhere. Though I was also a little weary since most of his early films while still truly original and inspired often fell to the amateurish wayside. But the film was wonderful. And begs for a soundtrack release in addition to a DVD release. After this we watched Bridesmaids, which halfway through Jason came back. I hadn't seen Bridesmaids yet but was a big Kristen Wigg fan and was delighted to see such familiar faces as Matt Lucas from Little Britain and Roy from The I.T. Crowd. A young woman named Rebel Wilson who I had never heard of before was also in the film. Having told Serge and Jason that I had never heard of her before, once Bridesmaids was over, they showed me a show that she was in called, "Bogan Pride." A hilarious Australian show I would also go on to quote multiple times while drunk or sober.

At some point through all of this Serge made Tater Tots and gave me a Popsicle. Which I chose red for.

Fairytale of New York: NYC Trip; Day 1

I arrived at JFK airport around 11 P.M. New York central time. My plane from PDX left around 10 A.M. I had slept at my friend Mar Mar's house the night before since she lived right next to the Gateway Max Transit Center. We stayed up watching the Sex and the City Movie in giddy, albeit slightly gay, anticipation for my first every tip to the big apple. The plane out of PDX stopped in Phoenix and I had to transfer planes. It was 106 degrees in Phoenix. I spent most of both plane rides reading. "The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer," to quench my most recent David Lynch/*Peaker thirst. Anyway, once in New York I stepped out of the airport and into the humid June air NYC was currently playing host to. I looked to my right and noticed a line of taxis driving by what looked to be essentially a Taxi lane for recent arriving airline passengers. Looking back it would have been so easy for me to just turn to the right and hail one of those cabs, no matter how much assertiveness I may have lacked. But no. I got caught like a fly in a spider's web, an enemy Starfighter in Vader's tractor beam. An old Indian guy who looked harmless stood at the threshold of the parking garage, looked me dead in the eye and asked, "Taxi?" Well how could I not say yes? I mean this was an opportunity that fell into my lap and a Portland tourist completely on his own in this gigantic city couldn't have hoped for a better chance. Well, the Indian guy led me down into the parking garage when suddenly he got caught into this situation with another Indian guy who was much younger than the first taxi cab terrorist who hails young tourists, and an Indian family who I had recognized were on my flight. I cant remember, nor at the time do I think I even understood what they were talking about, but in any case the older Indian taxi cab man turned to the younger one and asked him to drive me. Well, the minute I saw the car we were getting into, no matter how nice and shiny the car may have looked, there was nothing on it that made it look like an actual taxi cab. Car service vehicle maybe, but even those cars have some form of transportation logo on the car doors. You see, it has never been in my nature to turn and run the other way, even on many occasions when I should have. I understand that such a trait could put me at risk. And yet at the same time, opens the door for many possible adventure stories.
Well, what happened was neither adventurous nor particularly risky. I get into the car and am instantly fearing for my life. Same basic thoughts begin to align in my head. What am I doing? This guy's going to kill me. I should tell him I changed my mind and just let me out here, which I think was an idea that popped into my head after he told me the flat rate would be $67 to Manhattan. And I think essentially what stopped me from getting out of the car at that moment was the idea that he might try to charge me $67 anyway just for driving me out of the airport. So based on that I did what any starving college student with a warped sense of cash stability would do, I stayed in the car. I also texted Serge to let him know I was on my way, and that I was in what I'm didn't think was a taxi. I figured texting Serge was important that way incase anything did go down he could tell the police where I was at the time of departure from JFK. Or something, ANYTHING, I figured would help in a case of extreme conslusion. Serge texted me back asking if I was given a flat rate. Sure, remember the $67 dollars? Of course I left out the part where he didn't give me the flat rate until I was in the car.
The drive, apart from me being unable to turn my head too far to look out the window in fear of the driver potentially putting a knife to my throat, was actually rather nice. The driver tried to make conversation like any polite, professional car service driver would. But while he had a hold on the former, the latter was not nor I do think ever will blossom into fruition. He pointed out some landmarks to me, where they shot the big climax scene for Men in Black, pointed out where all the college hipster kids hang out, and upon our descent into Manhattan we drove across(what I believe was)the Brooklyn Bridge where I got an amazing view of the city all lit up. You know on my whole trip it took me a day or so before it hit me that I was actually in New York for the first time in my entire life. But in that moment, looking at all the blazing red and gold skyscrapers, it was like everything else around me had melted away and there was only this. No Portland OR home, no financial stress about the money I was spending on this trip, not even the knife wielding taxi cab driver(*shakes head, no he wasn't actually wielding a knife, come on now)
Finally, we arrived in the area of Manhattan I was to reside in for the next six days. I was so relieved to finally be there and I texted Serge to come out right away in case my driver liked to cut his murders close to the breaking point. Well, not only did my polite tour guide of a taxicab cash rapist charge me the, "flat rate," of $67 dollars, but he added the toll and tip which he stated a total of, very calmly I might add, $97 dollars. I must have still been high from the bright and beautiful lights of the city to even make a face at the guy when I handed him the money. Plus I wanted to get out of there so once the money was in his hand the door slammed behind me almost instantaneously. Before I got out though the driver asked me if I wanted a receipt. I thought this was interesting seeing as how at this point I knew he was clearly NOT a licensed taxi/car service driver. And since there was no flat rate for the receipt, I said sure. Because I wanted to see this mockery for myself. The receipt was but a mere piece of paper that looked like it had been made at a local Kinko's.

