Start your weekend Friday night.
Start at the Queer Lit Happy Hour. Ogle your favorite authors Eat complimentary
snacks. When the host asks if you have enough drink tickets, look distraught
because you don’t have any drink tickets. He’ll appreciate your honesty, and
dutifully keep you supplied with a steady stream of vouchers. After several microbrews,
you’ll decide to buy things. Don’t fight the impulse; there’s no way this could
possibly be a terrible idea. When you can’t decide which book you want, buy
them all. It’s payday! You’re drinking free beer! Why wouldn’t you spend that $57?
This might be your only chance to get signed copies from Tom Spanbauer and Lidia Yuknavitch, patron saints of
writing!
Around 7pm several things become
apparent: you’re out of drink vouchers, the sun is shining, you have $57 of
books to begin reading immediately, Boiler Room has $3 well drinks until 9pm. Drop
your pen. Retrieve your pen. Ask strangers to sign your Lidia Yuknavitch books,
since Lidia left before you mustered the courage to approach her for a
signature. The strangers will happily comply because Pride, or maybe alcohol. Drop
your pen. Retrieve your pen. Amble approximately one hundred miles south and east
into familiar territory. Drop your pen. Retrieve your pen. When you get to
Boiler Room, divvy up the books. Order a round of tequila sodas. Read in
relative silence until a) the photo booth drives you to distraction or b) your
brain can no longer process written words.
After 9pm cheap drinks become expensive drinks. Quiet bars become karaoke bars. At this point you’ll have a critical decision to make: CCs or Twerk? Debate the pros and cons of each while smoking a cigarette with several charming gay strangers. When they advocate for CCs, agree whole-heartedly. Pack up your things. Pack up your friends. Borrow Carly’s belt to cinch your books into a tidy bundle, circa early 19th century. Borrow Carly’s dollar to coat check said books so you can circle the sweaty, oddly heterosexual dance floor unencumbered. Drink enough PBR to meet the $5 credit card minimum. Cede that Steve and Patrick maybe didn’t know what they were talking about when they advocated for CCs. Exit stage right. Magically teleport to Twerk. Or, you know. Let someone drive you.
Arrive at Twerk at the exact time as the cops. Spot a familiar herd of unicorns milling about outside. Graciously accept their invitation to after party at their house. Load back into the Shleigh-mobile. Stop at Wendy’s. Stop at 711. Stop at Jack in the Box. Arrive at Chez Unicorn with thirty warm PBR, eight Jack in the Box tacos, ten clove cigars, and double vision.
Wake up some time, some place. Be grateful for blankets and pillows. Vaguely remember a wolf smoking cigarettes. Realize you’re in the equivalent of an adult crib: two couches pushed together face-to-face. Vaguely remember a lion and the galaxy. Be grateful you’re not alone. Struggle your way out of the couch crib. Locate phone, water, seven discarded taco wrappers. Vaguely remember Parks and Rec; elbows-out eating with gusto. The eighth taco wilts in a greasy puddle of regret. Ignore the temptation to eat it. Ignore the hot sauce under your fingernails. Ignore the fact that you’re a 25 year old waking up on an island of couches, somewhere in northeast Portland despite the fact that your car slept in northwest Portland.
Loll about with Carly until you remember parking in 2 Hour Pay-to-Park. You parked angrily and askew. You parked with every intention of driving home before sunrise. Don’t panic, there’s really nothing you can do about it now. You’re too sleepy and hungover for that shit. Locate the nearest bus stop. Camouflage the remaining 28 PBR in a paper grocery bag, covered with your $57 books. Loll about some more. Fold the blankets. Thank the unicorns with a drawing of Trogdor.
Approximately three blocks into your walk to the bus stop, remember taxis exist. Blatantly stare at the man in construction orange shambling towards you. Note the man in a business suit closing in behind you. Say “Fuck it all” and call a cab. Regret locking yourself out of Chez Unicorn when you left. Hunker down on the front steps. Split a warm PBR. Listen to Fancy until the very confused cab driver arrives to scoop you both up. Avoid the vomit residue splattered across the back of the passenger seat.
Declare an official Pride miracle when you pull up to an un-ticketed Carrrl, still parked angrily and askew in Two Hour Pay-to-Park. Praise lesbian jesus. Drive straight to brunch, all mussed and sweaty. Don’t worry, your friends only notice because they care. Order the bottomless mimosas, even though every time you say “I’ll never order bottomless mimosas again.” Drink determinedly until brunch ends at 2pm. Chew on Carly’s knee caps. Part ways with your pals. Pretend you’ll see them later.
Make your way back to Carly’s
house. Accidentally nap for six hours. Wake up long enough to stumble three
blocks for pizza and beer. Guiltily avoid texts from the friends you
promised to meet. Briefly consider meeting them. Decide watching Game of
Thrones in bed sounds much more appealing. Try to wrap your sleepy,
beer-saturated brain around the approximate 2 million characters introduced
during the first two episodes.
