A Baker's Dozen

Howdy everyone! Welcome to the 13^th blog post on jonpenfold.com. Traditionally, the number 13 has been considered the most unlucky of all the numbers. There are several theories revolving around the origins of this phenomenon—ranging from the number of people at The Last Supper, to the number of lunar cycles in a year—though none of them have been accepted as a probable explanation. For those belonging to my generation, the negative connotation concerning the number 13 can be directly related to the Friday the 13^th film franchise, which had absolutely nothing to do with the number 13, or Friday for that matter. Anyway, the number 13 is almost always viewed in a negative manner. Apartment buildings oftentimes skip the 13^th floor. Some manufacturers avoid labeling the number on their products. There is even an actual term—triskaidekaphobia—for the fear of the number 13.

Now, I don’t want people to avoid my 13^th blog post for the simple fact that it comes between the 12^th and the 14^th, so I’ve decided to find some positive in this most unlucky of numbers. Thirteen—what are the most positive things associated with the number 13? The first thing that comes to mind is a half-marathon—13.1 miles—an achievement that anyone would be proud of accomplishing. The second thing is a baker’s dozen—13 for the price of 12—because how could one extra of something good possibly be associated with bad luck, especially if it’s free. So, for this 13^th blog post, I’ve decided to run 13 miles while eating 13 donuts along the way. What could possibly go wrong?

I’ve done my research and produced a map of all the donut shops that Portland has to offer. Over the course of the next 13 miles, I hope to find out which has the “Best Donut in Town.” So, sit back, relax, grab a donut, or thirteen, and come along for the ride.

Donut # 1— “Donut Queen,” corner of 59^th and East Burnside, just over a mile from my house, enough distance to get my legs and my appetite warmed up. How about that? Their sign claims to be the “Best Donuts in Town.” I guess I’ll be the judge of that. I keep it simple and order a small cinnamon ring. “Take two,” says the man behind the counter. “No thanks,” I reply. “I insist—an extra one on the house.” Great! I get offered a free donut at the worst possible time. Normally, I would never turn down free food, but the last thing I need right now is an extra donut—not this early in the run.

Donut # 2—“Annies Donuts,” on 72^nd and Sandy, three miles into the run. Wait, what is this? The sign in the window says, “Best Donuts in Town.” And the donuts are priced, and appear, quite similar to those at our first stop—awfully suspicious, if you ask me. Whatever. “I’ll take a small chocolate ring.”

It’s only natural that a runner should eat donuts while running. It makes perfect sense—you need energy to run, sugar equals energy, and donuts equal sugar—simple science. What do you think is in all those gels and gummies and drinks that athletes are always swallowing down? That’s why after two donuts, the fourth mile seems easy; one might even say, short and sweet.

Donut # 3—“Pips Original,” 4750 NE Fremont. This is the hipster donut shop, being run by a young man with a full beard and a young woman with blue hair. “One donut please.” “We don’t sell individual donuts,” the man says. “You have to buy them in quantity.” I look at the prices—4 for $3, the cheapest. I try to bargain with the man. “I’ll give you a dollar for one.” “It’s just that I can’t sell you just one. That’s not how we do it here.” “It’s just that I’m on this mission to try every donut in the city today…” He realizes that—despite my appearance— I’m not a bum, but perhaps a hipster like him (see An Accidental Hipster), a hipster who might be writing a review of his donut shop. His attitude, and the shop’s policy, quickly changes. “Well, I can just give you one for free.” Free donut—I’ll take it. But unfortunately, the shop is immediately out of the running for “Best Donut in Town,” because every food critic knows that you can’t take bribes—that would be unethical. He hands me a small plate, with the smallest donut I have ever seen in my life. Seriously, I’ve seen donut holes that were bigger. “Sea salt and honey,” he says with a smile. “It’s the best donut it town!” Of course it is.

Donut # 4—“Fleur De Lis Bakery,” 3930 NE Hancock. This place looks so fancy that I’m surprised they even let me in. “One donut please.” “Sorry, but we’re out of donuts.” Thank goodness, I think to myself as I scan the prices of their other baked goods.

Luckily, I don’t have to travel far to find a replacement, for I have entered what appears to be the “donut district,” where there is no shortage of overweight business owners who believe that their employees will somehow benefit from two-dozen donuts every Friday morning, even if there are only six people in the entire establishment who will actually eat them.

