On Substance and Design: A tribute to Collin Jennings.

At first I was worried that perhaps I'd entered the wrong house. There was this one time where I had two eyes full of LSD and I walked into some random house in the South East. Ever since then I've been wary of 'respectable' looking homes. Hardwood floors (swept), Couch (no rips or tears), Christmas tree (still up), textile art (retro vogue), 'Zoobomber' in bicycle shorts and leather jacket (drunk), and so: much in the style of Toucan Sam to some fruit loops, I lifted a few feet off the ground and, crazy-eyed, floated gracefully on the wave of sound down down into the flavor-packed basement below. El Come Home (Koh-meh Ho-meh: from 'the Spanish'; He eats dude?) I only caught the last little wave of surf-y riff tide to wash over a still small though gently expanding crowd, I made my way toward Captured By Porches and tried out the new beer. Yummmm.
AAAAAAUUUUUUUGH...!!!...Rave rave rave. Blah! World's Greatest Ghost. From the people who brought you: this party. Comes the debut of ungodly basement pop perfection. This being their first show I understood the wavering nerve of the first song vocals and let slide the little skip and stumble off-beat oops in the first chorus. They held it together and finished neatly leaving the grainy tart of synth lingering dainty on my tongue after that fat mouthful of heavy drums and solid catchy riffs served up with gourmet precision. At most, the best one can hope for with basement vocals is that the melodic distortion sounds like it's supposed to be there thrown in and bounced around on the sonic butts-up of the electric tonal wall, but these guys nailed it. After that first song they grabbed their respective rhetorical balls and really whammed it out there. Awesome. It made me think about the point of music, being to convey some sort of emotion or sentiment too complicated for friendly blabber. This was the lust of pure pop-abandon/ the youth we thought we'd have hasn't existed in a good 40 years and so here we are: disillusioned, staring off into a plastic decadence we might like to call life some where down the road and we're saying: shit. Well if ya'll don't need me here...I'm gonna call it a night. The Ghost's last song was one of love and respect. An homage to local favorites Here Comes A Big Black Cloud at one point they broke into a piece of The Cloud's Gamma Ray and everybody went wild, including the Cloud themselves as they rolled up some cigarettes and got ready to follow up on the next set.
Can I continue to review these guys? There's gonna come a time when I'll just have to note that they played and leave it at that. Honestly I spent their entire set talking to a lady but I kept one ear and at least an eye directed at them so here's what it was: Dope as always the cloud shocked, rocked, and slammed the crowd like a tall stack of pogs lost to the kid with the best wrist-snap in class. A friend of theirs was celebrating the first of a planned 15 25th birthdays and they doused him in an up-turned stomach's load of ketchup and mayonnaise leaving slick puddles of the stuff stinking up this once tidy basement and securing for the band a championship title of Portland's Smelliest Act. Tiger Boots Calhoun, dancer for The Cloud, has returned from her voyage safe and sound...but this leaves us with three dancers? Is this how it's gonna stay guys? Is that really necessary? Well as far as I could tell it looked alright and they meshed well together so I suppose the future is for the masses after all.
Here's where I leave. I had heard of another party: Mikah Sykes? I think that's the name. At the Cartoon Bungalow. When I got there the music was over and the dance party was small and sad if not a tad pathetic. Coco 'Jailhouse' Delight and I yapped out the pharmaceuticals from our systems and proceeded to...Blackout? I don't know. Well regardless I woke up at home. Thanks.

A Psychedelic Christmas

Pony keg in the kitchen, the turkey has been in the oven for a few hours now and a quaint ladel serves up a warm brew for any and all takers. It was a picturesque calm in the living room where just a good group of friends decided to take this normally depressing and defunct holiday, turn it family, and throw some drugs in the mix to boot. I'd like to call for a little Christmas reform in the world. People. Next time you take off from school or 'life' or whatever you do and go home to see mom and dad and granny and your angry little siblings, please: Just bring a little acid and offer to serve up the nog. I guarantee that even if you regret it you will never forget it. Zap!
Regardless. Mostly it was just a happy little buzz going around nothing to insane. Though I think that one dude with the old vial he was 'washing' had a bit more residue than he'd expected after such a long time. Well hey that's life. And speaking of life I'd just like to dedicate this next sentence to a man that should've taken his place in that big PCP induced nightmare that surely must be his afterlife long long ago. Here's to you James. Your death was almost as played out as your music...But just know that I will always cherish that one time...You know the time...come on. You remember...you were 'the demon', right? And I was all: maybe I should just eat the rest of these. And you were all "get up offa that thing!". And so yes: I got.

As the massive jam stomping up from the basement grew louder I grew quieter. More introspective. I started looking at all these kids around me and thinking to myself: What are we doing? What the fuck are we doing? Sure we all have jobs and some of us go to school, maybe you paint or write or play music or sleaze down at the local bars every night. This is what I came up with in my tripped out little lobe, so I says to myself: Vying for the future. That's right. You and your posse are just copping the future at a front from that corner slanger called God. Maybe you'll come up and pay up and re-up and eventually you'll own that future and be able to push it on the kiddies. But maybe not buddy. Maybe not. You should be careful of how much future you do now, and I know your chick likes that future too. You should watch you back if you can't cash out, cause that front is gonna turn into the back-alley baseball bat of history and you'll just be another sucker trash fad like Eddie Murphy's album or 'Earth Day'. Just beware. And take a moment to ask yourself: What is it you do?
Food count: 36 oz of eggs? Crab cakes? Huge turkey? Some sort of loaf? Brie and crackers? Oranges? Yes. Pie? Of course! Yes. Bacon?! Steak?! YES! The night was delicious.

12/06 down south? ATX- after rallying for a while everyone had essentially decided that this was the only party happening tonight. it had gotten cold and everyone was bitching about it, but being a cold weather denizen i knew how to deal with it- liquor store. I found a reasonably priced bottle of blackout juice and started downing the mother along with a copiuos amount of beer, thus the foggy location of this party.when we showed up they had just barely tapped the second keg, and that got a little wild and crazy feeding frenzy style. we sat around inside until we couldn't take it anymore and burst forth into the freezing temperatures. I blacked out and tried to walk home.

2nd Star to the right and straight on till morning.

