Oftentimes, I’m on my own, and that’s fine by me. If I waited for my friends to do something, or only did activities that appealed to them, I’d likely never get out of the house. Ever since I crumpled my acceptance form to the University of Washington, merely 15 minutes away from home, and took on the sojourn to an unknown, tiny town in upstate New York for college, many of my best times have come from my willingness to do exactly this. To just go, and see what my whims or instincts, or Yelp’s, Guy Fieri’s or Rick Steves’ instincts, will carry me into.

This random Saturday (Feb. 8th) in Los Angeles was one such day. I had a meeting for work (that I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time), and found myself in Hollywood on a sunny, glorious afternoon with nothing to do. The kind of conundrum people in Boston and NY wish they had right now.

I could bus back home (I’m one of the only LA residents who actually uses the infrequent, plodding and frustrating Metro system), or I could walk.

A lot.

Because I didn’t really bother zooming in on the Google Map of my phone, and because I had all the time in the world (a wonderful feeling), I decided it was time to make a Joss Whedon-tinged pilgrimage, and see what happens. That led to a roughly 4.3 mile jaunt down Vine (then Rossmore), then east on Wilshire, arriving at 4121 Wilshire Blvd, hoping this location still existed.

En route, I basically stumbled through one of the richest parts of LA, including past the infamous El Royale Apartments (above), erected in 1927 by William Douglas Lee, and keeping people erect until today. Check out the view and the inside:

Here are some other neat, massive apartment buildings likely filled with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s illegitimate children. Is it me or does the first one kind of look like an insane asylum, or a corporate building owned by Max Schreck or something? The day time maybe doesn’t sell that thought.

I sped past the Wilshire Country Club, keenly aware that I was the only one walking around (and not in a luxury vehicle). I also realized that I probably shouldn’t be snapping pictures at private homes, especially since many of them have legitimate security guards watching the house 24/7. I did anyway. Here are a few places I’d settle to live in:

For whatever reason, my recurring daydream involved bumping into Seth Rogen and smoking a blunt with him. I don’t even smoke. Not sure why it didn’t include a hot older woman who was antsy at home, like a Michelle Pfeiffer type. But I’m weird.

I also imagined actually living in a house like these, and while I liked some of the architecture, even if I could ever afford it, I just don’t think LA is where I’d want to live. Of course, if I ever find myself in that position, I’d likely sell out faster than I’d last during a sexual experience with Jennifer Garner (circa ALIAS days).

If this photo wasn’t taken from an iPhone, maybe it’d look more impressive. This is the view from Wilshire. Can it get any more Hollywood than this picture? Well, add droves of tourists, an empty tour bus, a hot dog stand and a dude dressed up as a Transformer, and you’d pretty much have it.

But enough of this shit. Finally, after a long ass walk, I reached the Hyperion Hotel, the sweet exterior location of Angel, Cordy, Gunn, Fred and Wesley’s base for seasons 2-4 of ANGEL.

BEHOLD!

The base was described by production designer Stuart Blatt as “an old hotel, something [the writers] could use to evoke the past of Los Angeles and some of Angel’s history, something kind of creepy and spooky but not too dark because they didn’t want something depressing…” It certainly fit the bill, and became the most iconic location on the show, aside from Cordelia’s chest. Clearly it stuck with David Boreanaz, as the hotel was even mentioned in a season 2 episode of BONES. It also got talked up in another Whedon classic, DOLLHOUSE.

In 1999, the apartment building, the Los Altos Apartments, was listed on the National Register of Historical Places. It was built in 1925 and was used as a luxury apartment and hotel for Clara Bow, Bette Davis, Mae West, Douglas Fairbanks and a little guy named William Randolph Hearst. I mean, they’re no Angel or Fred, but impressive nonetheless. AND YOU CAN STILL LIVE IN IT. RIGHT NOW.

While I was there, soaking all this in, a guard popped out and asked if I lived there. The guy’s either an idiot (I was a sweaty dude wearing a backpack taking pictures), or more likely, was using this question to get me off the property. I left pretty soon after, instead of staking the bastard, or claiming that I used to live in the house….fifty years ago. Either way, the nerd inside me was tingly all over during this experience.

