The Rules of Bret Easton Ellis's Attraction

Morning gorgeous. Cereal Man here. Waking up to a delightful morning where the future of the day holds plenty of sun and plenty of booze.
But skip back to approximately fifteen hours ago, and I was under the cold, sarcastic glow of Bret Easton Ellis. A master of storytelling who through his character's narration exposes the darkness and corruption of the Ronald Regan Era. The era of: "Greed is Good." And whose books have been transformed into mediocre Roger Avery snuff films which the Y generation have seemed to harshly tit suck as some of their favorite movies. American Psycho anyone?
JUMP 2: Powell's books. Arriving on my lonesome, two and a half hours before book signage, and riding on the wings of an extra $2.80 I got from Buffalo Exchange; After trying to sell a closet full of clothes, in which they only took one hanger. I recombobulated at the Gold Room coffee shop with a chai and my library copy of the oral history on The Simpson's. At six, always believing to be 90 mins early rather then 30 mins, I marched up to the Pearl Room.
I took a seat directly on the right side of the room. This was so that when it came time to sign books, all I had to do was get up, jump over, and I would immediately be one of the first in line. Boredom set in, and eventually aggression when some gay (clearly over homified man) sat right next to me. His exact words were, "I'm going to sit next to you. Someone has to, might as well be me." Aside from the abundance of hidden messages in that statement I was not about to let some hair product with latex allergies take charge with me and the empty seats. I eventually digressed however. When we got to talking, rather politely, about tattoos and the amazing Golden Girls shirt he wore. He tried to sass me a couple of times, but I didn't hug him or flirt with him, so as not to feel pathetically rejected. Even though I would rather walk through hell wearing a gasoline G-string than sleep with that fag.
And speaking of unforgivable rainbow fucks, who should make his way into the reading but good ole, I'm going to stop calling you once we finally have sex, GALEN. I don't think he saw me, and lucky for me he sat in the far back left, and when it came time for book signing must have been in the far back of the line. Bloggers, little boys like that, do not deserve to have their balls.
And finally, what was the last showcase in a circus of asshole freaks, was the green striped tea drinking bitch from Tiny's. (See May blog) I took delight in the fact that she had to stand. ha ha.
Finally Bret arrived. He read briefly from Imperial Bedrooms, which was nice since he understood that anyone remotely famous should really just do Q&A's and book signings. During the Q&A he came off as sarcastic, yet cold. I was almost afraid to ask my question of, Why does bisexuality seem to be a reoccurring trait throughout some of his characters. And while he at first responded with what I guess is his registered trademark of cold sarcasm, he gave a real, satisfactory answer. Involving closeted bisexuality in the 1980s media, and a fan who thanked him for coming to grips with his bisexuality.
I journeyed to Powell's as someone who has read only two Bret Easton Ellis books. The Rules of Attraction and Less than Zero. I barely remember Less Than Zero, because I barely got through it. It was written in that blah blah blah style. Which some authors, (new and upcoming especially) try to experiment with. Perhaps to be fresh, hip, new, original. When all their being is pretentious, confusing, and all around bombastic. You may say what reason did I have to be there as a minimal Bret Easton Ellis fan. Well, believe it or not hipster executioners, one book can make a huge difference. Which brings us to Rules of Attraction.
I had read it once before, before I realized that it was one of the most important books (in my life) that I had read. I didn't really like it that much. I found some of the character narratives to be interesting, in that stylish way of Generation X pre nineties alternative R.E.M. way. But others were just melodramatic and boring. It wasn't until Late fall of 2008. When an experience I had with a man had left me so cut open, angry, and hateful. Probably hateful enough to kill if I was, say, an AMERICAN Psycho. that I inadvertently picked up the book again and started re reading. Be it that I grew up more in between the seven month period between reads, or that the evils of man gave a clearer, darker, masochistic eye. But the book finally made sense. It said to me that love is hopeless because it is never mutual. While this message may be negative dear bloggers, it didn't stop me from feeling somewhat better about my situation. It was an outlet that didn't fix the problem, but exposed it in a way that was masochistically satisfying.
And THAT, is why I travelled far and wide to meet MR. Ellis. I got to share my story with him, which is always something I always try to do when I'm meeting someone I've admired. To me there is always a deep intimate satisfaction when you share with an artist the one moment that made you fall in love with their work. And though he may come off as intimidating during the Q&A, please note, he is quite nice, almost lovable, during the book signing.
To Christopher, best wishes, Bret Easton Ellis.

