08.07.05

Along about 20:00 last evening, I decided that no one was going to call and ask if I wanted to go out or get together.

"Woman," I said to myself, startling Hell's Puss-Puss into knocking over a pile of books, "You are going to take yourself out. To hell with waiting on other people."

MC-CC mentioned that he was working the Acme, and that they had a bicycle troupe up from San Francisco. The troupe's thing is cycle-powered carnival-type rides. That's got to be worth a look, eh?

I set off. Over to the once-squalid warehouse district of Stumptown. The area is being taken over by artistic spaces, publicity and advertising houses, and trendy restaurants. There are still genuine warehouses and small industrial factories, and the trains run through often enough so there's a sense of authenticity. However, the chi-chi factor, with its uplighting and tastefully showcased raw brick, will run the real places out of town. Eventually. Where then will the workers work?

Got to the Acme. The street in front of the bar was littered with drunken (and not so drunken) bicyclists and patrons. The look ran the gamut from straight bicycling gear, to white-boy dreads with microcircuitry woven in and exotic cartilage piercings, to the new Mod, to classic punk, to skirts and tasteful handbags. I parked, leaving my empty, recyclable can of soda on the sidewalk as payment to the parking space fairies. Walked into the bar, across the dance floor, and through the open garage doors. I saw the carny rides arranged on the asphalt of the outdoor area.

Above the fence I saw a two-cart Ferris wheel spinning. A great spider of a carousel stood in the center of the first open space. To ride it, one hung by one's hands from the bike handlebars welded to its arms. Various outlandish bikes were lying around, tempting the innocent and unwary. One had an extended frame that put the seat and the rider about two meters from the ground. Another one had an articulated frame that could be ridden sideways.

Goodness.

On the porch was a stationary bike designed for self-flagellation. It was quite popular and rarely empty throughout the evening. The regular whir of the wheel and the rhythmic whap! whap! whap! punctuated our conversation.

Tt this point, though, I still hadn't seen MC-CC. I turned back into the building, and saw him on the other side of the bar. He hadn't seen me, so I snuck up on him, grabbed his tushie, and said Hello into his ear. After all, doesn't every young man need the occasional ass grab from a totally hot older woman? Which is what I told him, and he agreed. I think he was still a bit stunned...but he agreed.

I grabbed a shot of tequila (I tell you, I was in a mood last night), a lime wedge, and my soda. MC-CC got another beer, and introduced me to the bartender as the woman who'll be bellydancing this coming Wednesday. Smile. Nod. Shake hands. Then we went outside. And we talked. And talked. And talked. We talked about religion, belief, writing, poetry, and all that good stuff. All while people laughed and danced and staggered and rode the art bikes around. At one point, a very drunken young man attempted the carousel.

He lost his trousers. And his boxers. I swan, I nearly had heart failure--all that young, firm, naked flesh on display. *sigh*

Where was I? Oh yeah. The guy wasn't hurt, and his friends laughed and helped him get his pants and trousers back on.

Things were winding down, so we went to Chopsticks. AKA Karaoke hell. Gosh darn the luck (*that's to be read in a deadpan, Steven Wright-ish voice that conveys anything but real disappointment) we were too late to sign up to sing. One RC-Cola for me and a PBR for MC-CC, then we went over to the Sandy Hut (AKA the Handy Slut as it is rumoured to be a meet market...meat market? whatever). Stayed there until last call, about 15 minutes, and were shooed out into the street.

I was getting hungry and asked if there was someplace to eat. The Doug Fir was suggested--though I suspected it'd be a zoo--and could we stop by Noir for a minute so MC-CC could pick up his check.

At Noir, Saturday nights are industrial/goth nights. The place was almost closed, but there were a few Stygian-clad denizens hanging on until the bitter end. Ran into a friend and her ?new beau? and decided to get something to eat together. What a motley crew; me in jeans, Chuck Taylors and a t-shirt, MC-CC in classic skate-punk garb, DJ-Medusa with her grown-out, multi-coloured mohawk, and her beau with centimeter-long hair tastefully accented by longer, but wee, wisps at the forelock that put me in mind of antennae.

Doug Fir was insane. It was filled with all the club kids from across the river, and the wait for a table was half an hour. UGH! We decided on Holman's.

What a classic place. Wood-paneled walls darkened with age and smoke. Pock-marked tables in a colour not entirely unlike teal. A great diner menu--if they'd had scrapple I'd've had an orgasm right there--with classic, late-night, soak up the alcohol before you go to bed fare. We ordered, ate, and talked. Afterwards, we took turns spinning the wheel for a chance at a free meal. None of us got won.

It was after 04:00, and time to get back to the house. I dropped off MC-CC at his place and hied meself house-ward.

It was nice to get out and do something. *grin*

Now, I'm off to read some more. I've been trying to get a new banner together, but I'm too flakey to get some vital bit of know-how on actually getting it up. I'll try again tomorrow.

Go. Be fabulous.

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