Saturday Night in Portland
I have been racking my spongy dilapidated brain for things I dislike enough to write about. The thing is, I am not a hater. There are things I dislike, but I try my best in real life to respectfully let people do their thang without telling them how much it sucks. Moreover, there is not a ton of stuff I truly dislike- besides the obvious: gays, minorities, Jews, taxes, and independent women. In my first two summer articles concerning calculus and mainstream rap, I had to push to make my arguments one-sided. While I would rather not involve myself with either subject, they both have a purpose. The discussion that followed both posts in the comments section helped me realize I was being a close-minded wanker. SO, instead of telling you how much I hate the Jonas Brothers, let me tell the story of Saturday night, in Portland Oregon…
Todd, Danny, Eric and I biked over the Steel Bridge around 10pm in search of the annual nude Pedal-Palooza. Among our arsenal: a flask of Glenlivet, six tall boys, and a spliff. Hardly the makings for a crazy adventure. Nonetheless, more interesting than buying drinks and playing pool at a local pub. We knew we were getting close when streams of blinking headlights began flying past us. Naturally, we followed. Through the city lights, we were led to an industrial corner of the city, around 20 something and Nicolai. Holy Shit.
Never in my whole life have I seen so many private parts. Thousands of people. Butt. Ass. Naked. Want some titties? Yeah! Want some vaginas? Okay! Want some wieners? No! Too bad! The average outfit: Shoes, socks, and a helmet. We stood there for like half an hour, completely dumbstruck. I felt like I was some kid from an indigenous Brazilian tribe who happened to find himself in Times Square.
Across the street, lights shone from the abandoned warehouse dubbing as a techno club to host all the freethinking Portlanders before the midnight kickoff. The warehouse smelled like body odor and booze but due to poor planning, we were in need drinks. Our buzz was hardly sufficient on a evening where a vast amount of alcohol was absolutely necessary. The hardest part of the night was pounding Newcastle so that we might have the courage to go on a naked bike ride through the city. Midnight came before our complete inebriation, and as we crept slowly out of the gates, one leg on a pedal, one on the ground, none of us summoned the nerve to let our balls hang in the chilly breeze. Yet shirtless we were, nipples like glass-cutters.
People cheered. Our skin parade ran through the party districts of downtown Portland, basically shutting traffic down for hours. I high-fived pedestrians, crashing on an attempt to avoid hitting a Mercedes, or a BMW, a shiny car. Someone called me a fag and the two gay guys fixing my chain asked him if he needed a blowjob. I think the dude felt too awkward for prejudice.
The loop felt like it took forever, but it couldn’t have been more than five miles. Back on Nicolai street, pointy nipples and shrunken wangs filed into the warehouse for the post party. A dance orgy is what followed. The four of us made our way to the stage where breasts bobbed, eyes closed, and heads swayed to a thumping base strong enough to send vibrations through of plethora of exposed asses. My grandma would have fainted.
We left at four, sweaty, sobered, exhausted. Danny bit it on a light rail track going home and I laughed, but felt bad in doing so. Todd had already warned him. Sunday morning my legs were so sore it looked like I was walking with a rubber fist in my ass. They hurt to the point where there was no position in between standing and sitting. Just dropping. I took my dad out to Father’s Day brunch and the café was empty. Somehow he didn’t realize it was the wrong day either. Wear it, for the sake of an adventure. Not sure what my dad’s problem was.