If you want to live in such esteemed company, it’s only $1,850/month for a studio. A 2 bedroom apartment could be had for up to $3,600/month. What a steal.

I thought about turning around and going back the way I came back up to Hollywood, but thankfully I wasn’t a moron, and wandered toward Koreatown (or K-Town, if you think that’s cool to say).

In the heart of it, it appeared to be only hair salons and restaurants. My afternoon’s success called for one thing: BEER.

And that’s when I stumbled upon one of the best places to get beer and fatty foods in LA: Beer Belly.

Beer Belly is one of those “nice” places that serve craft beer and “classy” ways to ingest macaroni and cheese, pulled pork and french fries. I love these places, even if they’re overpriced.

I had the Duck Fat Fries, served with Raspberry Mustard (awesome), their “Frankenstein” ketchup (maybe even better) and a couple great beers. The fries were far too salty, but still fantastic, though I couldn’t help but want more duck than the duck skin cracklins and the duck fat oil the fries were drenched in. That probably means I’m getting Death by Duck next time, which is the duck fat fries with duck confit on top. Holy hell.

Their beer menu changes daily (the bathroom had a chalkboard advertising a keg opening on a Sunday, with deals occurring until the keg ran out), and after sampling a watery Irish Red from TAPS (of Brea, CA), I settled on the Holiday Spruce Ale from Craftsman Brewing Company based in Pasadena. As one might expect, it was like sipping on a Christmas tree, and that somehow translated into me calling it a smooth, easy drinking beer in my notes. I need help.

I followed that up with Modern Times’ Lost Horizon, a double IPA from the holy land that is San Diego. The beer itself was on the verge of being one of those IPA’s that’s just hoppy as hell because it’s supposed to impress you, without much in the way of flavor, but it skated by that potential catastrophe, thanks in large part to smelling like happiness. For more of my thoughts on beer, check out Untappd.

Beer Belly would’ve demanded future visits if only for the beer….but the food. I must try their Grilled Cheese, which has 4 kinds of cheese (Asiago, Gruyere, Cheddar, Goat Cheese), topped with bacon and a heaping portion of maple syrup. I could smell it all over the place, which made me hard and disgusted at the same time.

Bree, my delightful server, also recommended the Buttermilk Fried Chicken and the beer & chipotle braised short rib. I almost came on the spot, and somehow managed to resist ordering EVERYTHING on the menu. They have deep fried pop tarts, people. Bree also bought my second beer for me, so I was in love/tricked into tipping more to make up for the “savings.” One of my other notes about the place: “I want to be inside all the waitresses.” Real classy Andy. Beer Belly rules.

Before I had settled upon Beer Belly, I discovered another place for future reference. While I said earlier I’m fine going almost everywhere alone…this demanded company. This demanded a whole night dedicated to its revelry. This demanded Leonardo DiCaprio. Check out…

CAFE JACK. I don’t know where to begin with this place. It’s been themed after the TITANIC since 2007, merely TEN years after the movie came out. But that’s better than never to put a kitschy boat in a sketchy parking lot, where one buys coffee and sushi (they have a “Jack and Rose” sushi roll). It’s gotta be a stop on a Bachelorette party, or an ironic date with a game partner, or a place to get plastered at. It need to be on everyone’s itinerary.

The reviews are mixed, as one might expect, but that hasn’t deterred me from telling everyone I know about this place, in hopes that it can kick off a bizarre bar crawl.

With a spring in my step, I walked past Biergarten, then turned around and stared at the bar for a moment. I wavered on whether or not to grab another beer, or continuing on back up to Hollywood (I had an improv show to go to)…but it was that kind of day, and I sauntered in after a few moments hesitation. Plus I past this guy, who made the decision for me:

No idea.

