52 Weeks 24: Southern Oregon Woodshed Red

It’s raining heavily tonight, and the city is that mythical mixture of gray and green that people often think Portland is like all the time. Like spring and fall exist here perpetually. My beer is not mythical, rather it is typical; a simple red ale, easy to drink and unassuming. The kind of beer I’d give to someone as an introduction to craft ales, because it tastes good and can be paired with a lot of munchies, but isn’t so forceful that someone will be put off by it. 

It’s difficult for me to resist despair these days I’m afraid. The rain (along with politics, economy, and rough sleeping habits) has made me pensive, so the reader will have to indulge me a little tonight. Driving to the bar the sky was that beautiful monotone, with the clouds setting into the city like old friends on a couch. The colors that were left struck out boldly, a cocked hip in the stance of the evening. NoMeansNo sung me to the bar through the tape deck, we’re all just like this…only human.

I feel more human than superhuman these days. It’s unfortunate because superhumanity seems to be called for.

The night falls and the neon starts to pop out more, giving everything that faux Blade Runner look that makes me want to be the noir detective again. I’d be a terrible noir detective though; I despise MacGuffins and I prefer my dames to be of the non-smoking variety. Plus there’s that whole part where I’d get beat up, and I don’t want to get beat up.

I’m at Bailey’s in the midzone, after everyone from the after-work crowd has left, before the regulars of the night arrive, and maybe that’s contributing to my verbosity and exaggeration. Noir detectives lived in worlds of black and white, but had lives where things were shaded. So it is now; the workers have gone home, the night gang (including Sparky, the Prof. and the after-hours crew) are still hours away. The tables seem isolated, focused inward and reluctant to welcome outsiders. Geoff clears away the tables, changes the kegs and grabs a quick bite while he can do it, entertaining the men holding up the bar. I get to sit in a corner and write . 

That’s probably as noir as I’ll get. Except for Rage Against the Machine’s cover of Pistol Grip Pump on the speakers. That’s just the kind of song that makes a fella feel badass. 

If I was the emoticon type, that’s where you’d get a wink. But I am not, so you won’t. 

Ah, I see my pint is broken. I do believe it’s time to fix that.

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