Saturday target

Evening bloggers. In distraction of my what I perceive to be cancer and the droning sounds of Courtney Love in stereophonic, let's just dive write in to tonight's blog.

Today's journey brought us to the Saturday Market. Where, as every other weekend, the Gresham/Beaverton/Hillsboro tourists walked around with confused looks on their faces, homeless boys held signs in hopes for scoring nugs and pornography, and some Jamaican men tried to accuse me of heterosexuality. I wandered around, carefully scoping out each and every stand that stood grounded upon skidmore cement. Since this was to be my last visit at the ever dependable outdoor indie hippie shop stop, I had to make my purchases meaningful and priceless. I passed on many an item, including ones whose makers had been selling at the Saturday Market for at least two years, and whose products I have still desired to this day. I finally settled on a necklace containing a miniature sea crab, a ruby ring that looked less fake than the ones at Disneyland, and a shirt. Which is definitely the last thing I needed. However, this stand sold the utmost best Portland t-shirts that celebrate the pride of the city. The one I bought was a screen print of the Made in Oregon sign. All was the same, deer and all, but instead of saying Made in Oregon it stated: Portland, Oregon. It was perfect. It had an outline of the state, the undying reindeer, and a clear statement that this was Portland Oregon, and not Portland Maine. I'll cherish it if I ever fall deeper into the recession and are forced to go abroad to live with my mother. So that I will never forget where I'm from and how much the city means to me.

Oh, enough with the emotions. The floodgates are now closed till further notice.
Passing on the purchase of a euro, but gliding forward to the purchase of a coconut bubble tea, I made my picnic spot upon the Skidmore Fountain fountain. As I sucked tea balls into my mouth, I half listened to a sermon by a psycho christian boy who would just not shut the fuck up. And what's worse, he had a microphone! God help us all indeed. And then he decided to include the poor homeless boys in his speech! I believe the lines were, on/off quote: "I do not ask God, as this man does, for alcohol and pornography! For I am not a sinner!" Poor homeless guys. They literally have nothing and now this man is making a mockery out of them on his unholy microphone. Luckily this boy was given some sass buy some delightful dwarf lesbians who shouted, "Sorry, were gay!" Good for you, Cagney and Lacey!

Well, that's all I've got for you today. Saturday Night Live is about to air.
Till my next mood swing Portlanders,
goodnight and have a pleasant Sunday breakfast.

In other words, I was not up to going.

I didn't want to interupt my blog essay on the gorgeousley Lynchian red bar of Roadside Attraction. (Seriousley, has anyone else gotten that Twin Peaks feel at that place) to bring up my other two topics of the day, Hawthorne and The Parlour.

Today's journey into Hawthorne (recorded as my last, until I am in a stable enviornment in which I obtain my old life) brought inexpensive fun, and a was devoid of all negative emotions. Tough act to pull, for the passive agrressive types that frequent the square. But after spending five dollars at Powells on some deliciousley artfull photo cards, sixteen dollars on a 20's polo shirt and a blue grey sailor double padded cotton T that fits like a hug, one dollar on a best of Chris Farley dvd at cd game exchange, and a number of pictures taken on every angled street corner, my ideal day at Hawthorne was complete. Save for going to the Bagdad theatre, which I decided to put off until there was a film worth seeing in the company of a cold beer. (I still have no desire to see Kick Ass)

I recombobulated at Tiny's for some pizza bagels, and Indiana Jones pinball. Before finally making my way to Laura Palmer's dream.

In another note, what was promised to be a Gossip Girl style arthouse event of the dying spring, proved futile in my cancellation of The Parlour's closing party. Life has been throwing me downright exhastive curveballs lately. And I will simply have to make it up to Mr. Mcewin in some other reincarnated form of way.

Southeast Portland's Roadside Attraction

Location, Location: Roadside Attraction. Belmont's best kept secret bar. Where the walls are as red as Rose McGowan's lips, and the decor seems handpicked by the lady from Shanghai herself. I order my first ever, white russian. Or as I like to call them, The Big Lebowski drink. Much to the unappreciative tone of the sassy stoutly gay bartender. Who in my eyes, resembles a skin inflammation.
Spotted: Black and beige hipster with Jack Skellington legs engaged in a solo game of pool. Upon, what else?, but a luscious red velvet billiard table. Skills in ball whacking haven't been this dull since my 19Th Birthday present.
Spotted: Uh-oh, there's a pool crasher. Mustached pudge hipster wearing Coyote Joe's hat is fighting with cricket legs over beer money. My bets are on neither opponent.
Outside the crowd is as lively smokey as usual. I don't envy them as I would have before I gave up my sinful habit. Yet the atmosphere amongst the porch swings and fire pits bathed in American Spirit smoke still carries the undying memory of my first experience at this lovely establishment, in that it was nothing short of an adult version of the Frontierland attraction at Disneyworld. In terms of style and setting dear over 21 bloggers, this bar serves as one of my top favorites within the city limits. But hark, the 70 bus is passing by to cart away more people to be dropped off in what is most likely to be a more inferior location. But hark times two, the jack skellington pool boy is boarding the that bus as I scroll. Looks like I'm headed to Rose Quarter. ;)
Until my next venture barhoppers, keep your guards up.
Cereal Man.