Within moments, I realized that while trekking up Western, I had stepped in pungent dog shit, and I mistakenly brought it in with me to Biergarten. I quickly ordered a beer, and then stomped my entire body on the parking lot outside, rubbing my soles against the grass, to no avail. From there, I went to the bathroom and wiped the poop off of my shoes with paper towels, while the server was confused if I was staying or leaving. I still haven’t been able to get all of the poop off those shoes.

Needless to say, it was a fantastic entrance to a bar, let alone a Korean/German hybrid sports bar with one of the better beer menus I’d seen in LA. They have German fried rice, drunken chicken, and peanut butter sliders, apparently, but this was a beer-as-dinner sort of day.

I went with the Hop Tanker, a 9% double IPA, and it felt like heaven. If heaven gives you a hangover, an empty wallet and was from El Segundo. It had some great citrus and fruit on the tongue, while still remaining a kick in the pants.

Because I’m an idiot (and brilliant), I tried The Dudes’ Brewing Company’s Juicebox Series: Blood Orange, based out of LA (seen above). It was strong, overly sweet and thick, like the Big Lebowski fanbase, but it also kind of tasted like sweat. I was not a fan, but there wasn’t anything that I disliked about the concept.

Then I was off, to make it up to Hollywood. I got there in plenty of time to spare for the Doctor Who themed improv show that awaited me at iOwest (alumni from the entire iO program include Pete from 30 ROCK, Stephen Colbert, Andy Dick, Chris Farley, Tina Fey, Dave Foley, Neil Flynn, Jon Favreau, Dave Koechner, Lutz, Jack McBrayer, Seth Meyers, Tim Meadows, Amy Poehler, Mike Meyers, Danny Pudi, Key & Peele, Vince Vaughn, Jason Sudekis, Adam McKay, Eric Stonestreet, Glenn from THE WALKING DEAD and many more).

You know what that meant: more beer. Next up was the Blue Palms Brewhouse, another pub with a great beer list, including two of their own (brewed by Firestone Walker).

I started off with the aptly named Blitzen (from Faction Brewing of Alameda, CA), which was what made the Doctor Who Live! so much better than it really was. My quote for the beer: “Hell yes this is dangerous and hell yes I want all of it inside me.”

I followed it up with one of their own beers, the Blue Palms IPA, which was as bland and lame as any IPA you’ve ever had. Firestone apparently doesn’t care when there name isn’t on it. It was impressive that I could even distinguish anything at this point, but the bucket of salty pretzel balls surely helped (a bucket of salty pretzel balls ALWAYS helps, even if they burn your hand off). I was told to order the Truffle Burger next time I was there.

(Note: the next day I would randomly find myself back at the Blue Palms Brewhouse, and sampled their esteemed Truffle Burger, which was as rich and over-the-top as you might’ve expected. Not sure how much I truly loved it, but it was great.)

I found this hilarious at the time, and still do.

I finally arrived at iOwest, where I believe I had another beer while waiting for the show to start (because it was late), and talked football (GO HAWKS) at the bar with a couple folks, including a Minnesota Vikings fan and (gasp) a woman (no idea what team she was into).

I’d be lying if I said I internalized most of the show, but I still had a blast, and enjoyed the festivities, likely more because of the concept than many of the jokes. Crafting a new doctor, new companions and getting a different time period or locale every show highlights how the real show has lasted 50 years, and how an improv show based on it can last just as long.

Perfect photo for a caption contest.

Afterwards, it was time for another beer. Kidding: I took the bus and went sweet sleepy time. But before I did, I took a picture of the most important star on Hollywood Blvd:

During the fateful first get together of the Writer’s Meeting in Burbank (a group now forever known as “Hear Me Out, Bro!”), one of my friends brought up the film A FIELD IN ENGLAND.

I had heard of the movie, as it played at the Beyond Fest, which means one thing: it’s weird as shit. Aforementioned Writer Friend confirmed this, when he said he went to a screening and was offered shrooms by someone else in attendance. He declined the offer, never having taken shrooms and wisely resistant to experimenting for the first time in a public venue.

