Portlanders like to joke about “keeping Portland weird,” but there are days when I think we’re plenty weird enough, thanks. Then again, maybe I’m mistaking weird people for drunken people.
Lil’ and I were at “The O.G.” last night, waiting the requisite 40 minutes for available seating. That’s what we get for going out on a Friday night, after all. We talked, as we often do, about this, that, and the other thing. One of the things Lil’ talked about was how she persuaded her eldest child to find lodging other than at her home. To wit, she put her foot down and said, “Sure, you can live here once you’re eighteen… if you’re either going to school or paying rent!” Surprise, surprise, the demonspawn in question arranged for an apartment of her own.
Out of nowhere, a voice declared, “God bless you!” We both blinked and turned to look at the newcomer to our conversation. Apparently if you’re an older drunken man, eavesdropping and butting in are perfectly acceptable behaviour. We were then treated to a rambling part-rant part-life-story treatise on how kids today are too coddled for their own good, yadda yadda. This went on for a few minutes, and then the whole scene became even more amusing (as well as annoying).
A young lady walked up and asked if we knew where she could find the nearby Sweet Tomatoes. Our new friend replied, “I’m a sweet tomato!” and offered the poor girl a hug. To the surprise of nobody lacking blood alcohol content, she declined. Oddly enough, the gentleman turned helpful: He knew exactly where to go, and gave mostly-useful directions. (At that point I remembered where it was, but he beat me to it. Such is life.) He also tried again for a hug, to no avail.
After the girl left, he returned to his attempts to engage us in meaningful dialog, then decided that it was time to go and insisted on a group hug, or at least the chance to throw his arms over both of our shoulders. (Personal space! Personal space!) Lil’ and I both suffered through the mercifully brief physical contact; we later agreed that it just wasn’t worth annoying the drunken man, as long as the hug was quick and he went far away immediately afterward. Once he was out of earshot, I collapsed into a giggling fit on Lil’s shoulder. She declared, “That proves it. We are freak magnets.”
Luckily for us, that was the only annoying and freakish part of our evening. Oh, and in an amusing bit of irony given yesterday’s entry: I had chicken parmigiana and fettucini alfredo, my “usual” when I go to Olive Garden…