Welcome to the Weekend

The sign read “MOUNTAINS OF COKE.” Conjuring up visions of whores and a late 80s hair band; I was concerned by its presence at a bowling alley. It turned out that it literally meant a very large pile of 12-packs of Coca Cola products, rather than anything illicit.

I remembered that vision yesterday morning when I awoke with my first massive hangover in a very, very long time. I felt as if I had consumed a mountain of beer. Not just any beer though, my welcoming committee had Pabst waiting in the fridge, just for my arrival. Welcome back to Portland.


Every infinitesimal movement caused a flurry of pain, followed by a “fuck” or a “shit,” whichever seemed appropriate at the time. While I knew how much alcohol I’d ingested (as did my constricted blood vessels), I had been saved the awkward embarrassment of falling down or gesticulating wildly while inebriated—or worse crying. Rather, I kept my cool during our night on the town, which could not have been more perfect.

We started the evening with a trip to the Delta for some southern inspired treats, a greasy delight that I have fondly remembered while out at sea. I had the sweet potato fries, and happily drank the two beers our waitress had mistakenly thought I ordered. I had also ordered a fried chicken sandwich (I was at a table with a vegan, and two vegetarians…and as a relapsed vegetarian, I felt guilty ordering and ingesting meat in their presence)…but again it was miswritten as a blackened chicken sandwich; I ate a few bites…sadly, I wasn’t a fan. So, on to the second beer. I was happy again by the time the dum-dums arrived with the bill.

We arrived at the Crystal Ballroom to see Eugene and the rest of the gypsy punk crew, just as they’d begun their set. The last time I saw them was at Berbati’s about a year ago, and there were several men in the audience obviously gleaning their styling tips from promotional photos of the lead singer (Eugene Hutz):


I saw some guy in this exact outfit, and sadly the ladies seemed to be fine with stroking the ego of a poseur.

The Crystal show was PACKED. The audience was far more diverse than at the previous show, there was the requisite overweight nerd, myopically busting a groove, devil horns raised in salute. It was a sight. There were the hot chicks dressed to score in little more than bras and skirts too far away from the band to be successful groupies. There were some elderly couples standing to the side, gentling nodding their heads to the frenetic strings and insistent percussion. It was a really good time. As we left during their extended encore, it was decided that a night out in Portland was not complete until naked ladies were seen.

On to Mary’s, a Portland institution. The woman at the door, easily in her 60s, is Jewish. We wished each other a good Sabbath. Flesh was observed; beer continued to flow. Which led to the massive headache discovered hours later upon waking in my friend’s bed.

I love Portland.