For a couple days I just thought this was an amusing anecdote. Then, on this particular Thursday night (Feb. 13th), faced with the possibility that I may never get the chance to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND in its proper venue, it was the only thing I could do without tearing off my apartment’s wallpaper. My apartment doesn’t have wallpaper; that’s how dire a situation it was, exacerbated by this trailer:

A FIELD IN ENGLAND was ending its run at Cinefamily‘s not-so Silent Movie Theater, an awesome local theater recently renovated and under new ownership (with JGL, Phil Lord and Michael Cera on the advisory board), playing both the classics (like Chaplin-era classics) and new, trippy films like Ben Wheatley’s newest. Not only would I miss out on the chance to see this bizarre movie about a few 17th century British civil war deserters in theaters, I’d be missing a chance to see it at the Silent Movie Theater, on one of their comfy couches that take up the first few rows, AND, I’d miss the possibility of seeing a psychedelic movie on psychedelic drugs. So, I made sure that didn’t happen.

I’ve done shrooms once, and it was alternately one of the best and worst moments of my life, but it also revolved around an (admittedly obvious) movie: PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. For a couple hours, I was one of James Franco and Seth Rogen’s pals, along for the ride, kicking out the windshields and giggling with them.

Then, I was forced to endure the movie a SECOND TIME (I couldn’t move from the couch; the only thing I managed to do was rub the hardwood floors lovingly with my feet), and that led to vomit, massive embarrassment and darker thoughts than I’ve probably ever had. I wanted to go to the hospital, or bang my head against the toilet to blissfully pass out for a little while. I was prepared to live the rest of my life in a psych ward in a straitjacket, with my parents looking down at me in disappointment. Miraculously, friends and WALL-E managed to drag me out of the darkness and into the light of the stars.

Having had this experience, I felt like I was ready for A FIELD IN ENGLAND, and thought the movie would be better for it.

I hopped on the bus, and arrived way too early. I purchased my tickets and walked around Fairfax, determined to squeeze out even more fun into this evening. After a Yelp search and a few circles around the block that likely made another moviegoer believe I was chasing him, I ended up at…

The Dime. The place is exactly the dive one wants at about 1:38 AM. At 8 PM on a Thursday, there was about 4 people in the bar, and the tiny space felt darn right huge and comfortable, a feeling never shared after 10 PM. From my painful conversation with the hot bartender, I learned that the Dime had DJ’s every night (every night). I also learned that a dive bar in LA means $9 well vodka drinks. The Dime is not the right name, though it does have one of those old-school cash registers:

The vodka soda at least was strong, and it readied me for the mindfucks to come.

Unfortunately, no one offered me shrooms. I don’t know if I didn’t qualify, if Shroom Dude wasn’t in attendance, or if my writer friend just happened upon a miracle (and wasted it). Until I arrived there, it seemed to me like it was a veritable certainty, as if my ticket entailed I receive a handful of smelly, awful tasting psychotropic drugs.

Alas, it was not meant to be (or perhaps thankfully, judging from my only other experience), and I think the movie was worse for it. I had no idea what was going on, and while I know that was the point, I feel like I just wasn’t on the same plane of existence with the characters, the filmmakers or the writers (Amy Jump and Ben Wheatley). This movie demands another frame of mind and a lack of sobriety, and I celebrate it for that. It’s essentially MONTY PYTHON meets David Lynch and Ingmar Bergman.

Even so, it managed to be hilarious at times, and if you desire random penises and other disturbing images of violence, sex and god knows what, wrapped around by an absorbingly eerie score, A FIELD is for you. There’s even a scene where one of the soldiers is literally choking on mushrooms, and I can’t imagine this movie puts you in good, magical happy trip land based on its fucked up content.

While I was disappointed by the movie and the experience as a whole, I’m glad I went for it. I could’ve stayed home and caught up on AMERICAN HORROR STORY, but instead, I tried to live out my own episode. These are the kinds of things I’m in LA for; these are the kinds of things we live for. I’d rather go and experience the weird, than for a moment regret I didn’t.

I also ended up getting a business card out of it for an event planner who once raised money for charity by traveling across the world wearing only a Tuxedo. Yes, the guy rules.