As I've mentioned before this entire blog is a work of fiction and therefore no information contained in any article I have written may be used as evidence in a court of law. That being said I'd like to tell you all about this fucking awesome house in SE fairyland that I visited during some sort of post pub hallucination this last Sunday. I waltzed in sort of holding my chin up so that the liqour wouldn't spill back out and I could at the same time retain an air of dignity among the natives. A barrel fire burned near the decrepit basketball hoop and the entire locale smelled of the sweetest of sensamilla's. Dreadlocks abound and me in my best leather shoes; so I'm searching for somebody to let me into the scene. Party Steve is there and so's The Peter, but my main connection is Lady Fox from Austin. She lives in this part of town so she takes me and introduces me to all the in kids sitting around a large bon-fire constructed in the classic pyramid form with defunct shipping palettes.
As I'm warming up and getting into some good conversation I ask this one girl what she does here in Portland. She says that besides work she analyzes poeple's handwriting. Awesome I think. That's great. It's always nice to have a party trick especially one so 'tarot' as this. Do me! Do me! C'mon.... So she's dead on. Saying how fantastic and most likely biblical I am and the such. How ladies love me not just for my sightly Patrician chin but also because I have the wit of Wilde and the vision of Rimbaud. All true and I wish I'd had my billfold on me cause I would've tipped her graciously. Instead I said that I'd mention her and her talents in an internet blog. There you go! Carly the Calligraphy Clairvoyant. Beautiful.
My few whiskey gingers were wearing off and that irish car bomb had given my some wild gas. I excused myself from the huddle and let one rip on my way toward the basement where some easy jam band sounds were emanating excitedly like the soundtrack from a romantic comedy circa '92. I can dig this as background music but to stand there in the front of these kids like the rest of this crowd was doing and be like 'Alright guys! Man you guys are really dishing out the mellow! Yes!' turn to the next guy 'Hey man, are you checking these guys out? I don't think I've heard an 25 minute percussion act like that in years! And that repetitious guitar riff is like 2 bricks of gold just showed up on the floor of the efficiency apartment in my brain!' Well anyway. Like I said: background music. The ground that needed backing being across the room from the band and surrounded by people holding...Money! That's right! Cash in hand! Moving ever closer to...Wait for it...Moving through the crowd...A bar! There's a bar! There's a goddamned bar right here in this fucking basement! Alright! So these kids had a full set up; mixers and all; a keg dropped to the side. Two bucks a cup. Three for a cocktail. Amazing!
Like some sissy new jack I just walk on up and I'm like...Dude...Is that a bar? Is this some sort of speak easy? Everyone just stopped and looked at me like the allegorical bus I'd just gotten off of had a marquee that read #5-0 Express Ride to Coolsville/Jump Street Line. One tall guy with a Vodka Cranberry entrenched in his large mitt lowered his stare dead onto my eyes and said: 'I don't know what you're talking about, dude.' and after that everything seemed cool again. Sheesh. My mistake guys. Hey readers that know me...Do I look like the fuzz? You can tell me...I won't be offended. Thanks.
After a basketball shoot-off I sat down at the dwindling fire with the dwindling crowd and proceeded to invoke the solemn and noble art of mere conversation. You know what I mean: how many subjects can you talk about without actually saying anything solid, relevant, and in some cases even factual? It's an old aristocratic art guys. And it can breath life into even the lamest of parties even LAN parties can be decently fun for bystanders if you just jabber about nothing to one another.
At one point I looked to my right to see a pair of red velvet shoes slither up beside me followed by a plop of rear and then the face of a modern PYT fills my scope. This is Tori. I don't know her. She looks about 18 at most but claims to be 20...and a half by her own admission. She's laying it down hard. Which is nice. I think everybody deserves to have somebody just walk up and start flirting with them every once in a while. It's probably due to my goatee(which I just shaved today) but this sort of thing happens rarely. So even though I know that nothing's gonna go down with this chick I humor her and hone my skills. Cause hey. The game's an exponentially expanding sort of thing. Don't get rusty cause best bet you'll get dropped. Alright...so I'm mainly including this just so that I can ask a question and illustrate a point. To my homies...Does it ever feel to you like a girl just started hitting on you just to get you beat up? I mean I could feel it in my jaw like 5 hours of blow and no more schnapps. Then these two guys come and sit down and just fucking mad dog on yours truly here and I'm like what's up with those dudes and she's all oh...Those are just my bro's. Alright. Bro's. She says: Bro's! Not brothers...and especially not my older brothers....you see the one on the left with the crook eye? Hunh? The big one? Yeah, he's wanted for aggravated assault. Well, comrades, obviously I'm exagerating and for that matter nothing happened I just want you all to be careful cause remember good citizens....These ladies be schemin and you know! You know! I ain't never lyin. Gotta watch yo back son else getcha shit jacked. That is all. The party ended and so did my conciousness...once again left to roam around a strange part of SE the next morning. Just so you'll take note: I'll soon be doing some interviews once Picnic sets up on the new website...That's right kiddo's. Our very own website. That's that. Uptown! Fuhgedabahdeh. Nothin doin.

a cool California winter in Portland Oregon...

Last night was such a tilt-o-whirl blur of drunken decisions and DJ driven dance precision that even the strongest of double mary brunches still leaves me reaching for a solid string of events to latch on to. So allow me a moment or two to finish this drink and take in the foreign surroundings in which I find myself this morning and then join me friends: An odyssey of soul.
MMMMMMM. For only fifty extra cents why take anything but Peppar? For those who know. Alright I remember now. Which only proves my theory that there's no sleeping demon or blackout dwelling "oops" that a good two Bloody Marys can't knock loose. Which is why I'm getting a third, cause now that I know I can't wait to forget. Based on my notes and the strange taste in my mouth I've started to deduce just exactly what Past Uptown was up to. We'll start from the bottle of cheap wine and work our way slowly to a crisp morning in SE Portland with a pocket full of garlic. The rest of my crew was headed to a Sexy Pants B-Day sit down soiree. I on the other hand was feeling the need to groove so gullet tucked with wine I headed off to the first party: 9th AND prescott.
Ahhhh crustiez. On entering this party I thought of my cohort and comrade Chips Down(presently on sabbatical) as he speaks fluent crust and I, at most, am only a promising beginner in the dialect. Luckily they had an interpreter on hand so I enlisted it's international skills of providing familiarity to the unfamiliar; fluency to the affluent. After the beer bong I went forth into the mingle. A strange breed these Portland crustiez. Much less intimidating than those with which I have dealt in the past. I suppose in all honesty that they are actually anarchopunx or rather post-apocalyptic bike heathens.
Vanilla Ice was playing and I didn't see a single mad dog stare in the place. There was the one dude, large and bulky; his beard and bald combo startled me from afar-but I quickly realized that he had merely passed out while standing and was in the process of falling onto the couch. The entire time I was there these three girls were chanting what at first I took to be belligerent nonsense but later realized was a belligerent rendition of a song, as follows: "I'm fucked up in my brain; I'm gonna fucking kill you." I'm not positive but I'm pretty sure that's what they were screaming. Every room they'd enter soon cleared with awkward "Who the fuck are these girls" glances. Which brings me to my next observation. There was an alarming amount of questionably clean college girls hanging on the crust punks. This proves my long standing it's cool to be poor theory in which I'm akin to Miles Davis walking a harem of white girls into the green room full of high grade primo while Sinatra's puking in the gutter outside.
I was outside standing around with a few friends checking out a gay BDSM catalogue when the cops rolled up. Immediately the guests were up in arms yapping about such nonsense as "private residence" and "it's only ten thirty" and "do they really need two cop cars?" The answer to all of these is no. Shut up.

Cop Etiquette in the party-sphere: Minors! Go inside and don't be stupider! Now that that's taken care of...Hello officer. Oh? Too loud? Yeah. I'll tell the guys to turn it down. Hunh? Oh it's a birthday/going away/who cares just lie party. Yeah? Well we like to throw a lot of [party type] here since most of our friends go to college and live in dorms. I don't know...I guess they just like being able to focus on school. Yeah. Well we'll keep it down. Thanks for relaying our neighbor's passive aggression in a calm and utterly professional manner. Yes sir. Thank you very much, you have a good night too.

