“This hangover is never going to end” or “I have stripper all over my Budwesier sweater”.
I’m torn between the two titles of this post, as they are both reasonably accurate. Suffice it to say, my soul, liver, wallet and lap all took the beating of their lives this weekend, and since not in all of the existence of everything does a photo exist with the power to depict the images in my head, I’m just gonna go ahead and throw up a photo of a black hole.
So, to recap… Friendly Paul is getting hitched, and a boatload of us met up in Portland to help ring out his singleness. Of every substance that could be over served, we partook in at least 65% of them.
Luckily I had my trusty camera with me at all times, which generally serves as my memory, when my ability to do so jumped ship long before.
Though to my credit, waking up on Saturday morning, not only were all of my possessions present and accounted for, but my spare camera battery was in its charger and my phone was plugged into the wall.
It was as if some anal retentive accountant had taken over my body for my final moments of consciousness.
If only he had come back for a few more visits during the weekend, and maybe gone so far as to slap about 20 drinks out of my hand I might not feel quite so wrung out today.
Anyhoo, the best thing for everyone would be if I just shut up and let the pictures do the talking.
Friday afternoon I arrived to the hotel where Cheever came to meet me. Soon enough he was nowhere to be found and ultimately replaced by his drunken alter ego, Stan Beaver.
Once the sky went dark we met up with DPow!;
Then, who else should join our ragtag posse but Kevin…
who was wearing cowboy boots;
At this point we either ate some food, went canoeing, or shot model rockets into the sky. For all I know we did all three, but it was time for the rock show and I can remember for certain that we went to one;
By the time the show ended, it had been like, an hour and a half since any of us had been in or around any one of Portland’s famed peeler bars, and since this was a bachelor party, we did what was natural and pointed ourselves in that direction. The bulk of the group got in a cab, but being the purists that we are, Cheever and Matt Case bumped us, or in Cheever’s case, got bumped across the bridge;
I may not be the veteran of lap dances that some of my compatriots are, but sitting on the saddle of Case’s fixed gear while he smashed is back parts into my front parts and wrestled all 400-plus pounds of us around town, I think my man’s got a future in it. The next spot we arrived to is called Sassy’s, and though it might not be as infamous as some other local establishments, it provided a perfect backdrop for Friendly Paul’s bachelor gift.
Obviously photography is strictly forbidden during a tradition such as this, but it could easily be described in one sentence.
Four monkeys humping a football.
After wasting a ridiculous amount of time, money and brain cells there, we broke out to find food and sleep in preparation to do it all over again the next day.
waking up mere hours later, we prepared for the day with some sustenance and a few more libations;
After fueling up we prepared to attend a very rarely offered tour of the Chris King facilities with marketeers Jay Sycip and CD at the helm, but not before falling headlong back into the Yamhill;
When personally invited to see the inner sanctum of a place like the King empire, it’s good to be sufficiently lubed.
Upon arrival we cleared our heads and milled about the parking lot, taking note that the company truck was parked square in the handicap spot;
As I previously mentioned, entry into the King building is indeed a rarely offered treat, so we had to promise that no photos would be taken and our hands were to remain on our pockets at all times, though I was allowed to take three photos. One being of the bin full of compressed aluminum pucks;
One being of the shop cat;
And one being of the floor;
It’s like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory in there, and you’ll just have to take my word for it that it is every bit as magical as you imagine it to be.
Surprisingly while inside I ran into my old homie DWP, who was doing a photo shoot for Cielo;
When you’re in Portland, everywhere you turn you find a friend.
To close out the weekend’s festivities, we made our way to The Montage where our server gave us an unbelievable hook up and then capped off the generosity by bringing FP a desert that was set on fire, just like we like it;
After dinner, with our livers running for the door, the most reasonable course of action was to either go to church and beg for forgiveness, or to fall ass over tea kettle back to a strip club, and considering that there was nobody driving this bus, we opted for the latter, winding up at Union Jack’s. Immediately inside I was accosted by a woman who stood at least five inches taller than I am, and took a seat with her at the bar talking about her three pitbulls, and the fact that I share the same name with her second husband.
I gave her an EVIL sticker which she promptly stuck at the top of the 15 foot pole, but not before removing her patent leather boots displaying knee high socks that said Bacon down the sides. It was then that I thought she might have found her third ex husband.
Finally after bouncing ourselves from there, we capped the night off at The Magic Gardens where more debauchery ensued, a stellar young woman named Jen put herself all over me to the sounds of Sonic Youth’s ‘Dirty Boots’ and we were finally invited to get the hell out after Loudass spit in Cheever’s beer.
All in all, Portland had her way with us and then kicked our sorry asses to the curb without so much as a thank you.
It’s a lovely city, full of equally lovely people and I always look forward to my visits there, though I would be lying if I said I was physically as well as emotionally capable of withstanding more than a couple trips a year.
For now I will rely on the magical powers of cleansing foods, and healthy living until the next opportunity for a visit presents itself.
As I button this post up I have to thank the good residents of the city of roses, friends and strangers alike, as well as any and all police officers who may have turned a blind eye to the utter train wreck that was us.
Time to lie back down?
Yeah.. Time to lie back down.
It’s all true.
I know, because it’s what every day in Portland is like if you just close your eyes and let the magic happen.
It’s like I’ve been on some sort of beer, sandwich, and stripper-fueled vacation for the last two-and-a-half years, and I never want it to end.
while you were at Montage Portland I was here http://www.montagelagunabeach.com/index.html
I think you’ll agree, it’s better to be me.
still kinda ironical ain’t it
oh the montage…where rainier flows like water, the mac n cheese is excellent and the duck is a rubber duck.
riding cross in forest park is good fun
miss pdx and try to visit often
Excellent… accurate enough to be entertaining and yet vague enough to protect the guilty.
Stan Beaver is the biggest fucking drunk I have ever had the pleasure and misery of spending 48 hours with. It really defies description.
Oh, and Portland gave me the AIDS…
That black hole looks strangely like a line of something that makes your head feel like a black hole the next morning.
Huh, a post involving The Dwarves that doesn’t feature copious amounts of butt-naked guitar player dong. That’s a nice change.
“Like a monkey humping a doorknob” was my old bosses phrase for when anyone was struggling with something and getting nothing done. I think that’s fitting for most peeler joints too 😉
Is it just me, or does the singer in the rock and roll outfit strongly resemble Zeke minus the eye patch? My goodness, what would KC do without him?
The cat looks like a lion with questionable taste in boots.