To figure out how to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND, check its website. Its apparently on demand, available on DVD and Blu-Ray, and during the summer of its release, you could’ve seen A FIELD IN ENGLAND…in a field in England. That would’ve been everything.

Full Disclosure: I’m writing this while listening to the “Once More With Feeling” soundtrack from BUFFY. But, of course.

Sometimes things so bizarre, weird, or perfect, just fall in your lap. That was exactly what I felt like when a Facebook friend (so you know we’re close) of mine posted a status update that related the following news to me:

Lusty Kitten Productions (naturally) was putting on an Joss Whedon-themed burlesque show in Los Angeles, THAT night (Friday Feb. 7th), entitled Across the Whedonverse.

Um, what.the.fuck?!

It was two hours until show time, I had no ride, and would be bailing on my roommate’s burgers and movie night…but I didn’t really have a choice.

What was to come reminds me of what Whistler said in “Becoming, Part One,”:

Bottom line is, even if you see ’em coming, you’re not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So what are we, helpless? Puppets? No. The big moments are gonna come. You can’t help that. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. That’s when you find out who you are.

This night was one of those “big moments.” I’ve never been to a burlesque show. Not for lack of…trying? No, that’s not the right way to put it (though I do want to go to David Lynch’s writing spot). Not for lack of desire? …I guess. The idea of women getting naked and dancing holds much appeal. Obviously. The idea of these women getting naked with a FIREFLY or BUFFY back drop? That gives me every kind of boner possible, while also confirming how great the universe is.

Of course, I was imagining semi-beautiful look-alikes with decent production value and mildly clever jokes.

I got none of those things. Well the jokes were mildly clever, if you consider ketchup mild.

But, even so, it was so worth it. It was the kind of awful you want to experience. The kind of awful you can tell your friends about, and the kind of awful that reveals beauty and brilliance and what life is all about.

Joss Whedon is the greatest. There’s no disputing it, and his fans, acolytes and believers are also the greatest by extension. Joss Whedon is everyone, a patron saint for the average guy and girl, the nerd, the recluse, the nerd recluse who gets the courage to wave his nerd recluse flag amongst other like-minded nerd recluses at Comic-Con and Slayage Conferences, or as it so happens the Fais Do Do club on Adams Boulevard.

It also allows these same people to get close-to-naked on stage for others Whedonites amusement and pleasure.

The night began, after a long wait in line, bursting with men and women donning their Jayne hat (above), with another interminably long, single file line to an uninspired bar (HELP US GET DRUNKER), and a magician who gives low-energy magicians a bad name. It wasn’t even a diverting experience; it just made the crowd that much more restless and impatient for boobs. At one point he was “floating” paper flowers or something, and the string he was using was as clear as day. It was painful, and certainly didn’t get one pumped up for what was to come.

And then, before the show had even started…it was time for an intermission. Fuck off, really?

At this point I was painfully sober (two weak $8 Dark and Stormy’s didn’t cut it) and impatient for this trip to work out. I had met my aforementioned friend, and two of his friends, including a guy who managed to tell me he had slept with 70 different women in his opening introductions and was now dating this cute girl from Seattle who was on his arm. Yeah, I wasn’t going to like “Rob” ever.

And then it was time for nerds gettin’ naked time! Things kicked off with a girl Dr. Horrible (dancer Tas DeVille), then a “shy” Willow blossoming before us (Rynie Das Wreckless), and an Anya (Spy Kitten) not only removing bunny stuffed animals from her robe, but also articles of clothing. Plus, her pasties accidentally fell off. Now I know what it must’ve been like for those at Super Bowl XXXVIII.

After Anya, it was time for an oddly dominatrix-y Echo (Estella Detroit), and then, Buffy, performed by Holly Rock-It! Later that night, feeling like I needed to do, I managed a very awkward “conversation” with Ms. Rock-It!, that consisted of me complimenting her on her dance and Holly thanking me politely to leave her alone.

How do you follow Buffy? You don’t…you just get another intermission. Thanks.

