NOVEMBER 20 2009
3 3 . fl
Where Everybody Knows Your Nome
Settling into monotony after an exotic
vacation proves to be all sorts o f challenging.
Schlepping lattes and proofreading English
101 essays isn’t nearly as exciting as getting
gussied up for nights on the town in the Big
Apple with your best friend. I found myself
positively anemic (in spirit only, trust me,
this lady enjoys a meal), gasping for air as
my personal, self-crafted Hades— my daily
grind— engulfed me once again.
I reached out— almost frantically— to
friends, to cherished books, to my favorite
programs, all in hopes o f replacing a little o f
the glitz and glamour I so fervently desired
again. After several short jaunts around town,
I found I needed only immerse myself in the
tried and true— read: a concerted effort to
live in and for the moment— to entertain my
delusions o f grandeur.
Following days o f serving 1,000-calorie
blended coffee milkshakes to the suburban
masses, I need to let off steam. But due to the
dreadful economy, I’m resolved to my present
position and locale. It hardly appears an ap
propriate time to move, so I wait, left to my
own coping devices, which include frequent
escapes to beloved parts o f the city.
I often settle in the Northwest, near close
friends and some o f the most familiar places.
Café Nell, a favorite, has quickly become
one o f the city’s most-hyped neighborhood
haunts. The restaurant boasts stellar décor,
Simply love whom you're with
and what you're doing, and
you can moke any night out a
rotherfobulousmini-vocotion.
It might even be worth the
sleep deprivation.
stunning architecture, and a chic, comfortable
ambiance. The owners mingle with patrons,
ensuring everyone’s taken care o f and happy.
Regulars have made this their own per
sonal “Cheers,” but I can assure you Nell
aims to make sure newcomers feel this way,
too. It’s one o f the best places for my ladies to
debrief and hatch plans, and after tasty meals
and tastier libations with Mr. Komo Bains
late one recent Thursday evening, I craved
dancing.
I get tons o f perpetual grief for this, but I
love C C Slaughters. Okay, so maybe I don’t
love C C s, not like the way I love my dear
mother or I love the touch o f a man. I do,
however, love most Thursday nights I’ve spent
at C C s, and I love dancing there. It’s notori
ous (rightfully so), but sometimes grooving
to hip-hop with your friends (and strangers)
comforts you. Sure, there are vapid people
there, but the club remains unpretentious,
and part o f what makes Portland so wonder
fully charming.
Hostess Bolivia Carmichaels, the infa
mous, boisterous, loud-mouthed drag queen,
is one o f the most talented gals around. The
music, admittedly, can be hit or miss; DJs are
usually at their best when playing vintage
Michael Jackson or even Mariah Carey.
There was a time in my life when I thought
myself too good for C C s, with its debaucher-
ous, meat market rep. But like an embarrass
ing coke or gambling habit, I hid my love in
the deepest depths o f my heart. Eventually, I
got over it. It would behoove you to do the
same.
Later that weekend, Ryan Sager and I
ventured to Invasion. It’s often busy and,
for the most part, I’ll let you draw your own
verdict. Yes, the place certainly does look
like Ikea vomited all over a drag queen’s
rummage sale and yes, half the time they
serve well drinks in plastic Dixie cups— but
frankly, it’s part o f the appeal. The dancers
are marvelous; in that regard, the bar has
outdone itself, thankfully giving one infa
mous, haggard strip club that shall go un
named a well-deserved run for its money.
That night, Ryan and I ambled around
the bar, sporting leftover Team Zoe accents
from Halloween, much to everyone’s horror
(we went as Rachel and Brad). Dear Ryan
once had a lover tell him a purse fell out of
his mouth every time he spoke. That may be
true, but I’ll be damned if that purse isn’t the
wittiest, most clever thing you’ve ever heard.
We spent the evening catcalling anyone
who’d listen. I tried to rekindle romance with
an old crush, and soon discovered there’s
nothing quite like sizing up a former flame
and hitting it off, only to literally be pushed
aside as he turns to strike up a conversation
with the first coke whore to pass by. Talk
about an ego-boost.
After a week back home, I was struck by
this epiphany: the most important thing, it
seems, is being a celebrity in your own mind.
Simply love whom you’re with and what
you’re doing, and you can make any night
out a rather fabulous mini-vacation. It might
even be worth the sleep deprivation— no, I
know it is.
There’s no need to mimic anything I
found elsewhere. Right now, it’s all the glitz
and glamour this lady needs. J K
Lady about Town cant wait to see what this
season has in store. Tell him about your favor
ites at danielborgen@gmail.com.
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