I have gone to the Reel M Inn. The man I ask has a hat from an East Coast fishing town and a beard to match. He doesn’t understand my question at first. The bartender helps me out. The fisherman smiles bashfully and leaves soon after, called away by unknowable business.
A woman sits nearby, empty shotglass with a wasted lime peel inside, beer back barely finished but clearly not in need of it, a man nearby who has had a tragic accident with his baseball cap is trying to put moves on her…they’re at about the same level of sobriety: “Everyone else is stupid and we’re so smart” so I’m not feeling like I need to do anything but listen.
New men come in to replace the fisherman: one smells of marijuana and patchouli, the other notes a reality-TV show spotlighting jails and quips, “That’s Multnomah county. Remarkably, I’ve never been there.”
I either need to come here a lot more often, or never again. Currently, I’m inclined to show up more often but without the encumbrance of a computer and camera.
On the other TV; Food Network. While I drink a PBR. It’s not exactly irony, but it’s something and that moment is not lost on me. At the bar is a sign, telling you the name of your bartender for the evening; Scott. There are hooks there, so you always know who’s serving you.
Overheard as I left:
‘Do you know where I work?’
‘Probably some strip club.’
~laughter-the busted kind~
A pint for Dionysus 
The chicken and jojos are copious and delicious at Reel’M’Inn.
It’s a place I wish I got to more often. Colorful regulars, but no one hassles you for being a stranger.
That sounds about right. Next time I go, though, I’m drinking what I want.