Donut # 4, take 2—“Fred Meyers,” 30^th and Broadway. I stop at a grocery store that will never run out of donuts and purchase an extremely inexpensive Bavarian cream, topped with chocolate frosting.

Donut # 5—“Coco Donuts,” 2735 NE Broadway. I order the Coco Donut, which is large, and tastes just like its name would imply.

Donut # 6—“Helen Bernhard Bakery,” 1717 NE Broadway. “One donut please.” “You’re in luck, it’s our last one—an apple sauce donut.” I eat it and it tastes nothing like its name would imply.

To be perfectly honest, this is the point in the run where I thought I would have to throw up, because, seriously, who in their right mind would eat a half-dozen donuts while running seven miles? But, fortunately, I feel great! Unfortunately, I’m only halfway done.

Donut # 7—“Voodoo Donuts,” NE Davis and Sandy. This is Portland’s most famous donut shop, appearing on several television shows that I’ve never heard of, on several television networks that I don’t watch. This is their second location, and is not nearly as popular as their flagship store which is located downtown. Tourists still take photos of themselves here, and I still have to wait in line, but only ten minutes, which after running 9 miles, while eating 6 donuts, I don’t really mind. Voodoo has a nice little gimmick going—they make regular donuts and then load them with crap that most people would never think of. Stuff like M&M’s and Captain Crunch and Fruit Loops. It’s almost like they wanted to see how much sugar they could fit on top of sugar. They used to offer donuts filled with cough medicine and Jagermeister, before those rat-bastards at the FDA caught wind. Apparently it’s alright to cram Ritalin down a child’s throat, but an adult can’t choose to ingest a donut filled with Nyquil. I order the “Diablos Rex,” which features a pentagram, and I will admit it is absolutely delicious.

After 9 miles and 7 donuts, you’d think that there would be some lingering effects, but to be honest, I feel fine. My legs are a bit sore, but they should be after 9 miles. Though my gut does feel a bit heavy, my energy is through the roof. You know, I intended on this entire pursuit to be a joke, but now I’m wondering if I’m on to something.

Donut # 8—“Delicious Donuts,” 12 SE Grand. Closed. The sign on the door clearly says that they’re open until noon today. The sign is clearly lying. I hate it when signs lie. I press my face to the glass and see three dozen donuts just sitting there, waiting to be eaten. What a waste.

Donut # 8, take 2—“Blue Star Donuts,” 1237 SW Washington. I’ve made it downtown, where they apparently make “DONUTS FOR GROWNUPS.” I order a maple bacon donut, which, yes, has real bacon on it, and also costs more than my first five donuts combined. I guess grownups are supposed to have more money to spend on things like donuts. I used to think that bacon would be good on anything, but I was wrong—bacon and donuts just don’t mix that well. Which suddenly makes me realize—I’ve been to almost every donut shop in the city, and haven’t seen a single cop. 

I was wrong—I’m not on to something. After 11 miles and 8 donuts, it finally sets in. I finally start to feel the drag. It’s as if there’s a three ring circus inside my stomach—with acrobats, elephants, and the whole nine yards—and they don’t know if they want to continue performing or get the hell out of dodge. Luckily, I’m out of donut shops. I swing by the original Voodoo Donuts, but the line outside is ridiculously long, at least an hour wait, and I don’t think I can make it an hour without using a bathroom, so I keep moving.

Donuts # 9-12—“Plaid Pantry,” Corner of Burnside and Grand. Did I mention that I don’t even like donuts, and that I eat, on average, about one donut a year? That’s correct; I’ve eaten more donuts today than I’ve eaten over the past decade. But who better to judge something than someone who doesn’t even like that something he’s judging in the first place? I think that makes sense. I’d like to quit this stupid challenge right now, but I set out to run 13 miles and eat 13 donuts, and don’t want to cheat myself (or my incredible audience) out of the experience. So, I stop at the local convenience store and buy a six-pack of “little chocolate donuts,” the same kind that propelled John Belushi to an Olympic gold medal in the decathlon. I walk the last mile munching on them. Boy, do I hate donuts!