The Southeast loop. (Prolouge to tonight's events)

Morning Bloggers, Cereal Man here. Bringing you the ultimate cereal box provided with full vitamins and minerals of your daily Portland dishing.
While events leading up to this post have been lacking in anything beyond True Blood bomb shelters in felony flats and parental abuse, tonight's journey will take us through Hawthorne and Belmont, straight on to Powell by the stroke of eight. Where, spotted, a thriving art gallery known as, "The Parlour," is having it's last party before closing it's doors to fall victim to an evergrowing Portland death of employment. Word on the street is no one in this city gets out alive with a paycheck unless their friends are in those high places. Got friends, Parlour?
Either way, you've a friend in me. And I'll be there. Taking notes and giving names.
Until the afterparty bloggers, eat well. Breakfast is the most important part of the day. ;)
Rinsing the bowl,
Cereal Man.

The Betties

A list of the Top Ten Bettys of all time:

1. Bette Davis
2.Bettie Page
3.Betty White
4.Betty Boop
5.Betty Rubble
6.Betty Grable
7.Betty Crocker
8.Betty Ford
9.Betty of ARCHIE comics
10.Ugly Betty

Got any to contribute bloggers? Until next post:

Cereal Man,
rinsing the bowl of Betties.

Slew of events, courtesy of Sonic Kayla

Hello Portland bloggers. If you're reading this, chances are you've spent way too much time on the computer and are stumbling upon blog, after blog, after blog. Pull your head out of the snatch of ennui. The world may still end in 2012, and you're using up all the oxygen.
But do not take me wrong (again) I'm glad you're here! I'm pouring the cereal contents of the past, just under 24 hours, into the bowl as we type/read.

Our first destination last night brought us to Valentine's. Located near Voodoo Doughnuts on SW 3RD, this particular bar has built a quietly famous reputation. But the only thing the Cereal Man fancies about it, is their bathroom. Lit only by three candles and a small rectangular patch of window, makes this the ideal spot for public bathroom sex. Bartender with tattooed leaves of fall shoots me a struggling writer's look of death. Smile, barkeep. It's all in good fun. ;)

A one, a two, A THREE compliment string on my what is slowly becoming legendary: DIE HIPSTER SCUM t-shirt. The first came from overweight ponytail guy asking me in mid cross section what my shirt read. Following, with a jolly grin. The second, upon entering Powell's city of books, came from two young attractive homeless boys who specialized in making their own brand of I hate God t-shirts. And the third, while within the boundaries of Powell's whilst thy checking in my bag, came from the, wait for it...NICE middle aged women at the register. Who reminisced with me about the days of her own: DIE YUPPIE SCUM shirt.

I left shortly after. I was only there to kill time.

Spotted: Busboy poindexter at the fabulous Roxy, well past the witching hour. We haven't seen a pocket protector this hot since Brad Majors. Is Janet on the menu? Daughter of Saint Roxy rides the coat tails of my jukebox selections, as Sonic Kayla and I reminisce about the Jesus Jukebox in the days of old. I weep into my Soylent green omelette, her into her cheezy fries. But buck up, we've got a journey back to Sonic Kayla's house that'll take us across the Burnside Bridge. Look out 2 A.M. bike riders. Our tongues are flapping away, and were drunk on sweet n low. Holden Caufield fashion, but more fun.

Little S.K. is off to Montana within the week. Where am I off too? Hopefully the clouds. Where the sky weeps over bridges and surrounding mountains. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Son until the next cosmo drained over lucky charms, you know you love me.

Cereal Man.

Theraputic playlist if 2009

Hello Portlanders! Hope the hormonal weather today didn't place an A.D.D. in your lunar cycle.

Well, it certainley did for me. But brush away those tears, said I to myself. There's cosmos to be drunk, and Gossip Girl episodes to watch.

So today's entry isn't a total loss, I've decided to give you readers a taste of my Ipod. Or what it tasted like in 2009. Granted, this list was to be published in the event of New Years Day which was over four months ago. Procrastination comes natural when you've alot on your plate. And even more natural when the buffet is empty. But here it is now, ready for it's moment of fame before getting shunned by 201o's playlist.

