ever since i turned 21, i've dreamed that one day i'd have a bar that i could call my own, a neighborhood place where i could stop in any day of the week at any time of the day & the bartender, a cute girl who i've established a flirty customer-proprietor relationship with would look at me as i grabbed a stool at the bar & say to me "the usual?" i'd nod & she'd pour me a cold pint of my favoritest snooty beer. it'd be some real cliche shizz & totally not pathetic. every once in a while, she & i & a handful of regulars would order food from the restaurant next door. it'd be like a second home, third if you count my childhood home, which i probably should. to this day, largely due to my propensity towards home drinking, i've yet to find that magical third home...still searching though.
for part three of my portland, oregon investigative series, i've decided to take a look at the portland bar scene & see what it has to offer as far as third homes. i've yet to witness the portland scene firsthand but it's one that i've heard, read & dreamed a lot about & i have a handful of portland friends & acquaintances, so i was able to tap their alcohol-tainted brains & get a ROUGH idea of what's in store for me if i ever go out drinking in bridgetown. that's right...bridgetown. the city has a river running right through the middle of it, so they've got bridges. bridgetown. i'm not sure if anyone actually calls it that, but if they don't, they should. as a nickname, "city of roses" is just stupid. other suggestion: "beavertown."
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