I waited for Serge at the stop light. Finally he appeared, swathed in Navy Blue and jet black hair like he had stepped off the set of an Elvis Presley film. When the light turned green he came across the street where I was and we shook hands. Euphoria was beginning to set in, as well as the happiness of just being alive, once I stepped into the apartment building. Serge and Jason lived in a studio apartment with two cats, Leo and Dante. Serge made margaritas for he said that he always liked to have everyone's favorite drink made when they come to visit. Margaritas are indeed my favorite drink. However concerned over the fact that I hadn't eaten anything since Phoenix, I warned Serge and Jason that I would probably get plastered after one drink. So Serge gave me a slice of Pizza from an NYC pizza joint named, Iggy's, which he adorned with basil leaves from that plant that sat in their apartment window next to the A/C. Now this slice of pizza was to be my first and only slice of NY pizza on my trip, for I never ventured for any more pizza while I was there. Some may scoff at this, others even more so when they learn that I ate the pizza cold. But I like cold pizza, and Serge assured me that it was good cold or hot, and I trust my friend's opinions. Well the cold pizza went perfectly with the cold margarita(I now know Serge makes fantastic margaritas)on the otherwise hot NYC night.

In the city that never slept I eventually found sleep at around 3:30 am, New York Central time. After the three of us watched, "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead," and started what turned into a Golden Girls marathon on OnDemand. Or maybe it was some kind of Comcast thing. Anyway my bed for the next several nights was to be a leather couch with a pillow and a sheet for it was too damn hot for an actual blanket. Serge warned me that the cat Dante liked to pee on people's stuff. My suitcase was safe but my backpack wasn't. So I wrapped my backpack up in the blanket in hopes that the blanket would be familiar territory and my back pack would stay safe. I did this for my whole stay, and luckily my backpack survived. The blanket however, took three massive hits.

For my return trip to Portland, after sharing my horrible $97 dollar cab ride experience, I was advised by a few people to take a car service to the airport. They said it would be cheaper than taking a cab, so naturally I phoned the car service number that was suggested to me the night before I left and scheduled a car to be outside at Noon the next day. Including toll the car service ride was $57 dollars. If a legitimate taxi cab would have been more I'm guessing at least somewhere between $10-20 dollars more, in retrospect I actually didn't get screwed that much on my $97 dollar ride. Screwed, definitely. But not horribly. 

The Silent Vinyl

Once I went over to a friend's house after school to hang out and listen to records. After some time passed he showed me some videos that him and his friends had made which turned out to be Anti-Gay video projects that involved my said friend acting like a flamboyant gay man, and the cameraman's brother acting as the gunman who killed him (in numerous videos) just before saying, "Die Gay Man." I was sixteen at the time, unaware of my own sexuality. Which I guess is the only reason I can think of as to why I was to afraid to speak up and say anything or even figure out how exactly it made me feel. The only thing I could say was, "Why did you film something like that?" My friend just sort of looked at me confused as if to say, "Why Not?" I look back on that moment as a reflection of my own life. Often times I've felt like that gay man in the video getting shot. His flamboyancy acting as a symbol of how I feel when I'm the target of gay jokes; considered to be a thing, a pariah, an abomination. But most of all I feel like him when I don't speak up for myself, and for others. When I remain as silent as I was on that very day. I never want to hold that silence again.

Tattoo Story: Elliott Smith's XO

So far, I have ten tattoo's. This is the story of my tenth.