I get to the 13^th donut and I just can’t do it. I just don’t have it in me. Or, maybe I have too much in me, I don’t know. I set out to find positive things associated with the number 13, but in the end, I don’t really feel that positive at all. I’m suddenly very tired, my stomach hurts, and I want nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep. What’s positive about a half-marathon anyway? It’s just for people who aren’t strong enough to run a full marathon. And a baker’s dozen—do you even know where that term comes from? It’s from the 13^th century, when bakers were so afraid of getting their hands chopped off that they’d put an extra roll in every dozen to be certain it met the standard weight. It’s also known as the devil’s dozen. Doesn’t sound too positive anymore, does it?

So, this is the end, and I know what you’re thinking: which is the “best donut in town?” That’s easy—a donut is a donut, people!!! If you want a donut, go the nearest place that sells donuts and ask for a donut. Of course free is better than expensive, but in the end it’s just sugar compiled into a lump of dough. If you’re really going out of your way to find the best donut in town, maybe there are more serious questions you should be asking yourself. But if you really, really need to know, let me let you in on a little secret—if people are willing to spend an hour in line (in the rain, for that matter) for something that costs about a buck, there’s probably a pretty good reason. 

From Hood to St. Helens: A Beginner's Take on Backcountry Snowboarding

            I pull the drawstrings on my boots, lacing them as tight as they’ll allow. I attach the leash and then clip into the bindings, my right foot first, and then my left. I press my hands into the wet, slushy snow behind me and propel myself forward before quickly falling back on my ass. I try again, this time finding my balance, the snowboard planted firmly under my body. I look over at Walt, who’s sitting on a rock, snacking on a sandwich. “How do I do this again?” I say.

            Walt Laughs.

            Perhaps that’s not the best question to be asking when you’re a mile high up a mountain—an active volcano, for that matter—without any emergency personnel around to save your ass if something goes wrong. But isn’t that part of the appeal? Part of the adventure? Knowing that you are seriously in the wild. Knowing that you are absolutely vulnerable. Isn’t that why you decided to go backcountry snowboarding in the first place?

This is what’s running through my mind as I look down the mountain, down the steep slopes of snow that I’m about to slide down on a thin piece of fiberglass that’s affixed to my feet by a few straps of plastic. And though I admit I’m a bit nervous, and can definitely feel that rush of anxiety creeping through my core, I’m not quite overcome with The Fear that’s oftentimes associated with these kinds of ventures. No, I think I exhausted all The Fear on the climb up here.

            We left the city early—6 am—but in retrospect, we should have left much earlier. We should have been on the mountain by 6 am. After driving, picking up our permits, driving some more, arranging our packs, and then re-arranging our packs, it was well after 8 am by the time we even hit the trail. The climber’s bivouac remains closed for the season, so we parked at the Mount Marble Snow Park and followed the Swift Ski Trail north through an evergreen forest that slowly thinned as we gained elevation. By the time we reached the timberline, the air had become so warm that we were forced to strip down layers, and head towards the snow wearing only t-shirts and shorts. It’s always a surreal feeling, to be surrounded by the white stuff when the weather is so warm, but I’m not complaining, not even in the slightest, for the long bitter cold season is what drove me away from the Northeast years ago. I’ll take sixty and sunny any day of the year, even if I am snowboarding.

            The path was well-beaten, or so we thought, and even though the large blue diamond markers had disappeared with the trees, we could still follow the footprints of those who had ascended earlier this morning. And so up we went, over boulders ranging from the size of basketballs to the size of Buicks, through mud in which we’d sink to our ankles, over weak bridges of snow in which we’d break through up to our thighs—the sharp, jagged ice crystals cutting our bare skin, leaving thin scratches like those from the claws of a housecat.  

            Mount St. Helens is amazingly large. I’ve seen it a thousand times before, but almost always from a distance, from the city, where it looks like a white hill with its top cut off—a plateau, not a mountain. But seeing it for the first time up close, there is no argument, no other way to describe it, even if it doesn’t have a peak—it is most definitely a mountain, and absolutely awe-inspiring. I’ve actually climbed it once before, but on a different route—the easier “summer” route—but on that particular day, you couldn’t see a damn thing. It was thick with fog, the visibility, twenty, maybe thirty feet. But during peak season, the National Park Service only allows 100 climbers per day, and if you intend to climb on the weekend, you’d better reserve your permit months in advance. And if the weather doesn’t cooperate—let’s say the mountain is fogged in—too bad! No refund! Just another major flaw in the system if you ask me, one that will certainly take a catastrophe to change.

