Under the Burnside

Artists Mike Wellins and Lisa Freeman planned to open a food truck in 2010. They pivoted to cryptozoology instead. The Peculiarium opened April 2011 with a 10-foot Bigfoot, alien autopsy exhibits, and walls hung with thrift-store landscapes that Wellins "improved" by painting in zombies, space monsters, and giant robots—a technique he calls NERC (Non-Elective Retroactive Collaboration). Closed 17 months during the pandemic, reopened July 2021, still selling jetpack bunnies and machine gun Bigfoot art.

A warehouse converted into a shrine for global puppetry where marionettes dangle from rafters and shadow puppets share wall space with Indonesian wayang goleks. Run by volunteers who care deeply about string tension and cultural context. Workshops teach construction techniques. Performances happen in a 30-seat theater. The collection proves Portland will build a museum for literally anything if you're committed enough.

Artist Jim Stewart invented an entire geological epoch in 2000 and built a 400-square-foot museum above his garage to document it. "Zymoglyphic" means "images of fermentation" or "the solid residue of creative fermentation on natural objects," depending on whether Stewart is feeling poetic or specific. Driftwood becomes creatures. Skulls get mounted in Victorian taxidermy poses. Beach finds from his California childhood share space with his biology-teacher father's specimens. Maximum 6 visitors. Free admission. You email ahead. He shows you around. It's Mt. Tabor's most sincere fever dream.

Hidden inside a working vacuum store is one of America's strangest museums: a 10x40 foot shrine to suction containing over 300 vacuum cleaners spanning 150 years. The collection includes a two-person hand-pumped Victorian model that required one person to work the bellows while another pushed, early electric models that cost more than a month's wages, and a complete evolution of Hoover's industrial dominance. The store itself has operated since 1932. The museum averages maybe a dozen visitors per month, which only adds to the appeal—you'll likely have a private docent tour from staff who know the history of every machine. Free admission, and they don't pressure you to buy a Dyson afterward.

A 1902 Craftsman house with no exterior sign, buried in foliage, operating since 1980 as a coffee shop where the furniture is possessed. Tables named after dead composers slowly rotate, vibrate, tilt, and elevate while you eat dessert. The mechanism is deliberate—motors and gears beneath each table—but the effect is unsettling. Your tiramisu drifts out of reach. Your coffee cup migrates clockwise. Open only evenings, Wednesday through Sunday. Cash only. Very Portland.