We’ve discovered some more things about Portland. The place where we’ve been parking is a sweet little nook between a dive bar and a funeral home. In the wee hours, between the time when we’re done gigging and the time that we go to bed, we’ve found that the dive bar is a wonderful place for cheap entertainment. The other night, Jessi’s brother came down from Seattle to visit us, and we eventually found ourselves over at the Sandy Hut (or “Handy Slut” to the locals).

Our maitre d’ for the evening was an overly enthusiastic frothing gentleman, somewhere well past any definition of a spring chicken, that was rather enamored with Jessi. After a few rounds of “Wow! You’reso byoodifl!”, he backed off a bit, as her husband and brother were clearly not seeing his compliments as quite so complimentary, then spouted something about the music choices in the jukebox, and left us to our own devices.

We ordered a round of beer and jello shots and headed over to play shuffleboard. We were playing next to the video lottery machines (basically Pac Man for adults that have given up on life) at which were seated a few people who were minding their own business. Among them were two Latino gentlemen. At some point, our maitre d’ decided to wander over to them and share in a moment of goodwill and brotherhood by spouting some loose Spanglish and suggesting a group hug, all the while referring to the two gentlemen as farmers. Evidently, they were neither farmers nor friends of this man, and were in no mood for his goodwill.

Sensing an inevitable scuffle, we adjourned to the far side of the shuffleboard table. Things got heated. Voices were raised. Then it happened. One of the Latino gentlemen said, “Listen, man. You’re pissing me off. You’re just spouting ignorant bullshit. Just because we’re Mexican doesn’t make us farmers.” Then he left the situation, and sat at the bar. Not only that, but the frothing maitre d’ also got the hint and left them alone. The rest of the night passed without incident.

Now this, of course, was not the verbatim conversation, but the basic gist. Regardless, where we come from, the best case scenario would have been a bar fight; at worst, someone gets stabbed or shot. Amazed, we relayed that story to some locals that we’d met. The response was: “Oh, yeah. Sounds like a typical Portland fight.”

“Hey, man, I don’t want to be a dick, but fuck you.”

“Okay, sorry.”

Portland bar fight.


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