Slew of events, courtesy of Sonic Kayla

Hello Portland bloggers. If you're reading this, chances are you've spent way too much time on the computer and are stumbling upon blog, after blog, after blog. Pull your head out of the snatch of ennui. The world may still end in 2012, and you're using up all the oxygen.
But do not take me wrong (again) I'm glad you're here! I'm pouring the cereal contents of the past, just under 24 hours, into the bowl as we type/read.

Our first destination last night brought us to Valentine's. Located near Voodoo Doughnuts on SW 3RD, this particular bar has built a quietly famous reputation. But the only thing the Cereal Man fancies about it, is their bathroom. Lit only by three candles and a small rectangular patch of window, makes this the ideal spot for public bathroom sex. Bartender with tattooed leaves of fall shoots me a struggling writer's look of death. Smile, barkeep. It's all in good fun. ;)

A one, a two, A THREE compliment string on my what is slowly becoming legendary: DIE HIPSTER SCUM t-shirt. The first came from overweight ponytail guy asking me in mid cross section what my shirt read. Following, with a jolly grin. The second, upon entering Powell's city of books, came from two young attractive homeless boys who specialized in making their own brand of I hate God t-shirts. And the third, while within the boundaries of Powell's whilst thy checking in my bag, came from the, wait for it...NICE middle aged women at the register. Who reminisced with me about the days of her own: DIE YUPPIE SCUM shirt.

I left shortly after. I was only there to kill time.

Spotted: Busboy poindexter at the fabulous Roxy, well past the witching hour. We haven't seen a pocket protector this hot since Brad Majors. Is Janet on the menu? Daughter of Saint Roxy rides the coat tails of my jukebox selections, as Sonic Kayla and I reminisce about the Jesus Jukebox in the days of old. I weep into my Soylent green omelette, her into her cheezy fries. But buck up, we've got a journey back to Sonic Kayla's house that'll take us across the Burnside Bridge. Look out 2 A.M. bike riders. Our tongues are flapping away, and were drunk on sweet n low. Holden Caufield fashion, but more fun.

Little S.K. is off to Montana within the week. Where am I off too? Hopefully the clouds. Where the sky weeps over bridges and surrounding mountains. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Son until the next cosmo drained over lucky charms, you know you love me.

Cereal Man.