            But today is a Thursday, and we were able to purchase our permits late last night, last minute, with another 65 still available. And on the way up it was so clear—a “bluebird day,” some might say—that we could distinctively make out the other mountaineers, like ants marching in the distance. They ranged from large groups slowly clambering up, to a pair of black specs careening down in such a blur of speed that you couldn’t tell if they were on skis or tumbling franticly end over end. Though the majority of St. Helens is covered in a blinding white blanket, a handful of strips—consisting primarily of dirt, rock, and ash—run up the mountain like the legs of a tarantula. It was one of those legs that we were scrambling up when we realized that we had somehow gone off course. I could see the wooden posts two legs to the west—the wooden posts that I knew marked the route in which we were supposed to be following. It’s not that we weren’t on a route—on an exposed mountain with no trees, just about every which way is a route. We just weren’t on the easiest, most traveled one. In fact, we happened to be on the steepest, most difficult path on this side of the mountain.

           

Fortunately, we weren’t the only ones to have gone the wrong way today. The footprints we had been following must have made the same mistake as us, so naturally, we continued to follow them. Instead of continuing up a long treacherous path, the footprints darted west, and so did we. The first snowfield was no big deal—a quick dip downward, a few dozen yards at a reasonable grade, and then an easy incline up a rocky leg. It was the next crossing that got my heart pounding. It was the next crossing that brought on The Fear.

            As we stopped for a breather, I studied the steep embankment in which I knew we somehow needed to scramble down. It was nothing but loose soil and rock, with no clear path—at least nothing that I would describe as “safe.” I watched as two skiers sped by in the gully below—the gully that we needed to traverse to get back on the beaten path. Oh good, I thought. They were on skis. The other side of the ravine was even steeper, though covered in snow—a slope I knew would feel more comfortable going up than going down. But before we could go up, we had to go down.

            I strapped on my helmet and started down. For some reason I crossed my feet in an attempt to find solid footing, when the ground suddenly started to slide. I quickly turned—the weight of my pack shifting my body, throwing me slightly off balance—and grabbed for whatever solid rocks I could find in front of me. But the rocks at my hands weren’t holding firm either. They felt loose, as if they’d pull right out of the ground with little effort at all. In an act of desperation, I dug all four of my extremities into the loose soil and scurried back up to the top of the ridge as fast as I could, sending basketball-sized boulders dribbling down the slope beneath me. Suddenly the mountain seemed EXTRA LARGE!

            The Fear almost always strikes suddenly. Anybody who’s ever experienced it knows exactly what I’m talking about. One minute you’re fine. The next minute you’re questioning every life decision that helped guide you to that exact moment: What if you had done this differently? Or that differently? What if you had simply stayed home this morning? What if? What if? What if? The answer is always the same. If you would have done it differently, then…well…then you wouldn’t be in this situation right now. But it’s too late, you are in this situation, and now you have to deal with it. You have to deal with that horrible sensation that’s currently rushing through your soul. You have to deal with The Fear.

           

I’ve only experienced The Fear a handful of times in my life, and in my opinion, it never gets any easier. A few summers ago The Fear infected me three times in the span of a month—in the form of whitewater, a tornado, and a forest fire—causing me to seriously question my adventurous spirit. Though that spirit did briefly go into remission, I never entirely lost it. Perhaps it’s because the memory of The Fear faded with time, or because, for some of us, adventure is simply a way of life. Whatever the reason, it didn’t much matter as I looked down into the ravine, and then back up, at what earlier appeared to be a mountain, but now only reminded me of death.

            It’s very easy for this particular mountain to invoke the notion of death. This week happens to be the 34^th anniversary of when Mother Nature decided St. Helens was just a bit too tall, bringing her down a few notches, and taking 57 poor souls in the process (I could go on and on about the 1980 eruption—the most deadly in U.S. history thus far—but this story is already growing longer than I had anticipated, so we’ll have to save the destruction for another time). Have you ever been inside an old building that felt eerily creepy and were not the slightest bit surprised to find out that someone had died there before? Well, that’s how standing on St. Helens can feel.

