Pocket Rocket

I'm currently intoxicated.
I finally quit my job today.
I am officially unemployed and feel very free.
I spent a few hours at a great local bar/restaurant with Jeff and Kes celebrating.
This wonderful place is named Produce Row.
It is right next to my former place of employment.
It is named after the now defunct produce district of the early 1900's where folks came for their weekly dose of veggies and fruit.
There are still old school cobblestone streets.
I am pretty fucked up off of a spectacular Oregon brew.
The name of this 9% alcohol beast is "Walking Man, Homo Erectus".
It is an IPA...a fan favorite reminding me of Petaluma's Lagunitas IPA with twice the kick.
We rode our bikes up Burnside, listening to my radio.
I have a tape-only boom box residing in my bike basket.
The contents: a mix of the Fellowship Freestyle and Murs 3:16.
This is the music of the working class, of which I am no longer a part of.
Last night we watched Factotum.
Bukowski is a swell guy; same goes for Matt Dillon.
We stopped off at a new bar called Rocket, who's menu features an item called the Pocket Rocket.
This is worthy of a chuckle, in person.
The bar has the Eastside's absolute most pristine view of downtown at night.
We chatted about city planning, and why Portland seemed to spark that particular passion in us.
I will be applying for the graduate program in Urban & Regional Planning next winter.
We also had a difficult time absorbing the clientele of this particular establishment.
We contemplated the merits of starting a riot, and whether it was an obligation or merely an impulse.
We parted and went home.
I forgot my briefcase at Rocket, and drove several miles backwards upon my cruiser to recover said item carrier.
I am currently typing.
I shall proceed to partake in my last clove cigarette of my current addiction phase.
That last statement leads one to believe that I am quitting smoking.
That one would be correct.
It is a wonderful Portland night, and I could stay up indefinitely.
Good-day and sweet reality.