The most uncomfortable I might have ever been was when Mae Lust, one of the organizers of the event, a red-headed Wonder Woman, came to the stage and began reading…Fred and Harmony erotic fan fiction. As a friend told me, “That’s the dream.” It was the worst, but such a brilliant idea. I would’ve had two dancers as Fred and Harmony act out the events in the background, but that’s just me.

My favorite performer might’ve been the Rave inspired Black Widow (Lyra La Belle). Next up was some not obvious blonde character, brought to life by Cici Stiletto.

The cherry on top of weirdness was the awkward, short, quiet Mercury Troy putting a spin on Drusilla I’ll be trying to forget for years. But this show wasn’t over yet. The three most eclectic acts had yet to happen.

Enter Princess Kida Kidagakash (above), the hottie from ATLANTIS: THE LOST EMPIRE, a 2001 animated feature that Joss Whedon wrote a treatment for. Yup. We’re digging deep, even with Inara, Kaylee, Zoe, River, Sierra or any of the characters from AGENTS OF S.H.I.E.L.D left to play. And no female Spike?! It was the kind of off-the-wall choice to be expected from the show, and also brought with it one of the more elaborate costumes of the night (one of the few good ones), filled out by June Au’Purr Darling.

Thrown in for good measure was also live music, supplied by Gemeni, a band formed by Lisa and Gina Gomez. Nerd rock is a thing, and they’re a fine example:

Then it got hot.

Who would’ve thought a near naked female Reaver with a man’s face covering her naughty bits would be so hot? Apparently Lusty Kitten, and Donatella MeLies made it happen.

Throughout the festivities, VV Trippple acted as the undead “pick-up artist,” meaning she was a zombie who picked up the clothes of the other performers. I could’ve done without it.

CABIN IN THE WOODS fans didn’t get a Merman. Instead, they got a Unicorn (Dia Blow…I think).

The finale was supplied by Sgt. Die Wies, a massive black woman (?), who brought more attitude, flair and gravitas to the character of Iron Man than even perhaps Robert Downey Jr. himself. Her performance was easily the most ridiculous, crazy thing I saw all night, as she bounced around stage, with lit-up arc reactor pasties and all. Her dance, and ACROSS THE WHEDONVERSE itself, was summed up perfectly by Captain Hammer’s closing line: “Fuck the arc reactor, we can power the Stark Tower with that ass.”

It took me far too long to really get and appreciate this night, but Sgt. Die Wies drilled the message home. The Whedonverse is about acceptance, and being yourself, and standing up for yourself, and doing what makes you happy, and that’s what these girls were doing all night, while showing off cleavage for charity. Jesus would be proud. Some dancers were better than others, but each were emblematic of the Whedonverse in every fashion, and every number was accompanied with truly bizarre and great music.

The evening was tied together by Mr. Snapper, or the aforementioned Captain Hammer stand-in, who was oftentimes unbearably cheesy, and other times, the only thing that didn’t make me want to impale myself on the Unicorn’s horn. It helps that we all came together to sing the Firefly theme song. Afterwards, he tried to rally us to sing Jayne’s Song…which should’ve been a roaring number, but instead ended up being just one dedicated and drunk Jayne fan singing along…and it was glorious.

Proving that he truly has nothing better to dois a tremendous sport, BUFFY and FIREFLY artist Georges Jeanty was there to sign autographs and cringe at the festivities with the rest of us.

While it didn’t prove to be a night of extreme socializing held together with expert storytelling, there was enough in-jokes, Whedon quotes and a stellar video clip featuring moments from all of our favorite series to make it worthwhile. The memorable experience will leave me as a leaf on the wind, at least until Accio Burlesque! returns…

A blurry photo of the cast

I was only in town for a few days, but the events that occurred in Seattle during the weekend of Feb. 2nd (happy birthday Mom!), were far bigger than that. The Seahawks explosive SB 48 victory was life-affirming, inspiring and proved to bring the citizens and very fabric of my favorite city together in ways I had never thought possible.

