A Requiem for Kelly's (Paul Pintarich!)

Oregon Magazine ^ | September 25, 2003 | Paul Pintarich

[WaterDragon]

Some twenty years ago, back when I was near the end of my bad old drinking days, I found myself in Kelly’s Olympian, a venerable Portland bar I equated with being the last stop on the road to total oblivion.

Standing at the bar (there were no stools but only a rail in those days), I grimaced beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, admitting amid a swirl of cigarette smoke that I had touched bottom and was in a position similar to a raccoon considering the nighttime crossing of a wide boulevard.

Fortunately I made it across, though on an infrequent basis I have returned to Kelly’s seeking memories of times gone by. On these occasions I am accompanied by a former newspaper colleague whose real name is Kent Clark; a name that has stymied many plans I have had to write reminiscences of my former career.

Once upon a time, when Portland was a smaller, kinder place, Kent and I were police reporters--he for the now defunct Oregon Journal, me for The Oregonian--sharing a space in the cop shop press room at Southwest Second Avenue and Oak Street--the old police station known more familiarly as “Two and Oak.”

In that grim, green-painted room (beneath harsh fluorescent lights), we endured blaring pre-scanner police and fire radios, and intermittently made our routine phone checks to police agencies around town.

As you can imagine, for Kent this was somewhat challenging. He might begin, “Hi, this is Kent Clark at the Oregon Journal. . .” Only to hear, “You‘re kidding me, right?”.....(snip)

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[Khurkris]

I have seen, and suffered, these same pangs over the passing of many a good neighborhood bar. Progress they call it. New owners who know just what the people want. Never mind the fact that what they are replacing had existed for 60 years or more.

A neighborhood bar used to be a place of meeting. The local softball teams, the fund raisers and community picnics were planned there. The cast of characters was as dependable as dawn following night.

But, as actual neighborhoods dissapear, so do the elements of a neighborhood. The local market. The butcher shop. A gas station that will change a flat tire. And the neighborhood bar.

Hell, how many jars of pickled eggs you think TGIF has?