Wake up Sunday morning for work, still sweaty and mussed. Spend six hours picking up 100 lb. dogs. Regret your existence.
Eventually find yourself hiding from the weather beneath a Waterfront canopy, drinking overpriced red wine. It’s the time of day that the focus softens and expands. Violins and four-part harmony. Eyes like driving through wheat fields. Use the word stunning. Hands like hands like hands. Mouths and skin and rain that won’t quit. This is what you’ll remember: the smile when she sees you seeing her. Later: tacos and Scrabble and finally sleep. But for now, breathing. For now, use the word community. Sink into the corners of yourself without feeling trite.
Happy Pride, you bunch of weirdos. I hope you all gayed to your heart’s content.
After 9pm cheap drinks become expensive drinks. Quiet bars become karaoke bars. At this point you’ll have a critical decision to make: CCs or Twerk? Debate the pros and cons of each while smoking a cigarette with several charming gay strangers. When they advocate for CCs, agree whole-heartedly. Pack up your things. Pack up your friends. Borrow Carly’s belt to cinch your books into a tidy bundle, circa early 19th century. Borrow Carly’s dollar to coat check said books so you can circle the sweaty, oddly heterosexual dance floor unencumbered. Drink enough PBR to meet the $5 credit card minimum. Cede that Steve and Patrick maybe didn’t know what they were talking about when they advocated for CCs. Exit stage right. Magically teleport to Twerk. Or, you know. Let someone drive you.
Arrive at Twerk at the exact time as the cops. Spot a familiar herd of unicorns milling about outside. Graciously accept their invitation to after party at their house. Load back into the Shleigh-mobile. Stop at Wendy’s. Stop at 711. Stop at Jack in the Box. Arrive at Chez Unicorn with thirty warm PBR, eight Jack in the Box tacos, ten clove cigars, and double vision.
Wake up some time, some place. Be grateful for blankets and pillows. Vaguely remember a wolf smoking cigarettes. Realize you’re in the equivalent of an adult crib: two couches pushed together face-to-face. Vaguely remember a lion and the galaxy. Be grateful you’re not alone. Struggle your way out of the couch crib. Locate phone, water, seven discarded taco wrappers. Vaguely remember Parks and Rec; elbows-out eating with gusto. The eighth taco wilts in a greasy puddle of regret. Ignore the temptation to eat it. Ignore the hot sauce under your fingernails. Ignore the fact that you’re a 25 year old waking up on an island of couches, somewhere in northeast Portland despite the fact that your car slept in northwest Portland.
Loll about with Carly until you remember parking in 2 Hour Pay-to-Park. You parked angrily and askew. You parked with every intention of driving home before sunrise. Don’t panic, there’s really nothing you can do about it now. You’re too sleepy and hungover for that shit. Locate the nearest bus stop. Camouflage the remaining 28 PBR in a paper grocery bag, covered with your $57 books. Loll about some more. Fold the blankets. Thank the unicorns with a drawing of Trogdor.
Approximately three blocks into your walk to the bus stop, remember taxis exist. Blatantly stare at the man in construction orange shambling towards you. Note the man in a business suit closing in behind you. Say “Fuck it all” and call a cab. Regret locking yourself out of Chez Unicorn when you left. Hunker down on the front steps. Split a warm PBR. Listen to Fancy until the very confused cab driver arrives to scoop you both up. Avoid the vomit residue splattered across the back of the passenger seat.
Declare an official Pride miracle when you pull up to an un-ticketed Carrrl, still parked angrily and askew in Two Hour Pay-to-Park. Praise lesbian jesus. Drive straight to brunch, all mussed and sweaty. Don’t worry, your friends only notice because they care. Order the bottomless mimosas, even though every time you say “I’ll never order bottomless mimosas again.” Drink determinedly until brunch ends at 2pm. Chew on Carly’s knee caps. Part ways with your pals. Pretend you’ll see them later.
Make your way back to Carly’s
house. Accidentally nap for six hours. Wake up long enough to stumble three
blocks for pizza and beer. Guiltily avoid texts from the friends you
promised to meet. Briefly consider meeting them. Decide watching Game of
Thrones in bed sounds much more appealing. Try to wrap your sleepy,
beer-saturated brain around the approximate 2 million characters introduced
during the first two episodes.Wake up Sunday morning for work, still sweaty and mussed. Spend six hours picking up 100 lb. dogs. Regret your existence.
Eventually find yourself hiding from the weather beneath a Waterfront canopy, drinking overpriced red wine. It’s the time of day that the focus softens and expands. Violins and four-part harmony. Eyes like driving through wheat fields. Use the word stunning. Hands like hands like hands. Mouths and skin and rain that won’t quit. This is what you’ll remember: the smile when she sees you seeing her. Later: tacos and Scrabble and finally sleep. But for now, breathing. For now, use the word community. Sink into the corners of yourself without feeling trite.
Happy Pride, you bunch of weirdos. I hope you all gayed to your heart’s content.
-b