But the next morning, it was time to go back. Back to LA, where it has been a struggle, and will continue to be, but at least now, it shall be on my terms. With a permanent grin affixed to my face (that remains to this day), I soaked up local sports talk radio until its crackly death down I-5, tearing up as I left home. Again.

After a purposefully late start (that almost never happened, once I heard about the planned parade on Wednesday the 5th), I busted down through WA and Oregon, the 12th man flags unfurling on the highway, becoming less and less. Until it was time for dinner, refreshment and rest.

Ah, Ashland.

The home of the mighty (don’t call them Red) Raiders of Southern Oregon University. They might pose as much a threat as a red-tailed hawk does to a brick wall in most sports, being from the Cascade Collegiate Conference of the NAIA, but on a wrestling mat they’re no slouch. They’ve won 4 national championships, one as recently as 2001,  or back when the Seattle Mariners were everyone’s favorite NW sport team.

According to TripAdvisor, there are 42 things to do in Ashland, proving once and for all, that Ashland is the answer to life’s biggest question. Or Ashland has something to do with Jackie Robinson (it doesn’t). The city’s hallmark, and a big reason why my parents are considering a move there for their retirement years, is the practically year-round Shakespeare festival, with 11 different plays shown each year from February to October, on three different stages. The favorite is the outdoor Green Show stage. You might doubt the talent of Ashland’s actors, considering its awkward location, 16+ miles north of the California border, but you’d be an idiot. Hollywood this is not, and that’s exactly why people flock from all over the world to this festival. The spas, vineyards and river rafting also help bolster this underrated gem.

Could it BEEE a more perfect setting?

But, I’ve never been one for timing. I found myself in Ashland during the off months, which in this case was nice, since I could find a bed (easily), at Bard’s Inn, a not subtle Best Western. I also didn’t check out Lithia Park, or the Oregon Cabaret Theatre (Oregon’s cooler than you think), the Ashland Library (okay, maybe not), and didn’t trek up Mount Ashland. I was merely driving through, so once I was parked, I only had one goal in mind.

BEER.

‘Twas a frosty early February night, with barely a soul on the streets, Ashland’s nifty downtown more likely home to the ghosts of Shakespeare’s plays than the actors who would play them, as I hobbled across the bridge, over the river, and to get drunk.

I was aware of three breweries in Ashland, two of which had brewpubs in town: Standing Stone Brewing Company and Caldera Brewing Company. Swing Tree Brewing is the new kid on the mountain, and apparently it does have a Taphouse. When I called them, I got a personal voicemail for the brewer, not exactly a sign of beers on tap (and in my belly), so I stuck to Standing Stone and Caldera, which was for the best, since they were the only two within walking distance, and after sampling nigh every beer that each pub had on tap, were about all I should handle for an evening’s work.

Swing Tree will have to happen next time. Because there will be a next time, hopefully including a freckled lass, Shakespeare and a bed and breakfast. There aren’t many things better than that combo.

Well, beer.

I began my beer-ney at Standing Stone, because the faithful Best Western employees suggested it had better food. After seeing a menu littered with seafood (including oysters from Dabob Bay in WA), steaks and burgers with a Mexican flavor…I naturally selected something entirely different: the Kimchi Burger. Why?

Fuck if I know. Because I always want to love Kimchi (and I never quite do), and Standing Stone ferments their own Kimchi, and the idea of Kimchi adorn atop a pork patty, sounded like the choice. You don’t drive from Seattle to Ashland and then order seafood. Or get Mexican when you live in Southern California.

The burger was especially moist, bursting with flavor and the Kimchi lent a decent level of spice, that paired perfectly with a few of Standing Stone’s hoppiest beers. I also got a house salad with their Oregano vinaigrette, which was most notable for the fact that it was pink in color and still great.

Standing Stone had 7 beers on tap (Hop Night, Farmer Brown Ale, I Heart Oregon Ale, Amber Ale, Twin Plunge 2IPA, Steel-Cut Stout, Noble Stout), so I naturally sampled all of them by ordering the Sampler Tray, that somehow included all of them for $5. Um, wow.

