IT'S NOT PORTLAND

Last night's jaunt through Chinatown was peaceful and serene till after the pipe. Sometimes it isn't; odd screams, and evidence of psychotic behaviour. The karaoke bar when I passed was quiet except for the periodic slam of dicecups, the alleyway opposite had a man licking the wriggling toes of his girlfriend.
I assume it was his girlfriend. I refuse to speculate.
Nor shall I judge them. They seemed sober.

That alleyway collects artists.

The bookseller was already at the burger joint when I arrived. He had been to Portland, last week, and perhaps out of a misguided sense of loyalty to San Francisco brew pubs, or simply no opportunity, had not drunk beer since a fortnight ago. No beer in Portland.
As everybody knows, beer is the only Portland achievement.
That and their tourist advertisements with a chicken.

Last year, on a whim, I scoured the internet for images of the Portland tourist office advertising chicken, with no luck.


Not to sound all moralistic here, but a quirky chicken is more wholesome as an advertising image than two people engaged in toe-licking in an alleyway strewn with garbage.

I'm sure the Chinese gentlemen at the karaoke bar saw them when they stepped out for a smoke. It probably didn't faze them. They live in San Francisco, and naturally assume that that is what white people do.




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