CoCo Rosie: NO?! NO?! Say it aint SO! SO!

My hands can barely locate the letter keys to form what I am about to say. According to the Portland Mercury, (full of shit as they may be) Coco Rosie is a widely disliked band. From Pitchfork's rating system to Spin magazine's zero star rating of (what is my favorite album of theirs) "Noah's Ark."
The Mercury attempts to figure out why they are so disliked by not just the media, but by the indie mainstream audience. (Even though, the general public is barely mentioned in this article which makes me wonder if the staff writer is writing off on his own opinion.) They mention the fact that the Coco Rosie sisters, Sierra and Bianca Casady, are privileged and well endowed by their parent's, and the Mercury thankfully did not fail to mention that the same issue has been branded upon Vampire Weekend. They then bring up the slight possibility that it is because they are women. It sounds old fashioned, (to state an understatement) but could it be true?
Finally, the last argument the staff writer makes is that their music is just no good. Which after re-reading the paragraph several times, I think the writer is both going off on his own opinion, while also giving a slight review of the new album which he clearly does not like.
Now, in trying to find the balance between seeing the point and expressing my personal view, one must be careful not to appear biased, as well as angry that one person does not like the same band as you. I guess what makes me the most frustrated is that successful magazine labels such as Spin and Pitchfork are unable to recognize such unique and talented artists. I mean, a zero star rating from Spin magazine? This is a magazine that prides itself from being disconnected from the mainstream pop world. (Whether or not they think The Strokes is a great band)
I remember the first time I ever heard Coco Rosie was in the trailer for Bruce La Bruce's gay zombie film: "Otto; Or up with dead people." It was the song: "Bear hides and Buffalo." The song instantly brought to mind so many of my favorite things. Tim Burton art, Edward Gorey stories, 1950's horror movie specials, Gothic cemeteries, and to see it synced to a gloriously creepy trailer for a gay zombie film made it one of the best film trailers of the year. That song just happened to be on what was to become my favorite Coco Rosie album, "Noah's Ark. Which is an album that is like a journey beginning on the pink back drop of their album cover art and ending on a beautiful eye opening wake from a long and nightmarishly beautiful dream.
It is my personal opinion, that in a world in which indie music has become commercialized, and repetitive within so many up and coming bands that all sound like Death Cab for Cutie imitation robots, Coco Rosie stands alone and apart. Their sound is balanced between fantasy and reality. Heavenly and hell bound. Vocal art and performance art.
Want to voice your opinion? Pour the coco Rosie cereal into bowl and grab your spoons.
This ones for them..

Portland Gay Pride 2010

Oh, Gay Pride. A magical day in which homosexuals young and old spring from the bushes of every Oregon county like the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. Fags, dyke's, and bears, oh my! Wake up outsiders, you're not in Gresham anymore.
After waking up in Tonya's ultra plush red lace bed, and the two of us reliving the previous nights drunken antics involving the Reverend St. James and his free prophecy, I boarded the 14 at Felony Flats. Upon arriving in downtown and scavenger hunting for a Wells Fargo ATM, I waited for Ragin Megan at Voodoo Doughnuts. Where the line went completely around Berbati's Pan. What Portland won't do for a doughnut...myself included.
By the time my Bacon Maple Bar was devoured,  Ragin Megan had deboarded the max at Skidmark fountain. I made my wake through the Day of the Locust crowd at Saturday Market until she was found. Decked in purple in black with rainbow eyeshadow. Crossing the hectic crosswalk, and hugging the radical fairies who were advertising FREE HUGS outside the festival, we had arrived over the rainbow.

Inside, the festival was just how I had remembered it two years ago. Our first stop earned us a Portland Gay Yellow pages and an advertisement tattoo. Much higher excitement was to our right, at the Under U for men stand. So many pairs of underwear at half the price, my heart nearly gave out to cotton. But was revived by the powerful hormones of the Under U4 Men model. Who was kind enough to pose with me as well as Ragin Megan.
More walking brought us to many fantastically artistic and real estate savvy stands. Stand upon stand, Megan and I collected a treasure chest of lube and condoms. And stand upon stand did we sign up for free plane tickets, free hotel rooms, and free sex toys.