On Valentine's Day this year, having recently just celebrated my 23rd Birthday, I used some of my Birthday money to pay for my next tattoo. Having at least twenty future tattoo's in mind, when making a decision on which one to get next it all more or less boils down to what I'm most in the mood for. At the time, I decided to get my long awaited brainchild idea of an Elliott Smith tattoo. The idea was born like this:

There is a book by Autumn de Wilde, filled with gorgeous pictures of Elliott Smith, the Figure 8 Wall in Sunset Boulevard, and hauntingly beautiful shots of Elliott and his surroundings. The front cover of the book is of a large red balloon obscuring Elliott Smith's entire face. At some point about three years ago, this cover inspired me to write a piece on Elliott(with a heavy extreme dose of ripoff inspiration based around Sonic Youth's song, "Tunic,")called, "Red Balloon."

I first discovered Elliott Smith's music a year before he died. It's difficult for me, as it so often is with all of my other favorite musicians, to explain why his music effected me the way it did, and has continued to do so since. What I've always come to love about his sound is that there was always this comfort in the sadness he presented in his voice. The harmony in his voice was but the mere hypnotic pull he had in each song, that once pulled in there was this landscape of sad beauty. Sometimes you couldn't tell when it was sad and when it was beautiful. But by the end of the album it had struck a chord that in my heart would always remember it's power.

No other album of Elliott Smith's made me feel this way more than, XO. Every song carried melodic chords, an angel range of vocal harmony, and every bit of comforting sadness that was mentioned earlier. I never knew there could be such a thing until I heard Elliott sing.

2012 marked the ten year anniversary since I discovered Elliott Smith. While this was unbeknownst to me at the time of my ink decision, my idea for my Elliott Smith tattoo would finally be fleshed out nonetheless. Based on the inspiration Autumn de Wilde gave me with the image of the Red Balloon, and XO being as important of an album for me today as it was ten years ago, I created an idea for an image of a red balloon whose string would spell XO. I decided it would be placed atop my chest just below the neck. Where it would constantly be in flight, above my heart, and within my voice.

NYC Soundtrack; The bag of Jewels

A little less than a month ago I traveled to New York City for the first time. It's a journey I know that I will be talking and writing about for many months to come. My first tale involves my first love turned one of my best friends, who in preparation for my NYC experience, made for me a playlist CD. Each song was labeled and intended for different parts of the city. It was sent to me prior to my departure and I made sure that my Ipod held each city label so as not to forget which song was intended for which area. While there was no time to actually listen to the certain songs while exploring these areas, I spent my night hours in my friend's apartment going over the New York areas I had been to that day and listening to their songs. At the time, and since I've returned, my favorite song is the one my friend had chosen for Union Square. The song was, "Oblivion," by Grimes. It's sound haltingly cheerful, and it's capability of stirring up my memories of Union Square has since been magical and successful. I would say that my attachment to this particular song might have had something to do with the fact that where I was residing in Manhattan at the time was right next to Union Square. It was the first area I visited on my adventure. It was where I walked through nearly every night I was there; whether it was going to McDonalds for cheap food, or walking back at 3 AM after seeing the NYC Rocky Horror cast. It was where the Andy Warhol Statue, an important monument to my NYC itinerary, resided next to one of his old apartments which is now a Petco. And where also I chose to meet Charlotte, a fellow Portland Rocky cast member who was in New York on a well paid modeling gig. I listen to, "Oblivion," Union Square's anthem as it is now considered to be in my world, quite often. Usually while I am walking, my steps constantly keeping the steady rhythm of the path that leads to Union Square.

As for the rest of the CD, the song chosen for Manhattan, "My Girls," by Animal Collective, was my second favorite. And this is because I was staying in the section of Manhattan that is next to Union Square, and instantly did Manhattan become the love of my New York existence. There were a handful of songs intended for places and monuments that were not visited. And because of this, I have yet to even listen to them. I'm saving them for when I return. Which Sun and Rain gods as my witnesses I will return sometime within the next two years. It doesn't feel right to have their first listen be born onto my ears in Portland. However the song that was intended for Coney Island, the one area of New York I regret not visiting the most, may be listened to prior to future departure, for the sake of my daydreams.

If you've made it this far, you've come to the treasure at the end of the skyscraper window. Here is the playlist, as it was intended so lovingly for me by such a wonderful friend. I look at each song as a magical jewel that when taken out and shone against the sun glimmers it's magical powers forth throughout all that surrounds me. The most powerful jewel being that which belongs to Union Square. For it's glimmering magic still beats poetically post the West Coast wringer.