The Playlist of 2009

Deceptachon ~ Le Tigre

FYR ~ Le Tigre

Playground Love ~ Air

Runs in the Family ~ Amanda Palmer

Oasis ~ Amanda Palmer

Fuck me pumps ~ Amy Winehouse

Hello Birmingham ~ Ani Difranco

Were all going to hell ~ The Bastard Faries

Ono Soul ~ Thurston Moore

Lord only knows ~ Beck

There's more to life than this ~ Bjork

Who is it? ~ Bjork

Big Time Sensuality ~ Bjork

You're on ~ Hutch and Kathy

Off you ~ The Breeders

If that's what you're into ~ Flight of the Chonchords

Happy Hippo ~ Cloud Cult

Japan ~ Coco Rosie

California Uber Alles ~ Dead Kennedys

The Mariner ~ The Decemberists

Connection ~ Elastica

The Fallen ~ Franz Ferdinand

Katherine Kiss Me ~ Franz Ferdinand

Ready or not ~ The Fugees

Supervixen ~ Garbage

Brat ~ Green Day

Lie on ~ Ivy Ross

That Thing ~ Lauryn Hill

Perfect Day ~ Lou Reed

It's your life ~ Milla Jovovich

Southside ~ Moby

Another gay sunshine day ~ Nancy Sinatra

In the aeroplane over the sea ~ Neutral Milk Hotel

Papa won't leave you Henry ~ Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

People Just Ain't no good ~ Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Hurt ~ NIN

Suffer for Fashion ~ Of Montreal

The Happening ~ The Pixies

Gigantic ~ The Pixies

Fake Plastic Trees ~ Radiohead

I wanna be well ~ The Ramones

Consequence of Sounds ~ Regina Spektor

Livign Dead Girl ~ Rob Zombie

Leader of the Pack ~ The Shangri-Las

Nicotine Stain ~ Sixiouse and the Banshees

All hands on the bad one ~ Sleater Kinney

Rebel Girl ~ Bikini Kill

Nashville ~ Liz Phair

Caught by the Fuzz ~ Supergrass

Reflecting Dreams ~ Wade Warren

Pressure Point ~ The Zutons

Zero ~ The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Art Star ~ The Yeah Yeahs

A Pillar of Salt ~ The Thermals

Sacred Trickster ~ Sonic Youth

Bull in the Heather ~ Sonic Youth

Little Trouble Girl ~ Sonic Youth

Flowers in Winter ~ Wade Warren

Come on! Let's bogey to the elf dance ~ Sufjan Stevens

Polyester Bride ~ Liz Phair

The Pussy Song ~ Lords of Acid

My dick, yo dick ~ Mickey Avalon

Oh what a world ~ Rufus Wainright

The concept ~ Teenage Fanclub

Kissing you ~ Des'ree

Whoo! Had enough yet? Good. Cause there's still the album playlist:

The Albums of 2009

Daydream Nation ~ Sonic Youth

Goo ~ Sonic Youth

Dirty ~ Sonic Youth

Sister ~ Sonic Youth

Stories from the city, stories from the sea ~ Pj Harvey

(Time) The Revelator ~ Gillian Welch

Exile in Guyville ~ Liz Phair

Little Earthquakes ~ Tori Amos

Dig me out ~ Sleater Kinney

Doolittle ~ The Pixies

Fever to tell ~ The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Now We Can SEE ~ The Thermals

Central Reservation ~ Beth Orton

Car Wheels on a Gravel Road ~ Lucinda Williams

New Moon Soundtrack ~ Various Artists

Where the Wild Thigns Are Soundtrack ~ Karen O and the kids

There you have it. All the music that got me through the year of 2009. Whether I was employed under nauseating circumstances, or unemployed with anemic sadness. These are the songs that shone through Portland's residential raincloud. Hope it helps. Remember bloggers, music is an aphrodisiac that can bring joy through drunken laughs or sober tears. And chances are your less likely to regret a song the morning after.

Until tomorrows ventures Portlanders,

this is the Cereal Man,

rinsing the bowl. ;)

Afternoon tea-bagging

SPOTTED: May 17Th 2010, Monday. Stuck up tea drinking bitch at Tiny's on Hawthorne in lime green stripes. Same bitch who reportedly labeled my photography methods creepy, and, who, at the Clinton Street theatre told me where the other bathroom was located in quote: "Just S.Y.K."
At this moment decides to shoot me a smile. Careful swallowing that tea, illiterate, abbreviating, terrorist. They say that's how Janet Munro died.

Here's to hoping tomorrow night brings me among alcohol and friends. But these days who has any? I'm grateful for acquaintances.

And until next time my acquainted blogger, Keep Portland Weird.

Cereal Man, draining the bowl.

My God of graphic novels: Daniel Clowes

*This entry is a retyping of last night's notes taken at Daniel Clowes book signing at Powell's city of books on Burnside.