We ran into Baby Troy, Katrina Bettencourt, and an old high school chum, Sabrina Ashcroft. We ran into Mr. Gay Oregon of 2010, who was graciously classy, and willing to pose with me for the camera. I also posed with two bathing suit beauties who run a burlesque show.
Due to the eye popping red t-shirt I was wearing that states: "Everyone Loves an Asian Boy," my attention was drawn to a stand promoting the ways and gays of the Asian GLBT youth, who were taken in by my chest's apparent wit.
We stopped at the Portland Leather Alliance stand, whose information was recited to me by a man who was clearly the slave in any future relationship he might be having.
We were both drawn to the Fantasy for Adults only stand where Megan and I were given gift bags. My bag contained his and hers lube, and Megan's contained a vibrating bullet. And I still cannot get the image of a vibrating man ass sex toy out of my head.

While listening to the sounds of a drag queen in a purple bra who sang a gritty rousing rendition of Prince's Purple Rain, Megan and I were treated to a free massage by a man with powerful hands and features. It wasn't so much a massage, as much as it was an exorcism on my back, neck, and arms. When he was finished, my face buried in his chair, he seductively whispered in my ear, "Thank-you Christopher."

We stopped at a stand that had what I believe to be the greatest collection of strap-ons in the world. Strap ons resembling dolphins, whales, and lizards. They also had Penis tiaras. Hello Kitty vibrators. An incredible array of buttons.
I donated a dollar to the charity held by the Oregon bears. My reward was a big, sweaty, bear hug. Sweet as it was, I made a swift escape before the bears made could make me their otter.
Megan and I were taken in by a Kilt stand. In which I got to try on and model an amazingly butch camo kilt. My measurements were taken, and I was given a card with a website where I can order my very own fitted kilt.

Making our way back to where we entered, we once again passed by the Under U4 men stand in which a new, much hotter sexier, underwear model was standing. He posed with me as well, my right hand pressing deep into his musky chest. Under U should stand for Under U.
And so we were done. I kicked myself for being such a masochist last year, when I boycotted the entire gay pride establishment. Self hatred therapy aside, today it felt good to be gay again. And though it may not last long, today was all that mattered.
Until next time fruit loops,
this is Cereal Man,
draining the bowl of gay.

In the room with Tommy Wiseau

SPOTTED: Katherine Dunn in her Portland Dame, frog throat glory, was found making a sly escape from Coffeetime. Where I, Cereal Man, impatiently awaited the nights arrival of the one and only lost galaxy cult film prophet, Tommy Wiseau. Creator, of THE ROOM.
(It isnt often bloggers that I express sentimentality over an amazing experience. Well I'm about to now)

After saying goodbye to Scottie Hotty at Coffeetime, I moved on to Melt. Where I downed two margaritas. Only to have it result in a non happy but instead, sleepy depressing buzz drunk.

At 7:00 P.M. the line had already begun forming outside Cinema 21. People watching entertainment was provided by a trio of Johnny look-alikes. They carried roses, and tossed a football around.
SPOTTED: The Ryan's. From across the street they made their way to the back of the line. Ryan 1 scoping me out, came to where I stood to make a kind appearance. Sober enough to fall for it but drunk enough to offer them a place with me in line, Ryan 1 scampered away, never to oblige the offer. Careful Ryan 1, graciousness is next to drunkenness.
Behind me stood an adorable father and son. The son resembled a young Rick Moranis, and the father resembled Dr. Drew. The three of us reminisced about our memories from The Room, and the Dr. Drew father gave me a piece of spicy tuna sushi.
Behind them was another couple rivaling the Ryan's, (though heterosexual these two were) named the Ebensteiners.

I realized as the car carrying Tommy Wiseau pulled up in front of the adoring fan line, that I was standing in what could very well be the closest thing Portland has to a red carpet event. Tommy got out of the car and descended straight into the line to shake hands with his reception. Down the line, the three Johnny's played a game of football with Tommy. And making his way back to the front of the line was when my hand was so graciously taken in by the man from an unknown planet.
The line began to form inside the theatre now. And Dr. Drew with his son, took me in and accepted my plea of allowing me to partake in The Room with them. The Ebensteiners sat behind us.
Once inside, a mob was forming in front of Tommy Wiseau. Who stood outside of the auditorium, choosing me one by one out of the angry mob for pictures. Seat selections were vital, so the three of us chose our seats in the middle of the middle of the theatre. With that, I excused myself from them so that I could plunge myself into the angry mob and declare my picture request. With the help of an older lady who somewhat resembled the character of Claudette, my picture was taken with the 8th wanderer of the world. After he so graciously plucked me from audience fan-demonium obscurity with a forward hand gesture. Oh Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.

