On Saturday the annual Portland Urban Iditarod was....run? Staggered through? Ok, I can't come up with an appropriate verb. Nevertheless, here's some snapshots from this year's beer-fueled hipster melee:

One of the most inspired entrants this year was the Last Supper cart. A member of their team was wandering through the crowd at the race's final stop with a "magic" water-into-wine jug, offering to perform miracles for anyone with an empty cup.

Remember Spaceballs? I remember Spaceballs.

My personal favorite: the JFK assassination team. While they were definitely contenders for this year's most offensive cart, the award probably belongs in the hands of "Team Greg Oden." For photos of their efforts, click here (NSFW). The JFK team had a President Kennedy, a blood-covered Jackie O, a Fidel Castro, several secret servicemen, a Lee Harvey Oswald and, yeah, a Marylin Monroe. They also brought two carts with them: a limo and a book depository. Although, the question must be posed: too soon?

And who could forget the roaring Godzilla cart and the big lizard's, uh, "little lizard"? The Hello Kitty ornaments were definitely an inspired touch.

This was my second urban iditarod and I'm still not too clear on how the rules work. Or if there are rules. I guess this guy was the MC and determined when the teams would stop, say, breaking windows on the second floor of the Barracuda Bar and Lounge and race off to their next destination. He did have a whistle with him.

Anyway, click here for an obligatory Flickr gallery and/or over here for photos from last year's iditarod.

Labels: alcohol, bars, sports

A review from Barfly Magazine:

There's actually plenty of reasons to frequent Tony's - for even those not 86'd by every surrounding establishment - though, y'know, every bar has its niche. Their cigarette machine beats mini mart prices, six-packs are sold up til 2:29:59, the pool table's generally vacant, they have a real juke box (that's really good!), they open at 7 AM, and regulars have been long inured to glammier tourists. Cleaner than you'd expect (excepting the regulars), the shotgun tavern wouldn't even be considered all that divey a few miles east though a lingering reputation ensures, post-Beavers games, it's the only staggerable option with guaranteed seating.

I think that hits the 16 ounce can of Hamm's on the head. Plus, there's a creepy rabbit statue behind the bar (see above). Tony's can be found near the corner of 19th and West Burnside.

Labels: bars, beer

Imagine a bar with driftwood tables and peanut shells on the floor- a bar where nicknacks cover every available surface, making it look like a Red Robin after a truck full of antiques crash-landed through a wall. A Double Big Gulp-sized, mutated neighborhood hangout with bras stapled to ceiling where chain-smoking ex-fratboys and truckers laugh their asses off when the DJ plays Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal." The sort of place where you half-expect vampire strippers to jump out of the walls at any second ala From Dusk 'Till Dawn.

Would you ever want to set foot in such a joint like this? Ok, probably not but curiosity might get the better of you when you hear its name:

Wanker's Corner Saloon and Cafe- located in lovely Wilsonville, just a 15-minute jaunt down I-5 from downtown Portland.

I don't know if the term "wanker" meant something different way back in 1933 when it opened in its original location. According to Wikipedia, the story goes that the bar originally sat at an intersection dubbed Wanker's Corner in Clackamas County, named for a local resident's surname. Regardless of whether or not the whole thing is a decades' long gag, which I'm sure it is, the current owners encourage the theme. Have a look at Wanker's Corner's kangaroo mascot on the bar's website. I guess that's funny, in a Mad TV, t-shirt-at-a-truck stop-kinda way.

I'm a lilly-livered Portland liberal but I've set foot in plenty of places in this state where I shouldn't have: Ted Nugent concerts, monster truck rallies and, well, eastern Oregon. Despite being only a stone's throw from the metro area, I don't think I've been anywhere in Oregon where I've felt more out of place than at Wanker's Corner.

A colleague and I fled for the door after a round, only to find ourselves trapped by a small army of Axe Body Spray-types pouring out of a stretch Humvee. To put it one way, that damn thing was like a clown car for douchebags. They just kept coming. Once we were out of there, we spent another five minutes penned down in the parking lot because the Humvee had our car blocked.

Still, I'm glad to know Wanker's Corner is out there. The staff didn't cop an attitude, despite the fact that we clearly didn't belong there, and I'm not about to turn my nose up at free peanuts. It's exactly what a place like this should be and at least one step up from a Hooters. I'm sure the food is better and the beer menu is head and shoulders above what you'll find at one of those chain restaurants that serve "legendary" wings that, quite frankly, taste like sawdust.

Live long and prosper, Wanker's Corner. Y vaya con Dios.

Labels: bars, beer, Wilsonville

Oregon's new smoking ban won't go into effect until July of 2009, leaving me enough time to ponder this: if spending an hour in the Horse Brass on a busy night is the equivalent of chain smoking 10 unfiltered cigarettes (my own guesstimate), what's it going to be like after July '09? Regardless of the upcoming ban, it's going to take years for that place to air out.

