PORTLAND!

What city is more smug than ours?

If you said Seattle as recently as 3-to-4 years ago, you’d still be right.

But these days, Portland is King of the Hill as far as smugness goes. Granted, I’ve never been to, say, Brooklyn — and I’m sure it’s smug there too — but it can’t possibly be as bad as it is here. In New York, you still have a solid bedrock of tough, hard-working people who have lived through disappointment, frustration and pain and emerged with greater strength of character.

Not so here!

We are beset by condescending, privileged twerps.

Just look at the following photo, for Chrissakes, snapped secretly by a friend at the airport the other day. It’s two garden-variety Portlanders. For all I know, they might be wonderful people. Salt of the fucking earth.

But nearly EVERYONE in town looks just like them. Ironic clothing…ironic eye-ware…the same old tiresome song.

To be clear, I have no problem with anyone’s personal aesthetics. I frequently see Portland idiots dressed up as pirates, and though I don’t think of them in positive terms, I spend no mental currency on their place in this world. Honestly, smug Portlanders — I couldn’t care less if your wardrobe personifies indie-rock cliche. When it’s all said and done, you’re just another jerk I’ll go out of my way to ignore.

Here’s the rub though: these wiry, unfruitful clods don’t simply ignore others. NO! They sneer and scoff at anyone who doesn’t fit their DIY Cool Person Template.

It has steadily gotten worse in the 10 years I’ve lived here. It’s one effed-up milieu of shit.

More than ever, the city is teeming with unoriginal, emaciated oafs who wear tight brown pants and sing loudly to themselves at the bus stop.

Such individuals!

(No, I’m not going to hunt down data to support my assertions, but I know there are data out there just waiting to be culled for those exact purposes.)

Frustrating stuff.

I try hard to avoid the cliche of misanthropy. Misanthropy is an easy emotion. But the oppressiveness of the cool Portland alpha culture has reached an intolerable apex. I can’t count the number of times I’ve looked up from reading my book on the bus and some skateboarder fuckwad was glaring (or smirking) at me because my dress shirt and slacks didn’t ooze awesome-fucking-street-cred.

These days, the forecast consistently calls for a torrent of fist-showers…on the faces of Portland “creatives!”

O! I wish to pummel these creatures!

If there was but one day a year when I could rain blows upon their smug faces w/o fear of legal reproach!

O!

What happy times those would be, friend!

So there you have it — another fatuous diatribe, and I’ve been singing the same song since 2000. A terrible earthquake on Belmont would go a long ways toward mitigating PDX’s alpha culture.

Nature? I’m paging you.

The wife and I have experienced an inordinate amount of bad customer service in Portland lately.

The most glaring and recent example occurred at the REI store in Clackamas a couple weeks ago.

The skinny: I went to REI (a store I’m not terribly fond of to begin with; it’s mostly overpriced, urban backpacker/adventure-wear for well-to-do kayaking dullards).

Anyway, the only reason I went was to replace my stolen bike with one authorized by my home insurance adjuster. My intent was to get in and get the hell out so I could rest my aching head, as I was suffering from an awful cold.

Enter REI Bike Store Guy to “help” me with my purchase!

“Do you need some help?” he labored to ask.

“Yeah, I need to look at a bike. Is there a bike guy around?”

“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to elaborate that he was “the bike guy.”

“Umm…is that you then?” I said for clarification.

“Yeah.”

Bike Store Guy was in many ways a typical Portland service industry person — zero social skills; totally aloof; monosyllabic…too cool to help. I should be thankful that I had the opportunity to buy a $600 bike from him.

What follows is a short list of his trangressions:

• When my wife asked Bike Store Guy if the bike came in any different colors, he definitively said “no.”

• When I requested to take the bike for a ride, his body language made it clear that I had crossed the line.

• I told Bike Store Guy the handlebars on my old bike were slightly longer than the ones on the replacement bike. His response? “No, they’re the same.”

• When it became obvious that I was going to purchase the bike, he asked…

“Are you an REI member?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think I became one when I bought the last bike. I don’t have my ID number or anything though.”

His response?

“Well, if you go over to the customer service desk, they can help you.”

Even though I was astonished by the idiocy of this remark, I was deep in a Robitussin haze and didn’t really give a damn. Plus, I’ve come to expect so little from Portland service industry people that when they act like retards, it barely registers.

But finally, the goon dawdled back to the repair room with my bike to do some final tune-up work or whatever. When he re-emerged — maybe 3 seconds later — miraculously he had checked off the 10 or so items on the “pre-sale” checklist.

More Robitussin-tinged astonishment on my part.

