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The concept is simple: Pick an area of town and patronize
as many bars as you can in the allotted time (that is, before
last call has passed and a pissed-off bartender swipes the
final drink from your lips). Pub crawls, with their chug-and-run
near-athleticism, are almost a drinker's decathlon--events
requiring endurance in varied milieu--except the payoff
is sheer fun rather than gold medals. Don't expect to get
your face on a Wheaties box, though; if you're not careful
to stay within limits, you may end up on the police blotter
instead.
PUB CRAWL
1--DOWNTOWN
Friday, April 2
9:10 pm, Hung Far Low
This is not a place for trendy amateurs. The dusky (burnt-out?)
lighting and musty, low-slung suspended ceiling, the occasionally
inattentive staff, the lack of beer taps, and cheap drinks
mixed strong as bathroom cleanser all combine to keep the
beautiful people away. This, of course, makes the dark lounge
a prime place to stretch your drunkard muscles before a
night of serious imbibing. Its decrepit charm also reminds
me of New York City; in fact, noisy N.Y. gutter-blues band
the Honeymoon Killers liked Hung Far Low so much they named
an album after it.
9:25 pm
Someone complains with glazed eyes that they "can't taste
the juice in this Seabreeze."
9:55 pm, Republic Cafe
This Chinatown spot has the coolest neon sign in Portland.
Inside, the Chinese-village murals, earthy color scheme
and crisp lighting provide a bright contrast to Hung Far
Low's seedy allure, though the taps seem limited to Bud
variations. The Seabreezes are supposedly "better" here,
too, though I maintain less alcohol often doesn't improve
a drink. Amateurs, I tell ya.
10:14 pm, outside the Fox and Hounds
The karaoke guy inside, busy mauling a country song at
full volume, is making us second-guess this destination.
While we ponder the options, the wobbly lush by the door
invites us to buy him a drink. After we politely decline
and turn to leave, he assesses us with soupy eyes and slurs,
"You guys look weird." Touché.
10:35 pm, Shanghai Tunnel
The L-shaped basement bar is packed, so we're exiled to
the entry foyer area (with its giant samurai paintings)
and forced to split ourselves between two tables: one boys
and one girls. Like summer camp. The plentiful Eurobrews
on tap--like Guinness, Boddington's, Späten and Paulaner--and
ever-changing hipster crowd provide alcoholic and visual
entertainment. Not everyone appreciates the snide, cool-guy
attitude of the Tunnel scene, though. "People here are mean,"
observes one crawler. Two pints and off again.
Midnight, Capt. Ankeny's Well
Ouch, this place is bright! The clientele--mainly twentysomething
preppies and jocks--reminds me of guys I avoided in college.
Distraction is provided by salty pizza, ESPN2 and the trompe
l'oeil "pressed tin" ceiling. Some sorta dark beer in
my glass, but I'm not sure what--it doesn't really matter
at this point. We're slowing our pace, stomachs burdened
with beer.
12:45 am, Kelly's Olympian
"Whaddya mean you close at 1?!" Chug a quick pint as the
band packs up and the anxious-to-leave bartender blasts
White Zombie at a deafening decibel level. This place always
feels like a diner--complete with linoleum food counter--and
even with the lights dimmed low the atmosphere persists.
Still, the option of Guinness or Beamish is enough.
Our team seems smaller now; did we lose some lightweights,
or am I just having a hard time seeing the other end of
the table?
1:30 am, Hamburger Mary's
Finish line, as dictated by the clock. Mary's strange "bric-a-brac
meets Jimmy Buffett tropical" vibe isn't as offensive when
you're drunk. Decent beer selection is also irrelevant,
though, so I order a Budweiser. When last call arrives like
a challenge, we wave it off, wave goodbye to each other
and prepare for the morning after.
PUB CRAWL
2--
THE STUMBLING ZONE
(SOUTHEAST HAWTHORNE BOULEVARD)
Sunday, April 11
9:15 pm, The Space Room
Red UFO lamps and black-light murals of the Portland skyline
make this cocktail mecca a hit with the kitsch crowd, and
at $4 for a bowlful of Bloody Mary, it's hard to argue with
them. Wish they had beers other than Rainier, though. And
after a sunny day of drinking, I warn myself to take it
easy on the booze. Famous last words.
10 pm, Sewickly's Addition
The cheap wood paneling of Sewickly's feels like a college
rec room, but it houses one crucial option not available
on the last crawl: bar games, including pinball, pool and
the ubiquitous Golden Tee video golf. Instead of just sitting
with a glass of stout and shouting at each other, we amuse
ourselves by shooting some stick--and trying not to get
liquored up too quickly, even with Sewickly's infamously
stiff drinks. After winning all five pool games I play,
I can even kid myself I'm sober. Riiight.
11:15 pm, Watertrough Saloon
Hipster alert! The classic-rock haven provided by the Watertrough's
jukebox has been invaded by Built to Spill, Guided by Voices,
and Liz Phair. In fact, that's all we hear for an hour straight.
No matter: This low-ceilinged saloon features several pool
tables--I remain undefeated, even after splitting several
pitchers of Hamm's--plus shuffleboard to entertain those
unimpressed with the endless indie rock overhead. Dense
cigarette smoke keeps eyes irritated and irrigated, though.
Midnight, Mt. Tabor Pub
I stupidly convince people that, even if it is drum
circle night, we are obliged to pay a visit to the cavernous,
hangarlike interior of the Tabor.
12:20 pm
Disaster strikes! After finally yielding at pool, I have
to pay back my wager--that the loser dances in the drum
circle. Shirtless. My so-called friends laugh mercilessly
as I, an avowed hater of all things hippie, must "groove"
to the thumping bongos. The Tabor's spacious ceilings and
tie-dye tapestries never seemed claustrophobically close
before--but they do now.
1:17 am, Bar of the Gods
When it's not too crowded to sit, this tiny, dark, deity-themed
joint is as comfy as they come, with puffy sofas and brews
ranging from Pabst to Guinness. By this point, I'm so lit
my beer becomes everyone else's, as well: "Here, have some
of this--I can't finish it." Ten minutes later, I'm at the
bar buying another.
1:55 am
Last call and everything's funny. Giggling fits strike
with regularity. When we end up lying, laughing, in the
street after closing time, the pub crawl seems like a brilliant
idea. Tomorrow morning, our bodies will tell us differently...but
it's just another day in the life of a hard-drinking decathlete.
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