But it wasn’t merely the eruption that was running through my mind. Yesterday a priest from New Jersey fell off the high side of Mount Hood—a 1,000 foot vertical fall. The reporter on the local news refused to use the word “die,” or any variation of it. He just kept saying, “He fell.” He fell? One thousand feet—give me a break. Did an angel catch him? And then there’s that entire town in Northern Washington that got buried by a mudslide earlier this spring. They didn’t even know what hit them. I know…I know…these aren’t the kinds of things that you want to be thinking about when you’re in a squirrely situation, but when your mind becomes infected with The Fear, the choice really isn’t yours anymore.

Careful not to kick any rocks down on him, I waited for Walt to make it to the bottom before I attempted my decent. To be perfectly honest, I’m probably making this seem a hell of a lot more dangerous than it actually was, but to be clear, one wrong move could have certainly resulted in death. Would it have? It’s hard to say. There most definitely would have been some severe broken bones, several contusions, even more lacerations, a helicopter ride to the hospital, absolutely no recollection of what had happened, and a possible life-sentence to the confines of a wheelchair. But would it result in death? Probably not. Could it? Yes—without a doubt.

Normally it wouldn’t even have been than big of a deal. As a child I would have jumped down the bastard, rode a landslide full of dirt like a wave, and slid across the snow at the bottom with my arms flailing in a display of triumph. The real problem was all the junk hanging from my back. I normally travel light, taking great pride in my minimalist attitude towards life. But when you’re backcountry snowboarding, there’s just no way to do it. You need your snowboard and you need your boots, and those items alone weigh more than any loaded pack I ever remember carrying. And then you have to add the water and food and extra clothing. And it’s not only the weight, but the awkwardness of the entire package—there really is no proper way to carry a snowboard up a mountain. I had mine strapped on perpendicular to my body, like a set of wings extending outward between my shoulder blades and my hips. I figured if I fell, I needed to fall backwards, hoping that the board might catch on a couple of rocks, slowing me down enough to regain my composure.

           

People react to The Fear in a variety of ways. Some panic, some cry, some curl up in a ball and refuse to move. Myself, I’ve always conquered The Fear with movement--with speed. So I scrambled down the hill without even blinking an eye, a cascade of dirt and rock flowing at my feet. I rushed past Walt at the bottom and attacked the snow covered incline like it was a competition. Crampons would have been nice, an ice axe, ideal, but I had neither. So I simply kicked my boots into the wall of hard-packed snow, stabbed through the ice with my bare hands, and climbed it like a frozen ladder. If looking down brought with it visions of death, then heading up induced revelations of life. Sure, experiencing The Fear can be a dreadful event, but one positive side-effect is that it reminds you of what is really important in life—a wakeup call, you might say. And so, as I climbed, I thought about what’s really important in my life—my writing, my friends, my family, and that beautiful woman who’s expecting to me make it home in one piece so I can take her out on a date tonight. Desiring a life of adventure is one thing, but if you don’t make it home safely, then it’s all for nothing.

            “You guys are crazy!”

            When I finally made it over the edge, my feet firmly on solid ground, I noticed a man sitting on a rock, chewing on some jerky.

            “Yeah, that was a little sketchy,” I reply.

            “I can’t believe you went down that.”

            I waited patiently for Walt to appear from the abyss, wondering what I could possibly tell his family if something was to happen. When he told his parents of our plan, his mother replied with, “You’re really still friends with that guy?” As if we were children, and I was the kid who encouraged the others to jump off the highest point on the playground. I let out a sigh of relief when I see his blond hair poke over the snowy edge.

            Unless he was faking it, he wasn’t nearly as rattled as I was. But then again, he’s definitely more of a mountain man than I’ll probably ever be. As much as I’d love to someday write in my autobiography of my “mountain man” years, it’s probably not it the cards. I grew up in the flat lands. Walt actually grew up in the mountains and buys a lift ticket every year. It’s funny, because in the past, if something happened to go wrong—like, let’s say a forest fire—I was the one who always kept my composure. This time it was Walt. This time we were in his element.