Alright! That's it. Simple enough. Now nothing actually went down but I thought I might throw that in for anybody who lives in a land of illusion where cops can't just come into a house and arrest everybody in there. Because they can, will, and ultimately: yes. They want to. So don't give them any more reason to do so by lipping off to them. Thanks. So the free beer ended and the Franzia was hitting my gut wrong. I called up Party Steve(yeah that guy) and checked on the status. For those of you who don't know, Party Steve is like the friendly Quaker that helps run away slaves, or rather drunken misfits in this instance, get to the free north/a more hopping party. So here we go. Alone...Here I go.
The bus is the sort of switch between realities where Nike shoes and Columbia Sports Wear jackets mean 'broke' and 'dead-up' instead of 'cool' and 'employed'. I prefer the MAX on all accounts but when inconvenient the bus will just have to do, as it did. A man wearing some old Jordans and a Nike fleece hoodie tied tight around the waist with a fanny pack tried to strike up a nervous and awkward conversation with the lady sitting next to me by informing her that she had dropped something: a gooey snot rag to be specific. Gross. They seemed to hit it off.
12 AND madison. At this point I've had to shit for quite some time and decide that I'd just do it at the party and when the ladies that've been knocking on the door are all "What took you so long?" I'll just use the golden oldie of "Sorry. I was doing coke." and of course I'll throw in a "That...Wasn't me" just for good measure. This party was what we in the industry like to call: Bumping. At first it was all Lewis and Clark kids but the masses were soon to follow and then the free for all broke loose. The pantry was raided, old dudes were saucing young ladies, the DJ was playing Spankrock(!!!!), and some girl actually grabbed my crotch while we were dancing! Can you believe the nerve? Now we've all had our fair share of ass taps and maybe the occasional nipple tugs, but this was just plain uncalled for. However flattering she may have thought it would be.
This DJ was good; playing everything from Of Montreal to Prince. Though while standing in the bathroom line staring out onto the dance floor I started thinking about these frumpy and strange moves everybody was doing. Now I'm no Timberlake or anything but when 2 live crew comes on I feel confident that I can shake it down with the decent amongst them. What is an acceptable dance these days? Somebody? Any body? To the best of my reasoning I can only guess that this jumping arm swinging hip jamming is at best contrived and at worst...post modern. I just can't help but romantically fantasize sometimes about somebody making a real dance again. Like the mash potato or the twist even. That seems in good taste.
At around four the inevitable trance started in and my spirits waned. I started remembering key bits of my life like the fact that I live in the NE and I don't have a car. I could always wait and catch the first bus but I drank all of my currency much earlier in the evening and thus had no bus fare and no more barter worthy goods for the cab goers. One dude offered me some trunk space which I heartily accepted but his posse ended up going to another party. I just couldn't. I was done. I checked in and met the tenant of the house before scoring prime real estate on the couch and holding fast throughout the drunken goodbyes and heavy blaring Van Halen till finally I felt it was safe to remove my shoes and get comfy with the down blanket that had been generously left to one side of the couch.
Ahhh yes. This crunchy morning reminds me of my old summer home in hobodum. Waking up. Man versus wild hangover. Snag somebody else's apple from the snackery/fruit bowl in their kitchen and head off into the bright in search of bloody marys and a side of eggs. How did I get the money you ask? Karma. I decided against stabbing kittens so the cash fairy looked kindly down upon me and dumped some funds into my account. Rejoice. Uptown!

When the third world hits it'll be innocuous enough, i mean, you probably won't even notice it, you'll be doing the shit you normally do and then boom, you all of the sudden find yourself in a fucked up situation; like your friend quietly saying he's not going back to jail as he speeds up while y'all get pulled over, or a dude walking up at three AM and asking casually what size shoes you wear or -in this case- being locked in a house with police politely informing you that they are about to break the door down if someone doesn't open it RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW. Of course, in order for this to be a normal situation gone awry you have to be a pretty cutty motherfucker, which I am, i must be in order to write this week after week. I bring you, the reader the taste and feel of the cut without you having to risk a hair on your head. Meanwhile my ID is getting passed around more cops hands than an a racist joke down at the station. No, no, I'm not being charged with anything, they're just looking, just making sure. I recall how this situation started, it seems so long ago....
47th and caswell 11/26 ATX- it's some one's birthday, or in fact it's a lot of people's birthday, but it's someone in specific's house. Rebecca... it's fairly modest, there's two kegs and a bunch of would-be gangsters talking shit along with the platinum blond teens and overgrown boys wearing faded rock t-shirts. pretty faces, for pretty bodies, with perfect hair and thee latest clothes, everyone's outside and acting like it's cold, which it isn't really, not yet. so we're all just having a good time when the cops roll up. This has become something of a mystery to me lately, although I understand why they do it. The police come up and say there has been a noise complaint even though it is obvious that no noise complaint has been filed. It's part of the general policy that a bunch of people can't get together outside a bar and just drink for no other reason that to drink. I call it "anti-buzz" enforcement. So we are all moved to the back yard and told to be quiet. Like lambs to the slaughter.
Literally, like 10 minutes later the cops are back in force. they start ID-ing people and handing out tickets left and right, people are trying to sneak away but they can't people are running, jumping fences but the cops have the entire thing locked down. No way out but in... for some reason it seems like a really good idea for us to all go inside and lock the door, so we do, and there are so many minors you'd think the keg was full of gold. Now the pretty girls are looking nervous and the thugs and jocks are making humorous, tepid little comments about going back to jail and how they don't care, their bravado riding like a tattered flag in the air. Those above age (myself included) don't give a fuck, we're not doing anything wrong, so we begin to down the frothy mixture which got us into this mess in the first place. Tension is thick. A few escape attempts are made vis-a-vis a sympathetic neighbor and the dog run. The knocking gets louder and a girl begins to bawl. Negotiations are made. The TABC arrives. Heads will roll. Finally, someone opens the door against the postulate made by a high school drop-out that they have no right to enter, which many agree with. The keg is unceremoniously dumped, and it breaks my heart to see it, but i know that if i claim my love i will be charged with contributing. The minors are put in a long line and ID-ed one at a time. The whole thing borders on tedium. I am quite literally almost too drunk to keep my eyes open.
Soon enough i get turned loose and walk out to see the wreckage of the evening. There are MIPs flashing yellow and blue against the search lights. They brought out the police helicopter. Someone is calling my name because they're calling her parents,and all i can say is "stiff upper lip". They're trying to show us there's a new boss in town, and for the kids it might have worked, but me, i know this city couldn't change even if it wanted to. We couldn't make a fresh start even if we tried.

56th and G 11/25 ATX the cops were already here when i showed up, so this sucked. me an some friends played last man standing until someone told us to get the fuck out, and so we did.

11/25 49th and caswell ATX It's my firends new house, hooray! It's in a good neighborhood! Her kids aren't home! She's giving away "tears for fears" tapes! I went and tapped this keg, i was literally the first beer and then i took that beer on a voyage to north west austin. We came back and there was a beer to stranger ratio of 0-100. Of course i had my own modest supply of alcohol, not something to share but a little something, for the ride home, as we say. So what is my natural reaction when this douche slaps a man can (24oz-Lonestar) out of my hand to the ground spilling all of it warm, gooey contents to the parched soil. There is but one response to such; I bucked up. then i saw his like 30 friends, and none of mine. we were face to face. i was face to face with a righteous ass-stomping. luckily, a friend of mine dragged me inside before i made a complete fool of myself, and was left a pussy in the eyes of a large crowd. But a fresh faced, unbruised, unsullied pussy, who lived to ride another day.

spicewood springs and far west 11/25 ATX- This was a small party/ get together (in an apartment) but there was still a keg and a bottle of jagermeister, for the uninitiated: this is how austin do. Not much happened, everyone just shot the shit and there were no unexpected guests or any fights, very little dancing even though the music was bumping. We were chillin on the balcony just getting tore up when some crazy boxer clad asian dude in his 40's comes out of his place, like 5 apartments down and starts screaming at us to keep it down. I was like, "dude it's friday, and you're five apartments away, WTF?" i mean, i could see if everyone else, like thew neighbors had come out but this dude is like down the block, apartment-wise. The music was turned down regardless, out of respect. But then due comes out and starts yelling again. About what this time, i don't know. Oh, did i mention none of this was in english? So i guess i didn't know before either, we just assumed it was noise, but now it appears dude is actually just pissed about us having a good time on a friday night, which i can't fathom. we left shortly afterward.

