In This Economy?

We’ve already learned that Portland is such den of iniquity that they offer free condoms in their hotel rooms. And we now know that Portland is not even in the same state as Mount St. Helens (not to be confused with the nun porn flick of the same name).

So what else is there to know about the famed “City of Roses”? I’ll tell you: strippers.

Not so fast, horndogs

Before I get to that, let me fulfill the promise I made in the previous post regarding what was to come (no pun intended) in this post.

Steak: I had the rib eye at a random pub. Seemed like a simple enough order. But it came topped with brown gravy, mushrooms and fried onions, all on a bed of what I think were mashed potatoes, grilled onions and some other vegetable-like objects. All kind of blended together. I’m sorry, but in Texas, a steak is a steak and that’s all you need. Maybe a little chocolate sauce if it’s a dessert steak.

Beer: Breweries and pubs galore. The Willamette and Columbia rivers flow with beer, which is why there are so many homeless in Portland. It’s a Garden of Eden for alcoholic Adams and Eves (and Steves). I tasted so many delicious beers that even after I vomited, I ate my own sick just to experience the flavors again.

Music: The annual Rose Festival encapsulated what Portland is really about: rickety Ferris wheels, deep-fried hippie fingers and lots of bands. But I didn’t go to the Rose Festival because it looked stupid. (For my money, the only rose worth a damn is Bette Midler, seen below.) My favorite Portland band, The Thermals, happened to be in Dallas while I was in Oregon, so I got my revenge by seeing a New York band, TV on the Radio. Not sure if my message of vengeance was received.

The Simpsons: Matt Groening is from Portland, and he named some of his characters after streets, which were named after founders and other prominent men in the city’s history, such as Lovejoy, Flanders, Quimby and Kearney. My hotel was located on Comic Book Guy Road, and there’s a leper colony called Krusty’s.

OK, horndogs, you’re back in

Now here’s the kind of information that puts asses in seats: Besides beer, Portland is famous (among my roommate and this Hawaiian dude I met in Portland) for its strip clubs.

I’m not a strip club kind of guy, to be honest with you. But when ITE? sends you on assignment, you’d better deliver the goods or go insane from syphilis trying. I chose to deliver the goods. And dose up on penicillin.

On a quiet Sunday morning, while your typical Americans were busy wishing they weren’t at church, I was drinking ales in the Rogue Distillery and Public House and prepping to waltz into Mary’s Club. Texas-style. Full-on swagger. God’s gift to naked women. Or more likely, head ducked in embarrassment, thanking Jeebus that the dim lighting masked my uncontrollable blushing.

At the bar, I met an ex-military/Hawaiian expat named Alex. He was, like me, making the early beer rounds and was shocked that I hadn’t spent my entire trip in Portland’s gentlemen’s clubs. So we hit the pavement and went to Mary’s.

The naked truth

We were the only people in the room besides the lady working the cash register and a bouncer. Alex struck up a conversation with the dancer about her tattoos, and we all agreed to spend Christmas together in the Hamptons.

After that, Alex decided I needed to try out this other club across town. So we climbed into his BMW and flew down the highway at an alarming speed. Before we even pulled into the parking lot, a dissatisfied customer exited the building and notified us that they only had two dancers at the moment. I guess that’s a bad thing. We didn’t stay long because Alex made a remark to one of the dancers disparaging implants. She had implants.

Next, Alex dropped me off at my hotel, made some overtures about employing me to write a book about the current housing crisis (true story) and then split. Lucky for me and you, my hotel sat a half block away from a place called Union Jack’s.

One Internet reviewer raved, “Sucide Girls and boa constrictors combined with a 60′s swing club ambiance help make this a fun evening out with the guys or the girls… .” I’m not sure what I saw were official Suicide Girls and there certainly were no boa contrictors, but one genuinely friendly and chatty dancer did tell me I should have more self-confidence (it’s like she knew me all my life!).

End times (but not in a biblical way)

By that point, I was drunk on the job (sober reporting is really difficult), and a full day of objectifying women was tugging at my conscience and draining my wallet. I may have even offered to pay a dancer’s way through law school.

So I went back to my room, ruminated on Portland’s economy and came to this overall conclusion: While unemployment is sky-high and homeless shelters are overflowing, the music scene and breweries seem to be thriving, and I’m pretty sure that last stripper was into me.

Tags: beer, naked, nude, Portland, Rogue Ale, strip clubs, strippers, Suicide Girls, The Simpsons, The Thermals, TV on the Radio

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 9th, 2009 at 3:44 PM and is filed under Human Encounters. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.