“You did all of this?” I politely asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

Lastly, Bike Store Guy attempted to rush me through the sales paperwork. Since he was obviously in a hurry to do something — eat lunch, masturbate, take a piss — I pored over the paperwork like I was reading the Magna Carta.  I asked a clarifying question about the warranty, which rankled him.

He then spurted out the incredible line: “Just sign right there.”

Finally, when Bike Store Guy saw that I was dotting the last “i” on my John Hancock, he rapidly said something indecipherable and then raced upstairs to the bathroom or lunch room (or hopefully, nearest noose).

I stood motionless, perplexed. My wife, usually one to hold back her anger with customer service people, demanded we leave. My 5-year-old started crying.

Later that evening, as my cold improved, I experienced “retro-rage,” and I tweeted incessantly about the stupid ordeal.

As bad as it was, though, I’ve seen worse, namely Belmont Computers in Southeast Portland. Worst, most moronic service ever.

But that’s a tale for another day.

When I go to the gym to work out, I always see tough guys. It’s weird, though, because, the tough dudes know I’m not a badass. Somehow they know.

Tough guys look at me with angry eyes. They don’t say anything. But they don’t have to. I know what they’re thinking…

Who’s this big asshole who thinks he’s all tough and shit? Does he think he’s gonna come in here and lift weights and get some pussy?  Fuck that noize. Fuck this guy, I can kick his ass. Look at what a dork he is…he’s all bald and shit and reading a gay-ass book. Dumbass.

By the time I get to the locker room, the scene is intense.

Loud horks of spit emanate from the shower stalls. Guys in tight briefs weigh each other on the medical scale. Broheims sing to each other. It’s a homoerotic love-storm. There’s no hurry to conceal dangling tendrils…no rush to put a towel over rumpled, purple flesh. The air is alive with possibilities.

I know I’m not as tough as these guys. I haven’t earned the right to let them weigh me.

They know it too. I see the scowls. I feel the weight of their intimidating stares as I remove my clothes. These guys are fearsome, and they want to diddle me 6 ways ’til Sunday. That’s fine, though. That’s what puckered assholes are for.

It’s cool. That’s the scene, and I’ve got to deal with it. The gym is no place for asshole cocksuckers.

So I go to the treadmill to work out. The Top 40 jamz are mesmerizing. The chicks are digging the vibe. I’m digging it too. “I’ve never been in a room with this kind of adrenalized music vibe,” I think.

I nod and I smile, but that’s a mistake. The smile makes me easy prey.

One of the sales reps, a tough guy with frosted hair, lets me know that I’ve crossed the line. He telegraphs a piercing gaze straight into my soul. He lets me know that I’m not tough. I nod solemnly.  The nod lets him know that I “get it.” It’s all good, I’m not the alpha male — I know my place.

I’m the beta male. I don’t bring home the freshest kill. It’s true. Like I said, the tough guys sense it. They know. But before I can finish my thought, a sonic boom reverberates from the free weights.

“ORGASM!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!! COCKSUCKERS!!!”

My startle-trigger goes nuclear. A dude with frosted hair is having a seizure. I run over to help but then…I see him drop the weights and high-five his exercise buddies. False alarm. He was just articulating a little gym eros. His crew looks at me like I’m some faggot.

The sauna scene is a little more chill. There’s a certain jocundity…a knowing gladness. I enter the room and the assembled pack-males scan me for weakness. Something about this ritual makes me feel virtuous. Still, it might be a little too virtuous in here. I gallop to the hot tub to fend off intrusive feelings of shame.

I come upon some wet dudes with frosted hair. The water is red hott, but there’s an icy silence in the air. Big tension. Maybe I should go use the tanning booth. Damn, bro.

I make one last effort to fit in. I ask the guys if they’ve seen Fight Club. They glare at me. Eventually they go back to reforesting each others’ back hair.

It’s tough when you’re not the top dog. The social structure of Homo Sapiens is intense. Chicks don’t want to perpetuate the species with a pensive schmoe. They want a strong male to give the species a better chance for survival. Not some Cripple Dick. Maybe my diabetes has pheromones that the chicks can smell…I dunno. Something’s wrong, man.

Here’s how I see it: if a dude has frosted hair, his pool of available mates is deep. For dudes like me — dudes with high blood sugar and a defective pancreas — the pool is shallow. Slim pickings. Fuckin’ sucks.

When I return to the locker room, dudes are naked again. They’re using the electric hand driers to heat up. Their gym flesh quivers. I see an ocean of supple appendages…sinewy rumps…empurpled flab.

The vibes are still pretty intense. They last all the way to the super-busy parking lot, where motherfuckers are kickin’ out the car-stereo jams.

Shit’s cool. I smile once again. I can dig this. Next time I come here, someone might weigh me.

Peace out, peeps. Stay strong.