Comal and MLK 11/19 ATX- this party was on the verge of not happening. Around 9 I showed up for a few pre-beers and everyone was bummed and talking about going somewhere else to get thier jollies, even the folks who lived there. Apparently the complications had gotten too much for them and they were ready to scrap the entire thing until somone pointed out the root of thier problems; hippiedom. They had relied on a man who chronically does not have shoes nor a phone to deliver two kegs at 8 pm and now there was no way for them to get in touch with this man who was roaming around, away from all payphones and responsibility, probably cutting his feet on our fair city's surplus of broken glass, his dreads thrashing, backlit by a firepit as his danced his free spirited jigs. Luckily, a hippy dead set on partying that night had the forethough to call another hippy about the situation, soon that hippy called another, and the word spread like peanut butter through the hippy community. By howls, smoke signal or rythmic hitting of rock upon rock, that hippy finally reached back through the network to say that the party was still on, he was right down the street..... Hours had elapsed and a formidably sized drumset had been erected on the half pipe with all manner of douchebags milling about, the air was thick with tension, these people knew they were about to get rocked. The keg showed up during a soundcheck that already had lesser baddasses wearing all manner of thier own asses for hats. I quickly filled my belly with beer which i would see later and ran to the stage. "The High Cost of Living" were smoking a pre-set bowl as police search lights paced back and forth across our faces. With little formality and no concern for the law they broke into a brooding set that ultimately left everyone drunk as snakes and as equally covered in beer. then someone started passing out brownies, and everyone got down. my then my buddies played, i forget the name of thier band for obvious reasons, everyhting st this point was a fuzzy feeling encouraging a lot of swaying back and forth and the need to act "groovy". the second keg rapidly floated and the partiers realized they were awash in a sea of suburban gangsters, hish schoolers and downright hicks, dispensing thier toothless wisdom to thier only friends the fire barrel and the earthen jug. we parted ways after i poured beer on someones sneakers in retaliation for a jostle whose agressive nature simply would not stand...

n kerby AND beech

As I neared the supposed location of this party the searing cold had begun to eat away at the tip of my nose and my free-box girl hat did nothing to protect my ears. Riding down Vancouver I noted that there seemed to be more cops than usual out on prowl and so I kept my brown head down for the irrational(?) fear of being stopped and hassled by these loyal public servants. I figured they were probably looking for somebody and I know from experience that I fit several routine descriptions. You know: Darker skin, of average height, dubious alibi, fat sack of rock, hoodie...just your usual suspect all in all. Then I realized what the haps was with all the Smokeys; the lights had gone out for miles and miles there. Road flares instead of traffic lights lit the way and the night smelled of sulfur. This party was to be akin to a USO on the front lines- a dim break in the battle of me versus the rains. I know all you natives are saying: "Oh ho! Hardy har har and the such...You sissy. Just buy some rain gear and make bike fenders out of water bottles! We gang bang like this everyday! P-O-R-T-L-A-N-D sucka chump! Don't step ain't no front son!" But I'm a Texas kid. I dig the Texas digs, and it's fucking depressing here! But I'm working on my chops, you see. So out I go into this dreary black and I ponder on how the party is to go sans power.
Walt and Brianna are chilling out on the porch and I ask them for the 568 minus 157, and they tell me that it's mostly going to be a folk punk acoustic sort of deal. So electricity was a negligible deterrent Now I'll be honest with ya'll I've never been a huge fan of the sound. Like when I was a kid and listened to rap for the first time or punk for that matter: it all just sounds the same to me. Then again I suppose that's what a genre is for right? To label all the kids with the same sort of sound and give them an ethereal place to chill together. Sonically speaking that is. I've never, however, been the sort of person to just say no...to anything unfortunately especially that unforgettable high that is good music, and you can score that anywhere if you just keep your ears and mind open.
It's a quaint house inside. On the walls are a few well placed posters including one of John Travolta and another of the shins. They had a poster of Deep Throat off to the right(The films slogan: How far will a girl go to untangle her tingle?). How far indeed. That's appropriate here. These folk punk groups are always talking about travelling around through the hustle and grind of various cities just trying to find what they're looking for; be it a lost love/new love, cheap rent, or just a pleasant sun soaked wash of grass and flowers in which to strum their acoustic ballads...I can relate to that as I believe can anybody who's ever felt the urge to just up and leave one day. Regardless of the end results the search is the best part of finding that brief moment of cool respite. Or in the case of Deep Throat: that great feeling when a throbbing cock with feathered pubes hits the clit buried deep within your esophagus.
So on I search and the first band is about to play. It smells like paraffin in the house due to the myriad votive candles that some thoughtful party goer purchased and placed sanctimonious around the playing area and then: Brian Whitson and the Night Wolves, awesome name for a band and they do it justice. There I go again, being a hype machine and all, but geez! Give me a break. I like good music! I want to write about good music! I think the Portland scene is coming out with....GOOD MUSIC! So fuck it. These guys rocked. You can listen for yourself on the space: myspace.com/brianwhitson but be forewarned that these recordings aren't at all up to par with the live performance. The lead singer is into it guys, he's holl'rin and gee'tar bangin' and all in all knockin' one in her jar for us and these kids here they sit down for shows. So they're all swaying back and forth and clapping and tapping a foot or two and the candle light is dancing around on dude's flannel shirt and the harmonies float effortlessly back and forth between the singer and his back up. It's a nice peaceful feel. Do I sound like a hippie? Fuck. Oh well. That's how it was and everybody dug it. Rainbows.
After that I got high. It left me self-conscious and wondering whether I really wanted to smoke at a party ever again. I probably will, though with less haste next time as for the next two sets I just sat there glancing around nervously and not really enjoying myself despite the good tunes. Hey Tiger started playing just as the lights came back on but due to crowd disapproval they turned them back off, go figure. Walt and Brianna are good at what they do, though I want to just say this right now. Brianna, I like your voice but when I watch you I feel as if you don't. Push it out there lady! You gotta SING if you're gonna sing. There are moments when the voices of these two melt together and make a great sort of androgynous amalgam, but I didn't think it was as on tonight. You guys are good! But you gotta think so too or the thoughtful lyrics and clever strumming is just lost under the lack of confidence.
The room filled up for Paul Baribeau a one man piece from the fine land of Michigan. Your music's...alright...I might've been more impressed if you had played it for the crowd! Instead I felt like I and the rest of the people who actually came to see this guy where a large and bulky third wheel to Mr. Baribeau and his friend from Michigan's reminisce sesh. Before every song he'd have a little conversational interlude with these two people that nobody could get in on or even relate to seeing as it was all about Lansing Michigan. Why do I even know about Lansing Michigan? It's cause you seemed more interested in that then you did in the show you were performing, 'dude'! I mean whatever; it's your deal. Maybe these kids didn't mind but I personally think it was rude and distasteful. Uncouth even. Then the donation bucket was passed around and I thought to myself: "Oh man! What a genius idea. Next time I go back to Austin I'll take my guitar to a party and "smash" on it for a few seconds while visiting with my homies and then I'll charge all the random kids there for my fucking vacation! That's fucking brilliant and not at all wrong cause hey guys! I'm on tour!" Well maybe I'm just getting a little heated for no reason but honestly man. If you want to play music for your friends do it. But if you want to play a show, buddy, best recognize that there's an effing audience in front of you and by golly treat them as if not only should they be there but in fact you want them there. Or else why should they care?
Back on solid ground(the weed wore off, but left me with a gruesome headache) I watched as local favorite Captain Chaos divulged his musical thoughts and confessions through the power of acoustic force. This guy made me think about the late nineties and early 'llenium years when every single kid on the block had a guitar and they all played the same songs: Blackbird, Wish You Were Here, The Sweater Song. Then they started writing their own songs. It was as if god parted the clouds of emulation and screamed: "Let there be originality once more!" And so as it was said in heaven so was it to be done on earth. Everybody has a song just waiting to jump out; even if it's just one, and then a bunch of decent if not good poems set to the exact same melody and strum pattern as that first great one. This being, in my opinion, the case with Captain Chaos.
I'm tired. My head is pounding. I want to leave. So I did. I didn't get to see Popitilopitilous but that's just how it goes. How'd you do guys? Let me know. The overall feeling I got from this party was one of immediate contempt for That Guy Winter and one of serene belonging for people who have found a scene that wants to have them, and wants to let them shine.
This has been Uptown Wild dribbling his unabridged and officially unofficial opinions about that party you probably enjoyed a lot more before I broke it down just now, signing out once again for This Aint No Picnic. Stay hyphy ya'll and keep on keepin it crunk.

11/23 MLK and Leona ATX This is what i had been looking for all night, something nice and chill with a fire, no bullshit, no drama, just a bunch of old friends having a good time. The only thing about it was that we were the absolute last people there and got 86ed. Which is okay. Sometimes you gotta get 86ed with your bros. Sometimes you gotta run through the woods with a keg with your bros, sometimes you gotta drive drunk with your bros. Not all the time, but sometimes. It's a bro building experience.