Labels: bars, Portland

I haven't seen this myself but, from what I’ve heard, a regular at the Oaks Bottom Public House has spent enough time there to land himself a theme song. As he heads out for the night, whoever is working behind the bar will flip a switch kicking the brewery's sound system over to the "that’s all folks!" song from the old Looney Tunes cartoons.

Did Norm from Cheers ever receive something like that? Or Bukowski at all the dives he hung around? I don’t think so. This leaves me to wonder, how much time do you have to spend at a local watering hole to earn that kind of honor?

Labels: bars, Portland

A few years ago I created a drink called the "Mickican." Despite the semi-offensive name, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It's a Black and Tan made with Guinness and Corona, a beverage perfect for fielding the gap between St. Patrick's Day and Cinco de Mayo. The Mickican could use a new name and I still think it could catch on with the right kind of promotion. Anyone know an influential bartender?

Now I've had a hand in the birth of another drink. While waiting for late night happy hour to being at Dragonfish last week, I noticed a Bloody Mary on the menu with wasabi listed as one of the key ingredients. Wasabi? And booze? And tomato juice? All in the same glass? It sounded like a dare but not one I was willing to take. I can't stand Bloody Marys. As far as I'm concerned, they're cocktail kryptonite.

Still, wasabi....in a drink. The concept beckoned. I don't which one of us at the table came up with it but, suddenly, ordering a martini with wasabi in place of the olive's pimento suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. But how to explain something like this to our waitress?

"Yes, madam, I'm in need of strong drink. You see, a straight-up gin martini doesn't have enough bite. I need something with a little more kick, something practically guaranteed to burn a hole straight through my liver. What I'm looking for is the cocktail equivalent of that nasty little bastard in the first Alien movie, eight ounces of pure fire water that's liable to burst out of my gut and run around the bar. Just bring the drink to the table, along with a lot of napkins, and run for cover. Tip well? Of course we do. Plus, my friend is willing to clean up all the blood and burnt intestines from our booth while I hunt the beast down with these here chopsticks. The other customers? Don't worry about them. They'll get out of the way. They look spry."

I spared the waitress the specifics of our experiment. A friend and I ordered two martinis with a golf ball-sized chunk of wasabi on the side. We replaced the pimentos and promptly dumped a pair of olive IEDs into our drinks. The first sip offered a bit of the kick I was looking for but it wasn't enough. Already unimpressed and eager to cut straight to the stomach pains, my colleague dumped another chunk of wasabi into his martini. I held off. If everything went as planned, the olive would slowly "time release" the wasabi, making each sip spicier than the last. I figured this is a drink that should be eased into. No sense jumping into the deep end of the booze/spice pool. That would only lead to trouble.

Within moments, my friend's martini was as green as the ooze that created the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Mine looked more like stagnant pond scum. Still, the olive did it's thing and slowly sneaked more and more wasabi into a decreasing amount of gin. Each sip kicked harder than the last and, by the time I got down to the last one, it tasted somewhere between Everclear and a four-alarm fire in a bottle rocket factory.

Yeah, I'm exaggerating but the wasabi definitely amplified the gin and sharpened its bite. Seeing that my gut was already clogged with questionable amounts of lukewarm sushi from the Todai at Pioneer Place, I quit after one martini and cut back to a Kirin. My friend ordered another with a side of spicy tuna rolls. Maybe I'm too much of a lightweight for this sort of thing.

I think it's a drink worthy of a name. I've come up with a few suggestions. Feel free to vote for your favorite in the poll below and pat yourself on the back afterwards (or come up with a name of your own and suggest it via the "comments" link below).

What should this drink be dubbed?
	A watini
	A marsabi
	Liquid Hellfire
	A Rising Sunshine (get it?)
	Pain
pollcode.com free polls

Congratulations, you've just played a roll in the creation of a drink capable of killing a man.

Labels: bars, Booze, Portland

For years, Kell's Irish Restaurant and Pub has dominated St. Patrick's Day in Portland. Back in 2005 I decided I should head down there at least once. An attempt to round up a proper drinking crew was quickly thwarted by a stiff cover charge. St. Patrick's also fell on a weeknight that year, which didn't help the cause.

The last time I checked, Kell's cover charge runs upwards of $20 on St. Patrick's Day. Is that worth an opportunity to drink inside a tent in the middle of March? Probably not but I was still curious enough to head down there on Saturday with a colleague. By 4 PM, a line snaked down the block in front of the pub's main entrance. The crowd seemed to consist of spring breakers too broke to spend the week in Cancun. Maybe it was the summer-like weather or the fact that the holiday came on a Saturday but every bar on 2nd Avenue was clogged with drunks. Unwilling to drop cash to drink alongside undergrads in giant green hats shaped like beer mugs, we decided to return later in the evening, figuring that several hours of binge drinking would thin out their ranks. We stayed long enough to take a few photos...

