Portland is about as different from Vegas as a place can get.

It is a bizarre confluence of grunge meets cutting edge.

With so many people walking around in shades of brown and gray it looks like a human mushroom farm.

But they have really groovy public transportation.

And an art and culture scene.

But the ratio of bums to pedestrians seems like about 1 to 1.

And the people are so f*cking politically correct that every time we sneezed, we looked around to see who we were offending.

But micro-brews are everywhere.

As are Burgundian-style pinot noirs.

And it’s Will-AM-ette, dammit.

This area is probably the most fertile, locavore-friendly, micro-climate-rich, top-to-bottom cornucopia of food, seafood, fish, shellfish, meats, cheeses, vegetables and herbs anywhere in America — including California and the east coast.

Even if it is a short growing season.

But all that urban planning, and liberal correctness, and hipster-meets-urbanite vibe left us feeling more than a bit constrained.

And claustrophobic.

So after three days of walking the city and eating and drinking ourselves silly, all we can say is this:

Basically…

…Portland has a lot to offer…

…but what it needs…

…more than anything else…

…is more cowbell.