Only Portland would go out celebrate the first real day of autumn like the first real day of summer.
Bailey’s was overcrowded so instead of trying to fight for a place to sit down and write or choosing to stand, I shook the rain off my hat and went to Angelo’s, where I could enjoy the chilling night like a proper gentleman: seated.
They don’t serve beers correctly here- you can see the wave of frost on my glass of Double Mountain Killer Red ale- but I’m hard pressed to complain. This place is riding the last stand of dive bars in the Hawthorne area and there’s a history to continue: we don’t give a shit about what you’re here for, just pay up and drink. And pay cash while you’re at it, we don’t deal in magnetic stripes.
It won’t last much longer. Even the Space Room has cleaned up and I thought that place would be the home of grumpy old ladies making Long Island Ice Teas forever.
There’s a banana flavor on the end of this beer, too; something went wrong somewhere and there’s no coming back. It’s not undrinkable but I have made better beers.
Yet, it all makes sense, somehow. I’m not here to appreciate the finer points of ales, I’m here to hide out in a way that I can’t under the bright lights of a crowded place. Something about the rain and the wind is peeling my summer self away and it’s time to turtle up and get the winter callus on.
And winter is always a good time for me, since dark nights are made for writing and drinking. Glowering at the world though my eyes with a smile on my teeth, I can wrap myself up in weatherproof coats and leave behind the summer of grapefruit IPAs.
I can’t wait.