Thursdays are hit or miss in Portland. That, or last night, our fingers simply couldn’t find the pulse. Alas, my good friend Carmen and I went out to play our favorite game, Spot the Hottie.
Following instinct due West, we headed downtown… but before we got far, we came upon a small crowd outside Belmont Station. We made an impulsive decision to stop and take a better look.
In, through the beer store, continuing through the beer cafe, splitting the crowd of plaid-wearing beer bellies, spectacles and beards… and out again.
Back to the car.
“We should be making notes,” I said, “a bunch of beer snobs are almost as unsexy as a crowd of gay boys.”
Sky awash with violet, gold and rose, we figured checking out sunset from the rooftop bar at Departure, next, made the most sense.
Arriving on the 15th floor, we hit the deck. There was one gorgeous woman with a group of friends… but I already knew her! Besides, the sunset was on the opposite side of the building. We thought, lets give the back deck a try.
But it was closed. Mildly aghast, we scratched our heads.
Channeling Dr. Spok, I said, “Highly illogical.”
“Lets make a note of it,” replied Carmen.
Also noted, though attendance at Departure was lacking, the elevator was packed. Everyone was trying their hardest to check each other out with out getting caught.
“There was an inch of space between us and nobody was moving,” Carmen recalled. It seemed to get hotter as we went down. The only voice in elevator, calling out the floors along our decent, was sultry and female.
“It sounds like…” said someone, her voice trailing.
I finished her sentence, “… a phone sex operator!” Then, as we got off, I clarified, “not that I would know, of course.”
We decided to venture into the Pearl. By pure fate of the parking gods, we ended up closest to Henry’s. So we dipped in. A hottie friend of mine was working, but he could hardly entertain us on the clock. After a couple laps around the bar, we moved on… to Blue Hour.
Crictets. We didn’t bother going in. That’s when we realized we had to get out of the Pearl. Back on the East Side, we parked halfway between Rontoms and Doug Fir.
Rontoms was first:
What a snore! The only “hottie” (spotted by Carmen) was a dude, reading, who I joyfully named: The Reader. And he was wearing jeggings. Maybe they were ex-girlfriend’s jeans? Fellas, you may try this at home, but please PLEASE don’t go out… in public… in jeggings!
At Doug Fir, at least there was a fire pit. Like moths to the flame, we veered over and took a seat, but, spotting no hotties (besides the mannequin in the lobby, which – I had to convince Carmen – indeed was not a real person), we didn’t stay long.
Having found not one legitimate hottie, we suddenly had a hankering for the next best thing. Nachos!
It was game over; we went to the Matador. We (again) bee-lined our way to the fire pit and pulled up stools alongside. On our left, two tattooed chicks with fake black hair sipped mojitos and texted messages into the virtual din. On our right – much to my giddy dismay – there were two of the hottest guys we’d seen all night! (They didn’t exactly have much competition, okay?)
One was new to town… which always makes me excited.
“Ooooh,” I said, “fresh meat!” (To which the other guy nearly choked on his taco.)
The four of us had a couple glasses of wine, a bunch of hearty laughs, and, around 1am, Carmen said her car was going to turn into a pumpkin if she didn’t take me home.
So that’s what we did.
Looking back, perhaps none of it was all that noteworthy. But hey! I’ve officially slapped my case of writer’s block in the face.