            As we continued up the mountain—again on the beaten path—I would look over at the sea of snow and think to myself: There’s no way I can snowboard down that. Not after The Fear traveled through my soul. But Walt kept reassuring me that it would be fine; that it wasn’t nearly as steep as it looked.

            And so, here I am—5,200 feet above sea level, a snowboard strapped to my feet, staring down a snow-covered mountain that’s already broken my confidence once today. And now I’m supposed turn my board, and slide down the bitch. Oh boy! Did I mention that this is only my third time ever snowboarding, and that the first two times were on Mount Hood, at an actual resort, with lifts, and runs, and emergency personnel? Maybe I’m not quite ready for backcountry snowboarding. Maybe I should have thought this through before coming up with the idea just last week and then convincing Walt to tag along. Why did I think I could go from Hood to St. Helens without any proper backcountry experience?

            “How do I do this again?”

            “Oh, just do it already!”

           

Walt’s right. Screw it! I turn the board and start down the mountain and immediately remember that this is supposed to be fun. And it is. And it’s easier than I recall it being the last two times. I head to the right, slow down, head to the left, and then repeat. After a hundred or so yards, I stop, unstrap the board and hike back up to Walt. “Let’s go higher,” I say. The Fear is gone.

            We hike up another thousand feet, decide that we’ve climbed high enough for the day, strap on our boards, and careen down the mountain, across fields of snow, through narrow gullies filled with obstacles, until we run out of the white stuff. And then we clip out of our bindings and huff it back to the parking lot, compiling our stories along the way.

            “I don’t know if I should tell my wife about the ravine,” Walt says.

            “You might as well, because I’m definitely going to write about it. That was rad!”

            “I think it was more epic,” Walt says, continuing an inside joke about the way snowboarders are perceived to talk.

             “I'm not quite sure if it was rad or epic,” I say. “Today I’m going with wild.”

*Some photos courtesy of Walt.

The Most Peculiar Place in Portland, or How to get a Non-Consumer to Consume

            The diseased zombie brain is a torrent of aggression, fear, confusion and anger…zombies can attack from any direction…human flesh and human brain invigorates the zombie metabolism…

            I know these things because I’m currently standing inside the brain of a zombie, my teeth grinding away on a scorpion. I know how insane that last sentence must sound, but before you label me crazy, or decide that I’m obviously on drugs, please continue reading, because I promise you that by the end of this piece everything will make perfect sense.

           Portland, Oregon is a pretty peculiar place but no place in Portland is more peculiar than the Peculiarium. Try saying that ten times fast! Never mind. Don’t even try. It’s tough enough to pronounce the word “peculiar,” let alone rattle off that alliterative jumble of a sentence. In the northwest part of the city, between the skyscrapers and the industrial drag, down the street and around the block from the posh neighborhoods, trendy bars, and artisan shops, there’s one building that’s almost impossible to miss—that is, if you happen to stumble upon it in the first place. The first time it caught my eye, I was mainlining it home from a mountain bike ride in Forest Park, covered in mud, cold and wet and in a hurry. I can’t recall if it was the building’s out-of-place pink façade, or the dark, hairy ape waving to me from the sidewalk, or the zombie sitting in a wheelchair, but I do remember thinking: What is that place? I need to go there!

            

            I usually tend to shy away from stores, boutiques, shops, and outlets—any place that might expect to me to spend my hard earned money on crap that I don’t want or need. The last time I walked through a mall I nearly had an anxiety attack. I’ve never in my life bought anything from Sears or JC Penney’s. I’ve never even been inside a Macy’s or a Nordstrom. I did once buy a fancy shirt from Abercrombie and Fitch, but that was only because I was young and stupid, had a hot date to Homecoming, and followed poor advice from a friend who today we would refer to as a “metrosexual”—a term that didn’t exist back then. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not much of a consumer, at least not the kind of consumer that the giant evil soul-sucking corporations want me to be. If it’s not going in my body, or on one of my bicycles, then I’m probably not going to buy it. What about clothes? I’m absolutely convinced that there is currently enough clothing in existence to sufficiently dress the entire world for at least the next fifty years, if not longer. Underwear and footwear aside, I haven’t bought clothes in almost a decade. I simply wear whatever I already have or whatever somebody gives me (see: “An Accidental Hipster”). Fashion is a luxury, not a necessity.