11/23 12th and Rio Grande ATX: We showed up to this and it was like, a little hip college studenty thing. I feel like i probably could've gotten in a really boring conversation if i didn't get involved in psycho,hosebeast one with a drunken, jilted ex-lover. This is right where her house used to be and it must have brought back some memories. Ahhh..... memories. Like when i wasn't at this lame party getting bitched at by a drunk chick, but was instead far away at a frat party overhearing white guys make casual references to lynching. Austin, there's a reason why i left, but i want you to know, i meant it when i said "i love you".

11/23 26th and Salina ATX: For too long parties like this have suffered under the harsh rule of the keg line, and the despotism of the kegmaster. This loathsome distribution plan ruled by this facistic, TnA obsessed tyrant is a model for corruption, if not an inherently corrupt device, harkening back to days of yore when decadent kings decided who was metered ale based purely on a chicks and bros grading system. And we, the longsuffering "dudes", neither chick nor bro, our cries unheard, our empty cups unseen, cast out entirely from the process, our hopes for beer like a ship on the ocean, at the mercy of a greasy fingered oaf, what recourse do we have? Methinks the system could be replaced by popular revolt, but the landed gentry has the upper hand, the "bros" who actually purchased the keg are in control of where she stands, our only chance is to be rowdy ne-erdo-wells and encourage fighting, oftentimes provoking it. Then our numbers can be felt! Alas not for tonight, a three fights erupted all the aforementioned bros against se v eral ruffians of dubious ethnicity. The comments lobbed against a certain quadroon come to mind, but it does not bear repeating as some of the fairer sex have been known to peruse these pages with a keen eye towards the musings of CHIPS DOWN.

The Gantenbein Party


We were informed of this party by an old friend of ours from Austin. He described it as a dance party for a lady who had recently achieved the comfortable age of 26. We heard music as we rode past a tall manor of a house and stopped to survey the digs. The terrain was rugged to say the least. Not a bike in sight and no discernible motion in the windows. "What do you think?" Chips Down said with a cautionary brow lift. "Into the trenches, old friend?" And yes we went. Peter, there's only one, came out to the porch at that point which pretty much sealed the deal. "My negroes! My boys!" He called out with typical effeminacy, he was dressed in what I can only assume was woven tinsel...and possibly a shirt(?) tied around his jock. Peter, as a rule, dresses in a style I like to refer to as Future-shock. He's one of the coolest party staples in Portland, A veteran of too many tours to remember, as far as I know he lives on the front lines. So in we go. It's a beautiful house with giant windows and rich wooden trim. Lot's of expensive looking antiques but on meeting the people I bet they were just really good finds. See, the problem with being able to immediately appreciate the house is that there were absolutely no people to distract my attention. Granted, it was only 10pm when we arrived and Monday night parties, as a rule, are not to be trusted; I expected though that this was to be the general atmosphere throughout the night. I was not wrong. Only two more people arrived which made the head count, including Chips and I, a full 2 under 10. Oh and 4 people lived there. The first thing I hear the birthday girl say/exclaim belligerently upon our introduction was:
"OH PETER! I'm so happy! I've always wanted to have a dance party!!! Thank you!" Now this is not to say anything on Peter's general skill at organizing a party because I've seen his merits at work and he's earned those metals time and time again, but this was just sad and I felt really bad for this girl cause, shit lady, this is not a dance party and honestly it was no way to spend your birthday. I might have cried and been perfectly justified if it had been my party. But there was beans and rice on the stove, tons of wine, and some sort of cake which I didn't partake in cause as we all know: Uptown doesn't dig sweets. There you have it. The, and I use this title tentatively, "party" was lame. Which brings me to my next item up for discussion tonight: My friend XUI(pronounced: Chouwheiy) claims that I can't just be a hype machine and that I should write some bad reviews. The problem being that mostly I only go to sweet parties and here basically good music. Except for those guys at Centaur Guitar who played before Big Black Cloud I've really liked all the bands I've heard. So here Portland, help me out: I you're a fucking shit sucking band. Hit me up. I'll come watch your show and then write about how horrible you were!

Cook st. party

At nine sharp the chili went out and the party started off a bit sluggish with a few kids milling around the kitchen while Captured by Porches set up and the rest sitting in front of a television set with the volume off. Here Comes a Big Black Cloud played the first set. They opened with a couple of new songs which I will just take the time to note as being very very good. Drunk guy double fisting Icehouse in front of me yelled at one point that they were the "best band in the world" and "you guys fucking rock too hard" so there you have it. They're hit song/dance bash Gamma Ray seemed a bit sped up and a little off and this was a malady that would plague them throughout the rest of their set, though the crowd didn't seem to mind and they had all the same rock and roll soul presence they always do.
For the next good portion of this party I was just kind of grazing through the party mingle while what I heard was some old 90's music was going off in the background. Mostly I was just trying to get high(mission accomplished) as due to a horrible infection in my throat last week I am currently on antibiotics and cannot drink. So I'm high. And here I go casually walking past the basement when I realize that the alt rock I'm hearing isn't a recording at all. There's actually a band downstairs that's playing this stuff. NOTE: alt rock is some of my favorite type of jam...SUB NOTE: But that's late 80's early 90's stuff...Before shit like Train and Hootie really spread their wings...which reminds me: Sugar Ray will really sum up exactly what I'm trying to say about the downfall of alt rock. Regardless ya'll, that shit went hard it was that point where kids were hesitantly still calling this stuff punk but Mars music was shelving under the lovely Alternative label and we were all rushing for the shit. The Pixies. The Pogues. They Might be Giants...I believe by this time R.H.C.P was already running alt water for their spa baths and yes friends, Sublime cause just remember good music never spoils it just gets played out. Well the point of all this is to say that Magnus Opus brought it back to the day in a spirit that held this party on a pedestal of the music right. Not to mention that since these kids are from Brooklyn we West Coasters can expect to hear much more of this sort of music in about five years when the trickle hits us(I'm sure that after last night there will be some new bands forming around here...you'll see). They had a strong vocal lead and lyrics that were heartfelt and true to this generation's sentiment: Broken, disillusioned, and dare I say...Beat. Shit they even had a rocking kazoo solo what more do I have to say.
Bankrupt and the Borrowers I hope that in a few years their name will suffice as a review but for now I'm happy to do them the honor. This band carries that same heavy step of alt that I was referring to earlier though I suppose we might have to come up with a new label just to keep it trendy...maybe we'll just start calling it rock again? Eh? Who knows. With elements of noise thrown in and a sometimes out of place but often altogether perfectly set harmonica the sound is reminiscent of jazzy old country blues and that city sweat that comes after a hard day at work and a long walk home. Throughout the set the bassist and the guitarist would switch instruments and switch out on vocal duties, both held spectacular. I'm not sure the crowd was even ready for this sort of low income rock and roll gang bang but here it was and these guys demanded attention. Admittedly they started off a bit strange in my opinion but by the third song I had settled into their strange time signatures, extended intros, and off harmony singing. All of them were very talented musicians but the drummer, Worthless, beat out a solo that jammed the shit out of more than a few innocent bystanders...or perhaps that smell was just a side affect of everybody drinking home brew and eating loads and loads of chili. Well whatever they deserve the credit for every stinky bottom in the place. Check them out: myspace.com/bankruptmusic.
Popitilopitilous I hope I spelled that right. Tonight they played the best set I have seen to date. Black lights and color strobes, costumes and kitsch...oh...and tight jams. I've yet to pick up on the lingo ya'll here in the Northwest use to describe your local bands(and down in Austin we don't have anything like this) so I'll just call it space-wave and rest assured, it's a good sign. I know that most of the bands out there are like fuck contracts, text is for pussies, and all this and that but I really hope we figure out a way to get the mainstream to be our stream once again. I know it has to happen and so it will. But I just can't wait. I see more and more of these great amazing awesome bands popping up all over the country and I wonder if this is what it was like back in the day(say waaay back) when rock was rock and the drugs were cheap(though we still have to work on that cheap drugs bit don't we?), and then I think to myself: Well fuck it kids. This is our good time we're coming into here, don't equate. Don't relate. Just sit back, chill out, max in the shade and get ready, cause the best is yet to come.

halloween. 7th AND alberta?