After what seemed to be a 30 minute picture taking session, and after Mr. Ebensteiner was able to help me find where my seat was after being bathed in darkness, the costume contest began. Hosted by Tommy, and judged by the audience, the first place winner was a girl dressed as a spoon carrying a picture frame. Spoons anyone? Second place was the Lisa look-alike, who got to remain on stage with a very flirtatious Tommy Wiseau during the Q&A.
For the Q&A, a microphone was set up towards the left of the theatre so that audience members could come at their own free will to the microphone and express their thoughts. Without a sobering hint of hesitation I darted to the microphone, and expressed these words:

"I don't really have a question I just came up here to say that, even to this day my favorite line in the film is the one where Claudette makes the announcement to Lisa that she has breast cancer. It's brought me so much joy every time I think about it that if the day ever comes in which I'm diagnosed with a terminal illness, I'm just going to think of her. And thank you so much for bringing so much light into such a dark subject."

After a gracious cheer from the audience, Tommy expressed how much he loved the way I talked and what I had to say, that he invited me to come stand with him on stage.

I stayed onstage for the rest of the Q&A with Tommy and the Lisa look alike. To be chosen by Tommy, to stand next to him, to be apart of his gospel. Dear bloggers, the experience is beyond difficult to reincarnate into words. The Q&A ended and with a two handed handshake from Wiseau, I descended, practically glided, back to my seat.

It was time for the movie to begin. Throughout the film, the audience was in an utmost uproarious uproar. Every time spoons cascaded into the audience it was like a joint orgasmic climax. Spoons serving as the ejaculate. Roars of laughter, from credible to incredible one-liners, orgies upon orgies of giggles. I feel so isolated from the people who were not there to participate in one of the greatest cultural events in Portland's history.

The film ended. Dr. Drew betrothed me as his adopted son. And the Ebensteiners offered to take me home. Did Tommy have something to do with aligning these beautiful people unto me? Perhaps. But I couldn't have been more grateful to have the Ebensteiners take me back to Tonya's rather than having to ride the 14 at 11:00 at night.

Oh dear, wonderful, amazing, Tommy Wiseau. Come back, we need you. You are the reason God created the commandment against false idols. You, are anything but false.

As beautiful as a paper bag blowing in the wind

Earlier tonight, I thought I saw silent fireworks.

But it was just the trees rustling against the light of someone's bedroom window

GRINDHOUSE: Cult Flix and Trash Pix

*This is a blog post I made three years ago, that still to this day remains a valid dream of mine. READ.

Still keeping and holding on tightly to the regins of my goal to open up my own Grindhouse cinema which would play weekly midnight cult films, evening Indie arthouse flicks, and Rocky Horror every Friday night, I've made a list of the potential cult flix to preview for the weekly midnight shows.


Gaze at the list and if there's anything you feel shouldnt be on there, leave a comment saying what and why, and I'll defend the film as best I can.

Also, I'm reeeeeally hard up for suggesstions if any of you have any.

Thanks, and stay trashy : )

The Rocky Horror Picture Show, El Topo, Master of the Flying Guillotine, Pink Flamingos, Harold and Maude, The Room, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Napoleon Dynamite, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Gummo, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Freaks, A Clockwork Orange, Heathers, Dazed and Confused, Eraserhead, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Evil Dead, Clerks, Pee Wee's Big Adventure, Female Trouble, Night of the Living Dead, Head, Rock N Roll High School, Hairspray, Batman: The Movie!, Dawn of the Dead, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Barbarella, A Christmas Story, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill, The Holy Mountain, The Adventures of Baron Maunchausen, Yellow Submarine, The Evil Dead II, Brazil, The Warriors, Grey Gardens, The Harder They Come, Myra Breckinridge, The Honeymoon Killers, Quadrophenia, Listzomania, Spaceballs, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai across the 8th Dimension, My Own Private Idaho, Office Space, Donnie Darko, The Big Lebowski, The Mack, Superfly, Foxy Brown, Coffy, Women in Cages, Slap Shot, The Dark Crystal, Repulsion, Baby Doll, Easy Rider, Cabaret, Belle de Jour, Un Chein Andalou, Vanishing Point, The Holy Grail.

Burnside shopping East and West of dimpled hipsterville.

Hello Portlanders. Cereal Man here. