PAgent’s Progress

Every now and then I start craving a really good hamburger. Now, Portland has no shortage of good burger joints, but most of them are not convenient for those of us living on the west side, especially those of us with kids.

Now, I’m not talking about a fast food burger. There’s a time and place for Wendy’s, or Burgerville. But when I want a really tasty, juicy burger, that’s not where I’m going to go.

Sad to say, my default burger location has always been Red Robin. I like Red Robin burgers, but I don’t like their aggressive marketing, and how hard they work to push the (highly profitable) frou-frou boozy drinks and desserts. But RR is convenient, and so that’s where I’ve been going.

Ah, but now I have another alternative. Lately I’ve been going to George’s Giant Hamburgers in Tigard.

The burgers are one-third pound, ground fresh daily, and cooked fresh when you order. Unless you specifically order it with cheese, bacon, grilled onions, mushrooms, ham, or a fried egg (oh baby) the burger comes “dry” — with nothing on it but a toasted bun.

The condiment bar has pickles, onions, jalapeños, salsa, tomatoes, lettuce, and squeeze bottles full of condiments, so you can dress that bad boy any way you want to. Or if you are my son, you can just ladle on the ketchup and call it good.

I LOVE these burgers. They are meaty and juicy and taste homemade. And I get it just the way I like it. If there’s a downside, it’s that the fries and onion rings don’t match the standard set by the burgers. They’re OK, but not spectacular. I can live with that.

The menu also features milkshakes, which I haven’t tried, and soup and sandwiches. Why anyone would go to George’s and get anything but a burger, I cannot comprehend.

I don’t know enough to compare George’s to Skyline, or Stanich’s, or Higgins; but for my end of town, they make a damn tasty burger.

George’s Giant Hamburgers
11640 SW Pacific Hwy
Tigard, OR 97223-8674
Phone: (503) 639-8029

Well, I was sick enough that I came home from the camping trip, rather than spend the night there. We had been planning on someone coming home, because they don’t allow dogs in the yurts, and we weren’t comfortable with Gus being outside (or even in the car) overnight.

As the day wore on, and I felt worse and worse, we decided that I should be the one to go home.

I drove back home in a bit of a blur, and when I got there, I took my temperature — 101 degrees. At this point I crawled into bed, pulled an extra blanket on top of me, and crashed. After sleeping for a few hours, I cracked an eye open and considered my options. I really didn’t want to get out from under the blankets, because even in bed I was racked by fits of shivering.

So I asked Gus what I should do.

He considered the question for a moment, stroked his neatly trimmed goatee, plucked his pince-nez from his snout, and began absent-mindedly cleaning its lenses on his dark green vest.

“I sink vee must conzider zee possibility zhat you are much zicker zhan you belieff.”

I asked him what he meant. He panted on the lenses of his pince-nez, buffed them one last time and placed them back on his nose.

“Please, conzider your zituation. You are rrracked mit shiverings, zo much zo zhat you are nearly unable to leave your bed. Zhis is not normal, you vill agree. Zhen, zhere is the matter zhat you are havink a conversation mit your dog.”

Well, about that, I asked, why didn’t he have an Australian accent?

“It iss a little-known fact zhat zee Auztralian zhepherd was originally developed in zee Vestern United Ztates. But frankly, you are shpeaking to your dog, and you are conzerned zhat zee accent isn’t accurate? I sink you are quite zick indeed.”

I had to admit that his logic was compelling, so I rolled over and went back to sleep.

We had planned on being in a yurt this evening. Sitting by a fire. Roasting marshmallows. Funny how life has a way of tiptoeing up behind you and kicking you in the nuts. With steel-toed shoes.

I’m just barely coherent. The cold I have had for the last couple of days has reached a crescendo of misery. My head is stuffed and throbbing. I’m running a fever. And every time I put my head down I sleep for three hours.

Well, between my pitiful condition and the fact that it keeps snowing (absolutely unbelievable), we’ve decided to only camp for ONE night, specifically Saturday night.

The children are disappointed, of course. I am not. I am barely conscious.

Had to go get some decongestant and mucus thinner. Drove by my local Chevron and was pissed off anew by the flat tire debacle the other day. I really don’t think I can take my business back there, and I should find a way to let the manager know.

As my efforts at Bitstrips continue to develop, it’s clear that the lives of the characters will diverge further and further from that of their real-life counterparts. So I should just state for the record that you should not believe that anything that appears in my comics actually reflects the reality of my life. I may take inspiration from my family, but we aren’t nearly funny enough to sustain a comic strip.

With that said, I’m really happy with how this sequence of three strips turned out (click on thumbnail to view):

The Interview



Compatibility Test



True Confessions

Found this over at Laurenn McCubbin’s website, and had to post it here.

So I was sneaking out to work yesterday morning (ice on the windshield AGAIN?) and as I drove out of my neighborhood, I noticed the car behaving oddly. And by that I mean “making a loud thumping noise and pulling sharply to the left”.

Although I am often oblivious to the world around me, even I have my limits. This was clearly a tire problem of some sort, so I turned around and thumped slowly back to my local Chevron station. My left rear tire was flat. In hopes of just getting the thing to Les Schwab, I tried to reinflate it. No good, the seal was broken.

It looked like I was going to have to swap out the tire for the spare. Now, I’m in my work clothes, and I haven’t changed a tire on this car since I got the new rims. And besides, the tools that come in the trunk are usually not the easiest to work with. So, I walked over to the gas attendant and told him I would appreciate some help changing a tire.

Now, this is my local gas station, and the one we use almost exclusively. I recognized the attendant as a borderline crazy cackling old fart who usually tries to engage you in inappropriate conversation as he fills the tank. Today, however, he was all business.

“Well, you can go over to the white building on the other side of those trees, where they have tools and guys to use them, or you can go to Les Schwab. We can’t help you.”

Mind you, the old fart was standing in the open bay of the garage, which had an impressive array of toolboxes, tools, and other miscellaneous car-repair devices. Apparently the same logic that led to the state of Oregon deciding that you had to have a trained professional pump your gas also meant that those folks who were pumping that gas were too busy to do anything else. This has pissed me off to the point that I don’t think I’ll be able to use that gas station any more.

Faced with the inevitable, I put on my hazards and thumped home. Then I put on the mini-spare (still in my work clothes) and trundled off to Les Schwab. As I suspected, I had driven too far on the flat and it was irrepairable. On the bright side, all four tires were near the end of their useful life, anyway, so I just got four new ones.

I opted for a tire with a longer lifetime, instead of a high performance sticky composition. Plus, they were on sale.

The car feels great, now. It’s like having new sneakers. You don’t realize how tired and broke your old ones were until you put on a brand-new pair and it feels like you can jump over buildings.