I'm new to this city so I don't expect too much, and in my experience the party train in any town is often elusive at best, but there is NO excuse for this. Come on P-town! Only one party on Halloween night? Sure. I know what you're thinking with your giggles and smirks: Heh. This guy obviously didn't go to the party I was at. and granted. I probably didn't. Hit me up next time "Dude". Let's shake it loose. As was to be expected this party was...Drunk. But something about idiot underage shirtlss skaters in half-assed costumes beligerently howling about "this slut I totally did" or "that hottie in the" barely a bunny "bunny costume over there" really puts me out. The only saving graces I could find(and this is largely due to the enthusiasm generated by my BRAIN COSTUME I had eaten/donned earlier in the evening) were the hallway stobes which at one point so confused this one drunken lady that she walked, screaming to a friend, into a fucking wall four or five times in rapid succession before finding her way into the Juicy onslaught that was: the kitchen.
Perhaps it was the pop punk or the nigh-clothed teenage girls, or the boisterous tall assholes or the confusion lent of my brain garb...whatever. It felt like a low-income highschool future frat baby bash sans foam and free keystone light. I wasn't horribly impressed, even with the magic hippie trip I was experiencing. Kegs guys. Get some kegs.

saturday Before halloween. 7th AND jarrit?

Three dollars at the door and they are enforcing this toll. With the fence relatively free of bikes we lock up and go in, the walls are draped with black plastic and Metallica is blaring. It's early. A television set in the corner is playing Dead Alive with the mute on, a small crowd is standing around the set taking swigs from pre-party fifths the spirit is high. It's looking good. Captured by Porches was setting up and a band was about to play. Give it a minute or two. It's on. Save for my birthday the weekend before Halloween is typically one of my favorite party times and this is why: The kids start rolling in dressed in whatever their personal tastes have thought prudent, your shits out there for every one to see. Regardless of whether you've decided to grace us with your indie-genius like those clever enough to invent a walking pun, or your hipster-risque glam fashion bonanza's, or even just your last minute price tag. Best of all it's one of those special annual nights where everybody is dead set on getting THROWED.
The band starts, I don't remember their name, they have strobes of many colors pulsating at epileptic speeds. The metal is lead. As a disclaimer I'll admit that I don't like this particular style of deep manic monkey throat intimidating sequencer beat explosive public harassment jamboree, but I could tell that they were talented musicians who could probably land a text with Elektra or maybe Twizted's label. So keep up the good work guys.
I stepped up to the dance floor which was at this point bloated with the jumping flails of today's hot dance moves. Which I personally think is fun:
Uptown's guide to THE CROWD BURROW.

So here's how it goes. Step one: Attempt breach of swarming dance hull. To do this is simple, first you have to observe the mass and locate the most unskilled dancers, extend your arm to it's maximum reach and do a pop and lock wave maneuver deep into the guts of the beast(you will easily bypass aforementioned groove less ones). Now quickly. Rotate 360 degrees using your arm probe as leverage bringing the arm in as you turn. Extend opposite arm. Repeat these two steps with directional compensations in maneuver. That's it! Just keep your eye on the prize and you'll be there in no time! NOTE: If you don't mind being a pushy jerk you can also do what I call THE PUSHY JERK and just stick one arm out and slightly upward in a sort of heil move. Proceed to simply walk through without mercy. No regrets baby.

At one point I moved to the couch sitters section to talk with a guy I know from New Mexico all of a sudden my shoe disappears. Fucking disappears! I had to get down on my haunches and brave the 300 horsepower Italian leather clad meat tenderizer that was the bottom tiers of this dance jam trample fest. After rolling my way between kicks and drunken stumbles for like five I finally found my shoe on the opposite end of the room. It made a slurping sound when I slipped it over my sock which was soaked to the shin with party juice. It's these sorts of times when even half to halfway through a party I can just feel the greatness of the night. This is how I dig it. Outside there was a riots load of drunken citizens and no cops to stop them so let's just take a moment to thank God for beer, drugs, and great music to create a need for this sort of gathering lest the people should run wild with gang related warfare. I think it's lovely.
Next was LKN. She rocked with her hair on a whiplash spin cycle and everybody loved it. This dude in a crazy space robot cyber wendigo gwar monster costume had some awkwardly set shoulder spikes that slapped me in the face. It turns out however that the costume shot whiskey from a tube and so I quickly forgave the beast and grooved down a bit with it to the music; which I felt was sort of reminiscent to an early nineties grunge bit. I enjoyed it.

Show Me the Pink played and the basement was packed. I'll just say that I enjoy this band and the crowd burrow lent itself well(you don't even have to move yourself! It's like a tide, just relax and go with the flow), but I'm going to post a review by my friend XUI in New York after he heard them on myspace(I guess that drawing represents what he felt the jams would look like...I really don't know.)

Show Me The Pink
Current mood: cold

myspace.com/xui. He does comics.

I'm not sure if another band played that party but rumor has it that exactly that may be true. I went to another party. I don't remember where it was. But I do remember this: It smelled like actual poop. I suppose their was a poo shoe problem and the dance floor suffered for it. There was a large fire in the backyard. Every single guest was a woman that seemed aggressively unapproachable. I felt as if honestly I shouldn't even have been there. Listen. Ladies. When a dude at a party tries to talk to you don't automatically assume they are hitting on you or whatever it is you assume that makes you have those scrunchy little stink faces on when I walk by. That's dumb. That goes for you snobbish punkster bike hotties and Stalinist drab man haters alike. I don't care what your reasons are. A party is where people go to shake it off. Sure the majority of goers are going to get fucked up or get laid but that's beside the issue. Most of the people you meet will not remember you and vice versa. Everybody is interesting when you're drunk. Most people are actually friendly brain zombies that mean you no harm and might possibly grow on you in the future. Like old people always used to say: You only get one chance for a first impression. This has been Carrot's "Uptown" Wild reporting to you from a pee stank attic and I bid you adieu.

7th AND powell/fri. OCT 27th


After the show at Valentines, which may I say was quite rocking though the absurd amount of underage girls dancing with dudes of dubious ages and varied stages of stubble growth was a bit unsettling, the crew and I headed on down to the Reptilian Civilian house to see if we could possibly catch a last glimpse of this awesome band. The answer, friends, was no. Regardless we chilled and drank what was left of a pile of 12 pack cartons and decided eventually to embark on a mass industry exodus over to 7th and Powell a mere few blocks away. I knew this party would be good from the start as when I arrived a guy dressed as what I can only assume was a Double Dare contestant screamed for everybody outside to shut up and herd in cause the cops were on their merry joy killing way. This of course is how I want all parties to start as it ensures that the trenches will be crowded and gory, smeared with the smell of vomit from (to remain anonymous{but seriously this guy exists and did infact:}) who puked only inches away from the keyboard while rocking out to...what were they called? YES.OH.YES from who cares where USA the place where all pop punk is born and should in my opinion stay. Sorry punksters I can't afford to vouch for your fashion grunge fury any longer...The Man is sending out memo's...You aren't to be trusted; apparently for various reasons including, though not limited to: You carry MF hair straighteners around in your backpack, Coke is out...again, heroin should be out again, GHB(where the fuck are you guys still getting that crap?)is out STILL!, you suck, I heard about that time you killed a puppy, you start too many fights cause you're afraid that otherwise people will think you're just like every other make-up wearing metro-sexual out there: Gay. But they don't start fights cause they're what we in the industry call secure A.K.A: you probably are gay. Fuck ya'll.
Alright but enough is enough, granted. Besides, the next band to play completely blew my mind to the point where I digressed a full 10 years and started screaming praises like: "AG! Ya'll rock tubular, Brah!" Because 10 years ago I was a surf bum meth head roller blader from Eastern Texas, obviously. But no! THE HOLY GHOST REVIVAL! Wow. And wow again. The keys were this crazy sort of off chord synchronicity to the vocals of one Conner Something who was standing on the drum kit so as not to get trampled by the overwhelming crowd flailing their way through the viking rock(and I do mean ROCK) melodies. The drummer was more on key than yours truly with an 8 ball of sweet cocaine he'd switch it up too fast to notice and then he was back to solid. Many a people have been claiming that THE GHOST was tragically injured with the loss of their last guitarist but as this is the first time I saw them I can only say: So what? These kids rock and probably get laid more than you could hope to in a year sans roofies. But I digress, and so did they. They had to cut the show short because these crazy drunkards in half-assed weekend before halloween costumes pushed the fucking keyboard onto the keyboardist! Great ending though. She looked pissed. And that's about it. THE MARK had too much technical trouble to merrit a review and their drummer ditched out on them before the show! So yeah. Captured by Porches made the drink, the dance floor was awesome and I'm out of free computer time. Check the photo's at OKPONY.COM.
REGARDLESS HOLMES!