          What does any of this have to do with zombies? Well, a couple of things. Corporations expect the public to act like zombies. Just as zombies are attracted to human flesh, consumers are attracted to crap they don’t need. Through flashy advertisements and reoccurring commercials, humans are easily brainwashed, convinced that they MUST HAVE this, or that, or the other thing. If you don’t think so, just watch the nightly news the day after Thanksgiving. Those hordes of people trampling each other outside the entrance to Walmart don’t look much different than a scene you would see in a George Romero film, do they? I mean, is it of any surprise that zombies are more popular in today’s culture than they’ve ever been? Perhaps it’s because we see something of ourselves in the undead. But you can’t really blame the ad men—they’re just good at doing their jobs. You can really only blame yourself, that is if you are one of the people hypnotized by all the bells and whistles—if you’re one of the zombies. And if you’re not? Well, that brings us back to the Peculiarium.

            I walk inside the “FREAKYBUTTRUE PECULIARIUM AND MUSEUM” and am immediately greeted by a ten foot tall Sasquatch—this is my kind of place! (Woodland apes are one of the reasons I moved to the Pacific Northwest. More on that in the coming months…) I go through a doorway to the left, through a room filled with creepy dolls and figurines, and to the rear of the building, where I gawk at a “Wooly Giraffe Mammoth,” what little is left of a lady who spontaneously combusted, Al Capone’s secret safe, a haunted doll house, an alien autopsy, and several other very strange displays. I wrap back around front and join the “Insectatarian Club” by ordering the “Bug Eater’s Delight,” an ice-cream sundae which features an ant cookie and my choice between meal worm larva and a scorpion. I choose the scorpion before ducking behind a dark sheet and into “The Diseased Zombie Brain,” a display that uses an undead visual cortex in an “attempt to image what the diseased zombie brain, ergo the zombie, saw.” Hence, I’m currently standing inside the brain of a zombie, my teeth grinding away on a scorpion.

            Before leaving I browse the gift shop, which is filled with every gag-gift a child (or a man in his early thirties?) could dream of—joy buzzers, snake nut cans, x-ray specs, etc. I spend more money than I should, walking out with a Guy Fawkes mask, a fake plastic knife with push-in blade, those neat spectacles with attached nose and mustache, a souvenir book, some Big League Chew, and some fake dog poop—a bunch of crap (some of it literally) that I simply don’t need. And I know what everybody’s thinking: I thought you weren’t a consumer?

            And this is where the lesson comes into play. To all the corporations out there, to all the big box stores—the Macy’s and Sears and Penney’s—who have tried throughout the years to brainwash me, but couldn’t—I’m here to tell you the secret. How do you get someone like me into your stores? What does the Peculiarium have that you don’t? Simple—Bigfoot. Aliens. Monsters. Oddities. That’s what you’re missing. Right now, there is absolutely no reason for me to visit your establishment. Bring in an Iceman, or a batboy, or the corpse of a werewolf; then you at least have got a fighting chance. At least you’ve got me curious. Keep your kitchenware and your overpriced jeans; just put a bearded lady who swallows fire somewhere in-between. That’s the trick. It’s that easy. That’s how you get non-consumers to consume. You don’t treat us like zombies—you put us inside the zombie.

An Open Letter to Mark Zuckerberg

Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,

Congratulations! You did it! You finally got me to sign up for Facebook. But then again, you probably knew I would, eventually. After all, you’ve made it just about impossible to get ahead in today’s society without being a member of the website in which you launched ten years ago. I used to oppose all forms of social networking. Hell, up until three months ago, I didn’t even have Internet in my home. But then I wrote a book, and in order to promote my book, I started a blog, and in order to promote my blog, I tried to post comments on various websites, and that’s where the problems started. In order to post comments on various websites, one must have a Facebook account. MUST. I thought about creating a fake account, like so many people do, but seeing that my website and blog are called jonpenfold.com, it wasn’t going to take a genius to figure out who was making the comments. So I signed up for Facebook, as myself, as Jon Penfold—one more new member to add to your growing tally. Congratulations!