Perhaps because I sampled 17 beers this fine night, but none of Standing Stone’s beers were particularly memorable, especially when contrasted with Caldera’s overflowing and unique tap list. I enjoyed their Amber Ale, because it added a slightly fruity aftertaste not normally associated with an Amber. The Brown, always the lamest of beer options, had a faint graham cracker musk and a biscuity flavor that I enjoyed more than I expected. My favorites, predictably, turned out to be the Hop Night and surprisingly, the Noble Stout, with its abundance of coffee, chocolate and even vanilla flavors. I noted that maybe this means I like coffee now, and wanted to have it for breakfast. I didn’t.

After scarfing down a delicious and wholly unnecessary (is there any other kind?) Marionberry Cobbler, I stumbled over to Caldera Brewing Company, where I got to watch Oklahoma State lose in triple over time, and add two more sampler trays to the festivities.

I avoided most of Caldera’s normal beers (pilsners, lagers, whatever), and rejoiced in the weird: the Dry Hop Orange, their Mogli (a Bourbon Aged Chocolate Imperial Porter named after an owner’s puppy, not…Mogli, which is even better), the Hibiscus Ginger Beer (so refreshing), the Toasted Coconut Chocolate Porter (fuck yes), the Roasted Hatch Chili (um), and some of their hoppy staples (their Hopportunity Knocks tasted like a bottle of perfume, and I mean that as a compliment) and seasonal Cauldron Brew. It was all, save the chili beer (it’s basically a beer version of a Bloody Mary and that’s not my thang), delicious, astounding or oddly intriguing (their Belgian strong, Vas Deferens, tasted like dry cat food). It was really hard to cleanse my palate between each one, and I likely didn’t. I grabbed a couple bottles that I didn’t get to try for the road (many of their beers are canned, as is the current trend that Caldera helped start). If you’re asking why cans, well Caldera knows:

If you want more of my thoughts on these beers, you can check my quick reviews that occur during these tastings through my profile on Untappd, one of my favorite beer drinking apps. Generally they’re not very enlightening (“I wanted to heart this, but I more fart this…”), but they only get better as an evening wears on, and likely more fun if you drink along.

After masturbating to the Seattle Seahawks roster all over Bard’s Inn’s sheets (…not really) and getting a nice night’s sleep, it was on to San Jose for some Grandma and Uncle Keven time. Between that?

It was time to check in on another Diner, Drive-In and Dive, courtesy of Guy Fieri.

While Grandma had planned a lavish Japanese feast at a local restaurant in San Jose (promptly at 6), I refuse to take any road trip without at least one Triple-D destination jammed in there, so I took a detour to the glittering metropolis of Sacramento for a burger with high self-esteem.

http://youtu.be/U81e9s9qs_g

After watching the Dad’s Kitchen episode (above), there was no question I had to get the Dad’s Burger, a grass fed patty (the cow was grass fed, not the patty, well I guess it was technically) topped with 2 ounces each of bleu cheese crumbles and bacon, crusted to the top like a beautiful, tasty hat.

Behold:

I upgraded from fries to the impossibly juicy, batter-y onion rings, drizzled in Balsamic reduction, Parmesan cheese sprinklings, served with red bell pepper aioli. I might have enjoyed them more than the burger (that was top-notch), if that’s possible. I joined the ensemble with a local cider from Two Rivers Cider Company, only because they have a Pink Lady Cider, a serendipitous circumstance, as the Pink Lady is my favorite apple. My reward? A cider, while not too sweet or too dry, that lacked any sort of distinguishable characteristics. Yay. Either way, I was only scratching the surface at Dad’s Kitchen, which has an impressive rotating tap list that I must plunder at some point.

The feast:

Plus, I need the Hot Blonde and Meatloaf inside me the next time I find myself in Sacramento. The mantra of a traveler moving on too fast (or a shitty one): next time.

After a nice night of catching up with my Grandma that I won’t inundate you with, it was on the road again.

And before I knew it, I was back in beautiful, downtown Burbank and ready to get on with whatever comes after a Crossroads.