Re: Travel Guide Portland

Apparently, Jamie has some fans. I myself am more into Still Not Jamie.

I can't believe Jamie is still cocktailing at Portland City Grill. Does this girl have nothing better in life than to suck men out of their dough? She uses her looks to enhance her tips. My gosh it's been 3 plus years since I've been to PCG and I knew exactly which cocktailer you were speaking off! And I did appreciate at the time her ability to flirt like I mattered but then I realized she's a tux wearing whore who insinuates she'd be more than happy to sleep with you...to be young and dumb again.

Oh, Jaime where art thou my sweet whorish waitress??? I find that I'm not the only one.

To Jaime, what are you going to be doing in 5 more years????

Travel Guide: Portland, OR

Last week, I visited Portland, which is a city in the state of Oregon.

In Portland, a giant pink tower thrusts itself into the sky. I don’t know the name of the tower, but I consider it to be an architectural wonder. You know, because it’s pink, and doesn’t look at all gay. How do they do that? You can take an elevator up the pink tower, and then get off the elevator and go to a restaurant/ bar, with tuxedo clad greeters and look-alike waitresses and old men in thick glasses playing the piano. I drank martinis with a bunch of doctors. Twice, I thought this other waitress was Jamie, my waitress. The second time I did it, I asked her for “the bill, please, Jamie?” She said, “Still not Jamie!” And then she walked away. I didn’t like the service, so I took it out on the real Jamie, shorting her on the tip.

In Portland, you can sleep in a tent in your friends’ backyard. This is not necessarily advised, but if you’re in a house with sex as loud as the house I was in, you’re going to want to bring a sleeping bag. I mean, it wasn’t just the usual bed/floor creaking with an occasional moan. There were grunts, and swears, and then some slaps. I couldn’t figure out what was slapping what, so I slept in the tent.

In Portland, you can drink a lot lot lot of great coffee. Drink it until your head aches and you believe you may vomit and you’re vibrating so hard that you feel like a tuning fork that’s just been struck. Then drink more. It will be worth it when you return to Boston with its Dunkin’ Donuts monopoly and its Starbucks for backup.

In Portland, the microbreweries rule. I have heard this. Also, everyone seems to have arm tattoos.

In Portland, you can go to a great bookstore called Powell’s. It’s enormous and fun, if you’re still into print media. I picked up a lot of books, and then decided I didn’t want to pay for any of them, so I put them back in the wrong place.

In Portland, you will be driving late at night, and you may see a scary man in a Mexican wrestling mask, leaning out of his camper van and shouting incoherencies. If you’re like me, you will tell him he is ugly, and then hope you don’t get beat up.

Also, I recommend bicycling around town. It’s quite pleasant.

proud to be

My friends all make fun of me because my parents bought a house in Canada. They call me an Eskimo, third-worlder, hockey fan, unappreciative of real bacon.

I am ok with this. I like being a bit Canadian. I am proud of my northern heritage. It makes me feel exotic, a little bit special. I drink Molson beer, to support my new homeland. I drink it conspicuously, so everyone will know I'm into imported beer. I root for a stronger Canadian dollar. I buy my maple syrup from Ontario instead of Vermont. I throw little tidbits of French into my vernacular. I brag about how I've even been to Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Alberta. I even pretend to like hockey.

I am an exotic fruit. But only a little exotic. Like an apple you've never tried before.

you should. . .tint your eyelashes

I have always had one blond eyelash and one dark one. Most people don't notice, which is probably a result of the usual eye contact either being too distant, or performed in that too close, focusing on one eye at a time sort of way. I find the contrast jarring, like it makes my face look extremely asymmetrical, cockeyed. No one else has ever complained.

Lynne and Shoshana went to the neighborhood beauty salon, near Inman square, and invited me to go with them for an eyelash tinting. I decided that, despite my qualms about losing the last shreds of my masculinity (I am not metrosexual, pretty boy, glam, goth, or emo enough to have much experience with grooming beyond shaving, shampooing, and a little plucking), I came along, burgeoned by my two friends, held up like a shaky arch between two stout Doric columns. They continually assured me that I’d survive this exploration, this Heart of Darkness –style expedition into beauty territory, with my manhood intact.

It burned a little when it happened, like there was something on top of my eye that I definitely did not want inside my eye. And now I look like a dude with mascara on. My friend Jack said I look like a chick. Super.

you should . . . see the Sea Inside

Last week I went to Cape Cod. I was swimming in the ocean and diving off rocks until I hit the rocky bottom with my face. It hurt and I bled a lot in the, "oh shit I know as soon as I resurface there is going to be red blood pouring off my eyebrow and into the water and it's going to look like fucking Jaws so I should start screaming like I got bit but my head hurts too much for that," sort of way. My friends have a baby, and I sat on the beach for a long time with one of its (clean) diaper pressed to my forehead. We debated the merits of stitches, but I didn't want to leave the beach, so I found a band aid and went off to play frisbee.

Today i watched the Sea Inside, because it is also about a guy who dives into the water and hits his head. He ends up paralyzed for life, wants to die in a "please just kill me already," sort of way for thirty years, then he finds a woman who loves him enough to do the deed. So. . .there's that. Basically, it left me feeling like sort of a whiny dick for spending the whole week worrying about the little scar on my forehead. Also, it depressed me that this quadriplegic guy was still able to get two women to fall in love with him, which is two more than I've got. But that's me. I'm kind of a dick.

Bring back the draft!

Let's face it, the United States does not have enough troops to fight the Iraq war and the all the other wars we want to fight. Therefore, I think we should bring back the draft, since I am now too old to be drafted. As a male in his late twenties, I find most men between the ages of 18 and 26 annoying. Also, they are better looking, fitter, have less body hair, and have not had the rosy promise of their youthful dreams crushed like I have. If we draft all the young straight men in America, there should be more younger girls around for me to bother. Also, the people who are really worth hanging out with, like the rich, the entitled, the loudmouth radicals, the mentally handicapped, and the gays, will still all be around to entertain me. Fight on, young America!

Why I'm not hanging out with alcoholics anymore

I am not hanging out with my alcoholic friends anymore. Why? Because they are boring and hungover every day. They complain about how much their head/stomach/eyes hurt all the time. And, they don't want to do anything fun.
So, I am no longer hanging out with my alcoholic friends. Except when I'm drinking. Or hungover.

you should. . .go see Transformers

I mean, I wanted to see it so badly that I went and saw Harry Potter instead. I'm willing to buy teenage magicians living among us, but alien robots that look like Volkswagons? No.

priorities

Neither Lynne nor I are talented at the waking up part of the day. Since we both have jobs that enable us to slink in late if need be, we often abuse this privilege. Sometimes one of us gets to feeling guilty about our sloth, and we make a pact to meet for coffee at 8 A.M. (I know, ungodly), We both feel that if the other is actually depending on us for company, it will be easier to get out of bed. Today, I did feel the guilt. I was in bed at 7:52 and everything hurt so badly, I just wanted to close my eyes and let my hair waft in the smooth breeze from my fan. Instead, I got up, threw some clothes on, and went to the 1369 coffee shop, where I chugged iced coffee with Lynne and gossiped desultorily about our recently broken-up friend Jabber.

Then I went home and went back to bed. Apparently, I value Lynne’s friendship more than my workplace responsibilities.

Barbers

shaveeverywhere.com

uh. . .everywhere?



really. . .everywhere?