Meet Mr. Guinness. Could he take on Sudsy, the Oregon Commentator's mascot and the only other anthromorphic beer I can think of off the top of my head? Naw. My money's on Sudsy. At least he has a face and can tell which way to throw a punch.

These guys were setting up shop in a nearby parking lot as we passed by. They practiced that one song you always hear when someone plays the bagpipes that isn't "Amazing Grace." It was the first of many times we would hear the tune over the next nine hours. I still don't know the name.

The local chapter of MADD decided to contribute to the holiday's good cheer by parking this wrecked sports car in front of Kell's party tent. Slapped on the side was a terse message warning celebrants to take it easy on the green beer if they plan on driving. I'm not convinced the message was getting through to the crowd. As we headed back to the car I spotted a frat kid climbing around on the front, urging a buddy to snap his photo.

From downtown we fled all the way out to Edgefield, where we waited two hours for a table at the Power Station Pub. The grounds were packed with an older crowd covered in shamrock paraphernalia. These guys were playing classic rock covers in front of the Little Red Shed. We ate stew, drank beer and had our ears shredded by a bagpiper who wandered into the pub, thus proving the Theory of Bagpipes. Bagpipes + indoors – decent acoustics = shredded ears.

Back on 2nd Avenue, a new round of frat brats had taken over. All the bars were still packed and, with the hour growing late, the cover charge at Kell's again worked its de-motivational mojo, despite the promise of glowing, keepsake beer mugs. We settled on Dan and Louis' Shucking Room, tucked in a corner off the main drag. Inside, a guitarist was playing traditional Irish tunes, "traditional" in this sense meaning that they were filled with crude sexual innuendos and fart jokes. The drinks were stiff and the song about what happens when you leave a live crab in a chamber pot was killer.

From there we headed over to Voodoo Doughnut for custard-filled sweets covered in shamrock candy and green frosting. The DJ at Ground Kontrol wasn't spinning any drinking songs but the elaborate Pirates of the Caribbean pinball machine with a sinkable Flying Dutchman made up for it.

We didn't manage to drink any green beer, get into any brawls or track down a bartender willing to make us Irish Car Bombs but, eh, whaddyagonnado? We ate green doughnuts, listened to songs that referred to flatulence as "passing wind" and played arcade games. The first time I ever sunk a plastic pirate ship with a pinball? 12:30 AM on 3/18/07. Yes, I consider this an accomplishment. Where's my resume?

Labels: bars, Booze, Portland

The current display in the front window of the Florida Room.

Labels: bars, Booze, cell, phone, photos

If you head over to NE Killingsworth and up to the main entrance of the Florida Room, the first thing that will greet you is a window display. A window display filled with toys engaged in an oceanside orgy. Prior to my first visit, the idea of a Cerberus action figure performing a sex act on an Ken doll had never crossed my mind.

To the staff and management of The Florida Room, I offer a hesitant "thanks" in return.

This North Portland bar opened last summer across the street from what was to become the Chapel Pub. It clearly draws a different clientele than its McMenamins neighbor. While the Chapel Pub is aiming for a family-friendly crowd willing to overlook its somber past, the Florida Room is all about hipsters. If you were to stick a knife in the side of the Florida Room, it would probably bleed hipsters. And Voodoo Doughnuts, which are available on Saturdays.

The decor is cheeky, the booths look like they were lifted from an old Denny's and the place is covered in beach house kitsch. Old brew paraphernalia is scattered throughout, an Olympia Beer clock tells the time on a four hour delay (is it broken or just showing bar time in the South Pacific?) and the ashtrays look like they were stolen from a grandmother's living room.

A chalkboard behind the bar covered in doodles of naughty bits lists the beer menu, which consists mostly of 16 ounce cans of corporate suds. The Florida Room is probably one of the last remaining bars in town where you can order Schlitz. It's also known for its Bloody Marys. On the weekends the staff whips up eight different varieties of the hangover helper during daylight hours. We ordered a few Rainer pounders, ignoring a set of neglected taps in the corner. Why? Because that's what everyone else seemed to be drinking and because Bloody Marys are the worst cocktail in the history of the world. Sorry, if you want gazpacho, have gazpacho and drink a vodka tonic on the side. Vegetables and booze don't belong in the same container.

More chalkboards and X-rated drawings can be found in the bathrooms. I added a wide-eyed Garfield to the growing mural. Within minutes, someone went in and added an "eat me" word bubble over the cartoon cat's head. Bloody Mary fetishizing aside, it's hard to argue with a bar like this. Last Friday won't be my last trip over there.

With a funeral home McMenamins across the street, this section of Killingsworth has the potential to become Portland's weirdest bar row. The Portland Community College a block away would probably make a great boozepub hotel if it ever shuts down.

Labels: bars, Booze, Portland