7th and Going: The Speed Dating Party 10/20

The first question I asked when told that there would be an amateur speed dating party was: How is that going to work? The answer is simple enough and surprisingly obvious: It won’t. However perhaps if it had been publicized as more of a speed dating themed PARTY and less like it was going to be an actual singles mixer well maybe it would have been slightly more successful. Then again who’s to know. It was a nice house with a well manicured lawn- replete with trimmed and shaped hedges! Yes. Fancy digs. It turns out that the party would be exactly as I had imagined it, lot’s of guys sitting around a table full of booze talking about what they had imagined the party was going to be like. The hosts were great. A+. Jason Simms showed clips of fake comedy speed dating on his computer and kept the drinks flowing and the conversations rolling, the two ladies that were there were his two present roommates and they were cordial and not freaked out at all about the fact that they were the only female presence in a room full of dudes and I suppose you could look at it like well of course cause they were the center of attention, but in actuality there was a very calm egalitarian feeling once everybody mutually concluded that no actual speed dating would be happening. We all wore name tags despite the extremely low capita of the group and everybody seemed to be having nice laid back conversation in happy moods. That is until a couple of drunk girls showed up and did in fact become the center of attention. They were loud. They were witty. And these dudes were completely unprepared for the sort of boisterous verbosity these ladies were spitting. Unfortunately they perhaps had drunk a bit too much during their pre-party cause just as quickly as they had come in and livened up the place they disappeared: one to the couch passed out and one to who knows where...Though there were a few less guys there as well soooooo….Right. Any way then we decided to check out this other party we had heard about earlier, mainly because the liquor table was beginning to clear. Up we went into the chilly chilly night and walked up to 11th and Killingsworth. Much to our chagrin the party had already ended and the supposedly “these guys fuckin’ rock” rock bands had already fuckin’ rocked as much as they could much earlier in the night(though in fact it was only 1am when we showed). Of course, house parties must abide by neighborhood rules and thus the music usually does end rather early. Jim Stone got his bike stolen and so check it out: Fuck you retarded crack head bitches who go around stealing bikes from people and then selling them for 30 bucks to hipsters. Why don’t you just go suck a dick for some rock like your mother used to do back in the good old days. Last time I checked dome was still a perfectly reasonable currency for hard drugs. You sans nut pussy fucks are the guys I see in alleys holding sacks of adorable kittens and just chilling there chuckling through your swollen festering gums while you jam an ice pick into the helpless mewing bundle. You smell like a dead up wino ate his own shit and then vomited after chugging a jug of Carlo Rossi…I hate you and so does everybody else. Your mom cries every time she thinks of you. You suck. Oh and Portland…I realize that winter is here and everybody in the room is skirting around him being like: “Uhhhh….It’s that guy again…Everybody pretend like we aren’t trying to have a party.” But check it out. In a month or so he’s gonna be the one throwing all the parties and so let’s step it up a notch and just include him this time so that we can have a little fun again. ALRIGHT!

6166 NE MLK

Oh shit… Listen up industry cronies. Here’s to you with the clink and shatter of the only two champagne flutes I own, you self-loathing sadistic puppy killing fucks. We’ve got it. Need I say more? Well we do and it’s right here in anywhere we want to party USA. I’ve been to shows so good people caught on fire. I’ve seen shit so raw it was equatable to some sick pervert walking two miles into a psycho trigger happy ranchers domain just to slice a good steak off a tipped cow with his fucking Swiss army knife. So let’s say that. Let’s say that was my weekend kids. That was my damn weekend. Except of course Friday when Gemstone and I decided to take it easy with two 32s of High Life, somebody else’s couch and Good Will Hunting. All right…all right. Let it be known that in my opinion Ben Affleck is just the slickest MF dresser in that flick. I really want to start wearing those track suits now.
So Saturday night, am I correct? We had heard about like six different parties one of which was an underpants dance so Gemstone had to actually wear some Chones that night (where he got them I’m wary to ask) we set out on bike and we were going to stop by a dubious tip of 6166 NE MLK…Doesn’t exist as far as we could tell but while we were riding an old Austin acquaintance calls me and says that we just have to go see her friends band (she lives in the bay area) who are playing like 3(?) parties that night. They’re called “The Most” and they’re sooooooo awesome she says in the groupiest of voices, maybe she’s dating one of them I figured. So I’m all: sure, give me dudes number and we’ll go check them out. She says she feels uncomfortable about that and I’m just like whatever then lady. Peace. I hung up the phone. Now finally we hear the sounds all consistent partygoers have come to recognize as “La Fiesta”. We go in via the driveway, lock up the bikes and proceed with the mingle. The first point of interest of course is the kiddy pool full of Hamm’s tall boys and Old German Premium Lager. The next was the birthday girl in the full sky blue spandex replete with red crotch guard and matching cape. Happy birthday Leilani. Thanks for having us. So there’s some kind of Jam going on down in the basement…a rock show if you will. Sounds pretty live from where I’m standing and so we go down. Ever the gentleman Gemstone grabs us seconds and met me in the musty below. The jam was thick yet easy to spread- infectious even. The children were squirming, moving, grooving and ultimately oozing into hip dance jiggles. I risked death to stop one of these rowdy arm-flailing maniacs. “Who is this?” I scream, barely heard over this blind date bastard child of the Violent Femmes and the Rocky Horror Picture Show. A one night stand made in the coke den of god. And holy shit…Are you serious? Well what are the chances? It’s “The Most”. Sorry I hung up on you Lori. Your friend’s band rocks poop from clothed bottoms with the might of 50 bass drums and a standing army 5000 guitar solos strong. But enough blatant flattery. If you missed this party you might go to hell. Next to play was one of my favorite Portland acts straight from the heart of the Dirty Dirty South hails Here Comes a Big Black Cloud. They rocked like a spring break South Padre margarita sorority rape fest crammed car bomb style into an old school Cadillac tank that’s somehow found it’s way onto a huge asteroid, populated by those insane nuclear mutants from the hills have eyes, and barreling on a criminally fast course heading straight toward the unholy destruction of our mother earth. It was a good set. Later that night Gemstone and I completed our Party Bingo cards after “somebody” took a rowdy shit behind a box truck and as we were leaving the scene a crack head sold us a bike for 35 dollars…Now I know, I know. Dubious morality here. But hey ya’ll I’ll do the right thing: Ride that fucker to work everyday and if somebody speaks up I’ll give it back free of gripe. As far as karma goes I believe my bases are covered. Not to mention I did help that fiend get some tail from the crack lady in the passenger seat of their little pick up. Good times.

