I went to Fourth Thursday last night. The web definition is:
Every last Thursday of each month, Alberta St. turns into a public art show with booths that line the street from NE 14th to NE 31st. You might see some DJ’s on the corner sidewalk shaking beats well into the night, maybe even a few fire walkers, street performers or the March Fourth marching band throwing down great grooves for all to enjoy.
It’s basically like going to a square on NYC, maybe in Chelsea, except the people of Portland try too hard to be different, artsy, whatever. You can see them looking around like, “Whose watching me be funky right now!? Look everyone! I’m dressed in a gnome costume! And, I’m dancing . . . in the middle of the street! OMG, who does that?! I do! I’m weird and different!”
I’m more of a live and let live, mind your own business type of person, so I’m not a big people-watcher by nature. And, I find it much more interesting when people are just being for the sake of being, not for the purpose of gaining attention or purposefully being different. Plus, I’ve been around and seen a lot of stuff, so maybe I’m desensitized. It was fun and all, and nice to be out of my little bubble for awhile.
Being on the prowl, I was, of course, scouting the place out for guys, and I was deeply disturbed by the was the lack of decent men. Disturbed, but sadly, not surprised. Skinny jeans, skinny jeans cut-offs, fat (not chubby — we’re talking sloppy here), goatees (aka the prison pussy), thrift shop clothing (the obvious “Look at me! I shop at Buffalo Gap! I’m so cool and sustainable!” kind) and really just a lousy selection.
After a bite with friends I went home and hopped online before bed. Finally, a message from Match.com (I’m not having a lot of luck there)! In the body of his email, he admitted that he failed my requirements and wanted me to guess which ones. It didn’t take long . . . he was 5’6″ tall and probably in the 300+ lb range. He had a major prison pussy, too. Seriously?
Sigh . . .
OK, so I’m being totally down on Portland, and really, it’s a great city in many ways, but the more time I spend here, the more I miss the east coast (and the men on the east coast). I’m frustrated. And, let’s face it, I’m not a good fit here. I’ve known that for a long time. And now, I just need to do something about it — either learn to love it or get the hell out of town.