Goats and Beavers, or, the Perils of Portland

I just got back from going Powell's for work. Tee Hee. Looking for stuff for my litigtion among the used books. On my way back I realized it was dinnertime and found a little hole-in-the-wall mexican place that looked inexpensive, and from the number of mexican-looking people in there, good as well. (another downtown dive! Yay) Well, I went in, and on the chalkboard in the back the special of the day was "goat soup." I got it. It was goat. Pieces. Of Goat. and Goat broth. Nothing else. Alththough they did provide a plastic cup full of onion and cilantro, if you found yourself in dire need of vegetables. I steeled myself and ate some of it. The Goat. Decided that perhaps help was needed.

There was a sign saying beer in bar (with an arrow pointing to a door in the back.) So I went through the door. Woops. I walked in and found myself staring right at a woman's, uh, you know, uh, poontang? (trying out the outer limits of my slang vocab) She'd had a brazilian bikini wax, i can assure you. I have learned through experience now that you (or rather they) get to show rather more in strip bars in Portland than in Utah. Where pasties are required. And the sort of panties I'd call PG. And apparantly in Portland no need to advertize what's happening inside. I did like the poster on the wall "Portland welcomes rodeo bull riders" with appropriate picture, however. It turned out goat is a two-beer dish. On my second trip into Mary's the woman was putting her clothes on on stage with the much more nonchalance that I put my clothes on after I shower. La de da. Now I know what goat tastes like. And will be somewhat more cautious about walking though those "Minors absolutely not permitted" doors in the future.