SE 49th and Hawthorne

At first I was fooled by this wild and weird decoy party on the actual intersection stated above where freaky hipsters were jamming to WHAM! wearing crazy costumes and pinned up with name tags. No booze. Questionable cool level. Dubious patrons. But then I saw the friend who had told me about the party walking by outside and went to talk to her. She let me in on the fact that the real party was right next door and so I ditched out of that sham fest. I stepped onto the porch and knew immediately that this would be a strange and anxious pre-party crowd. They had already cliqued off and were having whisper jams while eyeing the other guests who were doing the same thing. Willie, my friend from Oakland, and just come up to visit his brother and so he was down here packing some downers and buying me a forty. Thanks Willie, vicodin always spices up a night. There was black bean dip on the snack table and the house was well carpeted…it was clean which I’ve realized is a regional staple that frankly I’m not completely used to yet. I still sometimes bottle a disturbed urge to spit on floors. Save it for the basement D.C. and so I did. Captured by Porches was serving up the pricey DIY brews and though I didn’t buy one this time due to an extreme state of wallet decadence I’ve come to know as my life I will still wholly recommend the venture because honestly: that’s damn good beer and it’ll get you more drunk than that case of Pabst you’ll be buying regardless. I could hear the music. Eighties jams. Typical, but I suppose not yet out of trend. Though really folks let’s just let the future be now and start getting back to 2 Live Crew and The 69 Boyz because we all know that deep down we really do want to just Scrub Da Ground. The basement was a crazy land of equality where frat-boys, punks, estranged weirdos and predominant hipsters could share the dance floor with glass-shattering freedom. By that I mean people were breaking glasses left and right thus forcing the few hippies who had walked barefoot from their South Eastern adobe castles to the upper domicile where they could stand in peace. Rejoice. All of the sudden however the speakers became propaganda machines for the sad nostalgia held by aging ravers and the incessant trance grooves drove me out and into the night to scout out the next party:

35th and Knott

Fashionable, rude, and fueled by cocaine. The cliques were cordial but generally jittering jaws and beady eyes made aggressive hellos half masking the paranoid sort of tight lipped tantrum just waiting to rage out into the dance floor (which in the mean while was tyrannically besieged by cell phones and laptops permanently set on myspace like an 8 track fused with the last Niel Diamond piece ever released on that medium). The hosts were very nice and one of them even sketched a portrait of me on the dining room wall! Immortalized baby! Hot! Best pass out award goes to that dude laying on the back patio with his head hanging off the edge half slumped over a rusty Old Smoky grill. When questioned on the level of comfort he was experiencing he had this to say: “Yeah…I’m great here.” I then asked him if he had puked before passing out to which he replied no. In actuality however I’d been outside when he toppled through the masses and tripped over the grill while the puke was spewing forth from his lips. The end result was this giant lump of dude that I have just describe. It was cold. I was tired. I went home. But on a separate note Portland. Allow me to make a call. A call for kegs. I don’t know. Maybe there’s some sort of taboo against them that I just haven’t heard of yet. Honestly though if you can get ten people together and they all throw ten bucks down you can get a keg, which brings what I like to call: The Backyard Rage Jam! Better yet, get your ten people and all throw fifteen to twenty then you can get two kegs. One of which is the reserve and the other is out in the open. When the first keg dies you go around and be like we need money for another keg! In my experience people will throw down if you have a pretty lady hassle them enough…or a drunken bro dawg, for that matter has a similar effect, then you just bring out your reserve and it’s like you only bought one! Awesome. Maybe when I get some funds together I’ll throw a nice kegger just to show ya’ll how it’s done. Once we get that did we can work on bringing back “theme” parties which every kid in town seems to be down with but just don’t work when you can’t supply a gross amount of FREE beer. Kisses and love kids. I’m out.

9/15 Party on Bryant

A chilly night. All around people are prophesizing the end of summer here in Portland- Being a foreigner I must ask one question: Will this be an end of the terrific string of parties I’ve experienced since relocating from Austin? Well…I hope not. And in we go through the wooden fence, a fire pit burns to the right but that cloud of smoke smells too skunky to be pieces of hippie house furniture debris. On the inside one will note the artfully strung severed doll heads and reaching doll arms that line the upper trim of the den. Free Pabst in the kitchen and enough salsa to quell the hungry masses of a small country, or more in suit the impoverished many that make up the North East Portland party industry. The Marsupials are mid-set with wig worn Casio tone girl grooves, rocking as they were the vocal confidence was lacking and though I felt a slight need to shake down to the dance floor their timid stylings seemed mirrored in the crowd before them. The cakewalk was a saving grace as it was an actual cakewalk sans cake for prizes. For the next half hour I wandered around in the damp yonder felling more than slightly out of place within these dready habitations. Many pipes were passed and Carlo Rossi joined me in a classic country jug dance until finally the next band was set up and ready to rock. Melodic prog pop punk by their own admission, Upshit Creek seemed like a screaming break riff version of Polaris-you know…That band from Pete & Pete? Good job gentlemen you hiked up the mood and got the grooves warmed and ready for tonight’s most fatal of attractions: A sexy naked lady meets below the border mex-archist revolution who call themselves Adelitas (The name comes from a revolutionary women’s group that followed in the footsteps of the Zapatistas (honestly that’s just what a Mexican dude at the party told me so I’m ultimately unsure of the validity but he seemed wise enough)) They raged. They quaked. They hugged and puffed and kicked the shit out of all three of those pussy little swine in consecutive construction analogy order. The crowd was clutching their bellies with violent bouts of explosive punk rock whiskey shits caused by the drinking of heavy 5ths of kickass bass drums with a beer back of a dastardly brewed punk string electric renegade ensemble. I posed the question: Can tonight get any better? The answer there was No. It cannot and this party ended around the fire pit. Even the smoldering embers seemed like they wanted to go home at that point. Though I will give the reward for best pass out of the weekend to the dude who had supplied the Rossi for my previous tryst who fell asleep sitting up on a kid’s chair leaning dangerously close to the fire and yes. Still holding the jug with his sleepy little trigger finger. We left satisfied at least, and I look forward to tomorrow but tonight I have a basement and a sleeping bag waiting for my tired brown body in somebody else’s house.

Cook Street. A while ago

Nice house, tall and well kept. The general mood was welcoming once we joined the back yard through the bike lined side fence. In no time the crowd was settling into the early industry feel and with the onset of darkness magnum malt, the fourth member of our crew that night urged me to sit back, relax and just enjoy the time. Cause it was that kind of night: Smooth. Hey tiger played a half band half set showcasing promising vocals and jiggy strum by Walt it was a pleaant duet tryst with female counterpart and budding tamborinist Brianna. The as-advertised free vegan gumbo was a great luxury(though wouldn’t it be clever to name your band Free Vegan Gumbo just to have all those hippies and peace punx jump and riot thus adding more fire to the mosh pit…you know…Or for that matter more melancholy to the emo hum fest, depending on your musical fly stylings.) The people in attendance were at least cordial if not altogether nice and friendly. On the edge of tipsy I began to hear a strange and electrical tone of commotion from the basement. Oh shit. Setting it down and knocking one in her jar for all the cool shoes and hair-do’s shaking out their working stiff woes to the full and heavy wall of plugged in glam rocked thriller chord pandemonium that was this creeped out piece: Here Comes a Big Black Cloud. Fun dance tyranny and resonant vocals by the enticing crowd involvement duo that played a neverland shadow to the lead guitar/vocal power house positioned center left to the pop show. Shit lit on fire. It was a spectacular manifesto of fascist rock propaganda; Well done ya’ll. Next to play was popitilopitilus courageously treading through the gory blood soaked carnage following The Cloud’s most recent massacre. They were costumed, they were loud, and they had at the very least intriguing lyrics…if only they’d switched out of the basic punk drum kick pop snare snare ride every once in a while they may have been on par and might have been a good bridge to the next set. Guao Guao brought a good kick in with a sweet country punch of vocals and a lead drawl that soaked into the marrow of us all. Horsey Poney followed and I believe Hey Tiger closed up the menagerie with a full set but by then Magnum had long since left me drunk and frenzied. I pranced hazy and stumbling through good conversations and questionable decisions. A plus Portland the promise is voluminous and the volume is pumped up. The night was long. It was good. I woke up deservedly hungover.