I’m not disappointed. On the contrary, I will gleefully admit that I’ve actually enjoyed my first week on your website. Because of Facebook I have been able to reconnect with people from so many different parts of my life—ranging from long lost childhood friends, to recently lost adult friends. There are people from the crowds that I “ran” with back in the day; some of them figuratively, as in, “we ran into a bit of trouble together;” and others, literally, as in, “we ran on the high school cross country team together.” There are people I haven’t seen in years, from Boy Scouts and wrestling and rugby, and others—from my bike team—that I just saw yesterday. Then there are the people I consider my family, some related, and some not. I thank you for helping me get in touch with all of these people. Just to think, a few decades ago, none of this would have been possible—long lost friends would remain just that, long lost.

I will admit that I was very apprehensive to sign up for Facebook. In fact, it took me quite a few alcoholic drinks to find the courage to do it. I’m not quite sure what I was afraid of. I guess it was probably the conspiracy theorist inside of me. Letting you into my life was not an easy thing to do. Now you know a lot about me—who my friends are, what sports teams I like, etc.—and you’ll surely use this information to try and sell me things. But I’m ok with that, because I’m probably not going to buy that stuff anyhow. To be perfectly honest, you’re wasting your time. And plus, with all the news lately about the NSA spying on us, you probably already knew everything about me anyway. The way I see it, it’s the ones that aren’t on Facebook that you really need to keep a careful eye on. Seriously, if you’re not on Facebook, what are you hiding?

So, Mr. Zuckerberg, since I joined your website, I think it would only be fair that you subscribed to my blog. I think you would enjoy it. It’s about “Finding Adventure in Everyday Life.” In the past I’ve blogged about mountain biking, and float tanks, and going gluten-free-free—things that ordinary people with ordinary incomes can do. It’s that simple. I would even consider joining Facebook to be an adventure. Sure, it’s a digital adventure, but an adventure nonetheless. In fact, this letter I’m currently writing to you is going to be this week’s blog.

And since I’m giving your website so much face time on my blog, I just have to ask if you’d be interested in investing in it. How about it? I know you’ve come across a bit of disposable income in the past few years. I can help you dispose of it. I think a million dollars would be a good start. I know what you’re thinking: a million dollars, are you crazy? But just hear me out. A million dollars is such a small percentage of your net worth, it would be like me giving a bum on the street about a nickel. Actually, if you took into account how much money I still owe on my student loans, it would be like me taking that nickel back from that bum, and then stealing his bottles and cans, and his shopping cart (which I don’t believe he actually owns), and his clothes—leaving him with nothing but a cardboard sign that says “God Bless.”

You’re still wondering why you should give me a million dollars. Let’s not use the word “give.” Let’s say “sponsor.” Of course, you’d have to share space on my jersey with my other sponsors, but maybe we can work something else out. A tattoo, perhaps? I would consider a Facebook tattoo as part of our sponsorship deal. But not on my face. Or my neck. Or my hands, or arms, or chest, or back. That could kill any future career I may have in modeling. I would do a Facebook tattoo on my ass though. But I know what you’re thinking: who would see it? If you only knew how many times I’ve been naked in public. Or, if you don’t like the tattoo idea, maybe I could sign over the rights to my book The Road and the River: An American Adventure to your website. It could be the first ever book published exclusively on Facebook.

I don’t need an answer right away. Take your time and mull it over. Come to think of it, why don’t you take a trip up to Portland, Oregon and see exactly what’s going on here at jonpenfold.com? Because I don’t own a car, I won’t be able to pick you up at the airport, but we have great public transit and I have a hideaway bed in my living room with your name on it. And while you’re here, we can adventure together. I have some big plans for the coming months, including snowboarding down Mount St. Helens, playing one-on-one basketball against a former professional player, and participating in the World Naked Bike Ride—where you can see firsthand how that tattoo idea will come into play.

I really hope you have the opportunity to read this letter Mr. Zuckerberg. Even if you decide against sponsoring me, please let me know if you get this. If anything, it will be a great social experiment to see just how powerful Facebook really is. If that six-degree of separation thing really is true, then it’s possible that one of my friends will read this, and then share it with another friend, who will share it with another, right on down the line, until it eventually gets in your hands. And if you do decide to sponsor jonpenfold.com, we’ll gladly accept. Hope to hear from you soon. You know where to find me.

Sincerely,

Jon Penfold
jonpenfold.com