Evening Portlanders. Cereal Man here. Bringing you the ultimate in Portland spy ware. Tonight brings us to Powells on Burnside where Daniel Clowes, God of hipster lingo, 50's deco art, and some of the most beautiful hand drawn characters ever to splash into our lives in a blaze of black and white, light browns, and aqua, is promoting his newest work in graphic novel genius: Wilson. All eyes are on Sir Clowes tonight, including mine. Providing me with a distraction from the sea of hipster carnage invading the pearl room like a new wave prohibition. How could you not be excited getting to listen to a hero of yours since the age of twelve? But then again a lot of you argue with a myspace page over why there's a hero section, so perhaps I shouldn't preach. But instead leave on a footnote in that through Clowes' monotone poise and voice, he delivers a hysterical view on the world that is all his own in the graphic novel realm.
Making my way towards the book signing line has placed me center amongst a sea of kaleidoscopic flannel. Politely, which is not often in my nature when, "people" are involved, I mind my own business. Taking my notes, and measuring my anticipation with drooling excitement. When a hipster douche with some shitty promo t-shirt for his traveling band of homos looks my way. I speak in gruff words now, dear bloggers, only because what happened after was a true act of the bratty trust fund baby bitches of the city. In that after he vocally took notice of my outfit, and only then mind you AFTER I very nicely and excitedly explained did he bounce back with a vial shit eating grin and a cartoonish voice to say: "Oh yea, yea I get it now." Ugh. Victims of spineless wit will agree with me when I say this dickfuck was not being nice. For a brief second I was that cowering child in elementary school again before turning away to wag my tongue at my friend who is acompanyi me tonight. I'm not going to bother with a guy who wasn't even standing in line (!) Poser probably wanted to make an entrance.

The line is in full slow. Though many colorful characters to which my friend noted: "These are not the kind of people you would find at a regular comic book convention." For once he was right. And I was one of the many. Ahead of us in line: a tall girl wearing a Julie Christie mini and flaming blood red hair holds a plush Enid Coleslaw doll that she's already had signed. She waits for her friend, black hair tied in bun wearing 60's Oscar dress. What is she carrying to have hancocked? The box, in which her Enid Doll came in! Such imagination, perhaps there is hope among us. But probably not.
Finally it is my turn. I have let my friend go first, having to listen to him small talk with the man about Voodoo Doughnuts. And I approach Mr. Daniel Clowes with a bit more ease than earlier. For through his cold demeanor when he is not talking, he is in fact a sweet man. Who you can tell appreciates his fans. Unlike others. (This means you, Kathy Foster!)
I tell him that out of respect for his time, I picked the most important thing for him to sign (my eight year old copy of Ghost World) but he's agreed to sign my copy of David Boring as well. As he is signing I briefly mention that Ghost World has been an important work of art to me since I was twelve, only to follow with, "But, I've had always had kind of a crush on David Boring." (True fact, bloggers and Clowes fans. But for us literary and graphic novel barons, when do we not fall in love with certain characters?) Clowes wasn't taken aback by this statement so much as appreciative when he responded, "Oh well that's good. Not everyone likes David Boring." With that it was a left hand handshake, and what must have been five thank-you's trampling out of my lips like circus clowns late for a gig. And we were gone. Passing by the artist's wife who looked exactly like the girls in his comics. Go figure?

*There really is nothing else to say on the man. Sometimes it's best to just smile. :)

That's all for today, my audience of zero. Date night tonight. Here's praying I get lucky. And by that I mean I don't get my heart crushed.
Until next time, Keep Portland Weird.
Cereal Man, draining the bowl.

Laura Bush is my home girl.

This just in, (three days ago) Laura Bush is pro choice when it comes to abortion. AND she supports gay marridge.
In my book shes upgraded from filthy republican, to: I dont regret sleeping with that filthy republican.

Where do we go from here?

How do I do this. Not so much a question as it is a statement, hence the absence of a question mark.. So many people are trying to score big in the Internet game. And I, not only have nowhere else to turn, but am trying once again to achieve my dreams of becoming recognized. And I figure I deserve it. After all, I have a lot of things to say. Things that from experience, no one gives any thought to. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to start blogging about these things months ago, when, say, they actually happened. Thus making me more of a passionate speaker. My passion has been drained from eight months of unemployment, homelessness resulting in staying at my bastard father's house, being fired by a castrating homophobe at subway, and finally, accepting an embarassing sexual fetish.
I can only hope that what I have to say reaches an audience. Whenever I get into a state of male P.M.S. bitching I always toss off the line, "I have to do everything myself." And what better a thing to do on your own then to jump start your own career as an entertainment personality?
Until next time, this is the Cereal Man, rinsing the bowl.