~NYC Soundtrack~

NYC as a whole(Day) ~ Active Child ~ You Are All I See
Manhattan ~ Animal Collective ~ My Girls
Times Square ~ Alex Winston ~ Medicine
Broadway ~ Regina Spektor ~ Human of the Year
Hell's Kitchen ~ Quadron ~ Slippin
Grand Central Station ~ Julia Holter ~ Marienbad
Upper East Side ~ Beth Orton ~ Sweetest Decline
Museum of Natural History ~ MSMR ~ Hurricane
The Met ~ Dirty Projectors ~ Two Doves
Central Park ~ High Highs ~ Horses
Greenwich Village ~ Andreya Triana ~ Lost Where I Belong
Union Square ~ Grimes ~ Oblivion
Brooklyn ~ Beach House ~ Master of None
Coney Island ~ Tennis ~ Origins
Ellis Island ~ The Books ~ Cello Song
The Statue of Liberty ~ Actress ~ N.E.W.
NYC as a Whole(Night) ~ Hospitality ~ Friends of Friends

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5H-YlcMSbc

It has come to my attention that I must write everything down. All of it, from as far back as I can remember to every fragment I pick up along the way it must all be written. In an attempt to begin the process of reincarnating this blog I had to make a somewhat irrelevant but not quite unimportant post to get over this hurdle And this is it. No more Cereal Man, no more Gossip Girl rip off character studies; Just, me. And my getting used to using semicolons for the first time in my entire life.

A portrait of the Half&Half part Deux: The close

The market had crashed long before my supermarket got swept up in job termination. In late August of '09 I joined the rest of the unemployed Portlanders. For two months I lived in the lap of unemployed luxury, by scraping money from my $900 paycheck and my (extremely late) tax return. And what better place was there to go drown my sorrows at then the HALF. Where my losses were rewarded with free drinks, cheapened sandwiches, and hugs from the whole crew.

That Fall brought about the great Half n Half free show, in which former Half employees Sexy Jake and Davy Jones, performed with their band, "Poodle." The hipsters were gathered together outside the half and half in a beautiful, for once smugless, crowd. Mumford, Brian had his fingers clenched firmly in his ears, while Sonic Kayla sat next to me taking in the giant no wave sound reverberating from their guitars, while I puffed away at her Paul Mall lights.

Times were-a-gettin-harder in them last two months of '09. In between moving to felony flats and taking canvassing work, I continued to go to the Half and Half. After meeting Little R and Boy Wonder at a Bike Hospital show, we met up at Half and Half for our first friend date in which Little R. graciously bought me a sandwich, showed me the leaf tattoo on her ear, and Boy Wonder gave me a perfume cigarette.

On New Year's Eve, Alley Frey and I snuck free cups of refills in front of Brian's nose, and she pleaded with me not to move to California. Sayin that when one leaves, things change for the worse. I believed what she said, but speaking from that which is known as my cataclysmic brain stem, perhaps that is not such a sane statement to sign off to.

I continued to go, whenever time and money would allow. And come May, I discovered that the Half and Half would be closing at the end of the month. My sadness was coupled with acceptance. For I was in a position in which I would have to stay or go. And I didn't want to go, still wish not to for the most part, but the fact that Half and Half was closing eased my passionate feelings, just a little bit. For it was one less thing I would have to miss, should Portland ever be taken away from me. It was closing, it was ending. It would be gone forever. And it was sad, but yet, it was good.

Odd, peso/maso-chistic feelings aside, there was no time to waste. I planned a full days worth of Half and Half mourning, just a couple weeks before the official pulling of the plug.

I arrived at around ten in the morning and managed to locate my usual spot, back table next to the bathroom door. While keeping busy doing collage work, a few guests I had invited for the event showed up. Katiebug and Milo came to pay their respects to the place they had never been. Theo came for lunch and allowed me to eat off his table scraps. I gave the workers passionate hugs and said anything that was left to say that I had ever held back or would ever want to say.

On the Half and Half's last day there was a closing party I was invited to by Kombucha Tasha. Tonya unexpectedly invited me over for the night. And since its bros before espressos, I declined the offer. After all, I had said my goodbyes in my own way. And I wouldn't have wanted it in any other.

I can only hope that my words in these past two blog entries have been enough to symbolize and portray my deep feelings for this tiny little coffee creation. Lately I've not been one for dwelling on feelings for two long, but I will no doubt be returning to these posts to make many edits and editions. I feel all there is left to say, is that Portland has over 300 coffee shops. And whether we like it or not, there's always that one place that no matter where else we may choose to go, we find ourselves coming back to that same place that we didn't even know we were headed to. Half n Half, you were my first Portland coffee house. And to this, you will always be my last.
With that, I leave you with the rest of my photos.