Scenes from Oregon, Part III

Scene #4: The Agony and the Ecstasy

The deliciousness of Portland Oregon is a never-ceasing mind fuck of good and bad, clean and dirty, salty and sweet. Much like sex with a midget on an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Here, in this final instalment of "Scenes from Oregon," I present the "Portland Round-up;" random shit that made a difference to me.

* Thank you, oh ye Gods of bike-riding girls, for giving Portland the gift of mild seasonal heat, that the girls of thy fair city should only be comfortable in short cotton dresses. And thus they did ride their bikes, with their panties on the seat, and the whole works visible as one travels about the city. Bless you. Bless ALL of you. (Except for the fucking Brunhilda who was my unfortunately chubby FIRST "pantie pirate." YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. PUT DOWN THE HAM AND BUY SOME FUCKING SHORTS.)


* The Rose Garden. Especially the first visit. The second round later that day which included swimmin' with immigrant children in what turned out to be an ornamental fountain was incredible, particularly since everyone present knew that this was their bath for the week. But the first time had me at "hello."


* ...Shit. I just forgot the name of this store... somebody help me out. It's OH! It's "Billy Galaxy!" Okay. Billy Galaxy is a sensationally amazing, super-nostalgic coma-inducing shop right across the way (at a diagonal) from Powell's. I have cruised by, on wheels and feet quite a few times on my various visits, and NEVER has the damn place been open. My hosts (and now Newlyweds) in Portland LIVE there, and they've never caught the doors open either. This has been the topic of many a conversation. Some of which were conducted from the sidewalk in front of Billy Galaxy, only a few feet away from the tantalising turn-table of "My Little Pony" and "Voltron" flotsam.("But..but... the sign says '6:00 p.m.' and it's only 4:00 p.m.! How can they be closed?) Heart-breaking. Anyway, so I find myself in front of the familiar, panty-soaking toxically shimmering awesomeness of 1980's childhood memorabilia, and...the door is open!
That's right... I've been Billied. And it was all I dreamed it would be. (And so much more! Oh, the Strawberry Shortcake! Ah, the She-Ra action figures!) My one gripe is the presumed proprietor, whom I may have overwhelmed with my enthusiastic gushing. "OHMYGOD!! YOU'RE REALLY OPEN!!" Maybe he doesn't like crazy chicks, because home-skillet looked down his 1980's retro-childhood nose at me and insisted that the store had NEVER been closed during normal business hours. He seemed pretty pissed that I even brought up my passion for seeing the place, so I turned my fancy to the stuff rather than the man, which is what the 1980's was all about anyway. And it was fantastic. Sigoth snagged some sweet Japanese robot pencil-topper guys (I totally scored one off of him later... SUCKER!!) but my take-away of a thousand remembered hours in front of the family wood-veneered Zenith on a Saturday morning was waaaay better (and FREE!).


* I'm tone-deaf, (and maybe just plain deaf depending on who's asking) so my turn at the Karaoke bar was life-changing for a lot of people. Somewhere between the dress, which fit like a bedazzled condom, and the song (9 to 5 by Dolley Parton) I like to think that I created a mood and a moment not likely to be replicated soon. Unless you have a diplomatic passport and a penchant for reenacting the "special dance" of your dominatrix Auntie.


* Powell's Books. Ahh, Powell's... how you have colored my dreams. The selection! The deep, dark, twisty aisles bursting with bound volumes of marvels and folioed editions of fantasies! It's an orgasm for the soul. My first trip to Powell's was most fondly remembered for the discovery of an astonishing selection of books on the works of Hans Holbein the younger. (6!) This most recent visit shall be forever linked to memories of a highly tattooed and ear-plugged individual of the "dude" variety who was carrying on loud discourse with his friend, the Homely Girl.

Dude: "This is EXACTLY what I'm talking about. I'd rather kiss a smoker than a Meat-Eater."
Homely Girl: "It tasted like death."

Who knew? To be frank, these two should just have run away together, because they would be lucky to be kissed by anything, including a man made entirely of leftover organ meat who smokes.


* Those strawberries from Saturday market. Sure, I lost a couple of hours of my life that I'll never have back chopping the mouldering bastards up at the kitchen sink, but the flavor was extraordinary, as was the company at the sink. (The Blushing Bride, no less! Gettin' her fruit on like she wasn't The Bride and above all that mess. This is why I like these people.) Also, being an asshole, I greatly enjoyed carrying the heaving, bulging, massive boxes of berries away from the market and out to the van... past a bunch of sun-bathing earth-biscuits, all of whom followed those berries with something akin to lust in their eyes. Heh heh. Stupid hippies. Steal your own fruit.


* To the conveyor-belt operator with the fake badge on who insisted that my traveling companion's SEALED jar of 'Marionberry Jam' from the airport gift shop was too dangerous to be taken on board the shittiest aircraft I have ever seen, FUCK YOU. As a matter of fact, that goes for the entirety of the San Francisco airport, which was designed by Hitler's lieutenants as part of an elaborate scheme to kill him before they decided to just try blowing him up at a board meeting with his own briefcase instead. (True story! Actually, just the bomb part.) Seriously, it was foul. For reasons beyond my wildest speculation, the gate we needed was referenced in the smallest legible font they could manage on the massive signs oriented throughout the building. The arrows indicating our needed path pointed to things that weren't paths, such as walls, "wrong way" security check-points, and in one case, the ceiling. After several extremely vague conversations with airport personnel, we were finally put on the correct course for our gate... which turned out to be a make-shift path that actually routed us OUTSIDE THE AIRPORT. This was a pathetic path. I would have been perfectly content to see buxom, brown women carrying fruit and water jars on their heads on such a path in oh, say, BRAZIL. But in 'Frisco? The Land of Brotherly Buggery? Daaaammmmn. We barely caught our flight, despite a layover of nearly an hour. If the rest of San Francisco is anything like the airport, FUCK YOU San Francisco.

And Leslie, since Marionberry Jam is apparently the secret weapon of Hezbollah, next time, just buy the shit online. The F.B.I. is bound to stop watching you eventually.

Anyone watching for actual day-of wedding posting, keep it in your pants. One day, I will. It will probably flesh out the "Camp Wedding" post, or maybe I'll do something after a bit more time has passed. Either way, for now, this closes out "Scenes from Portland."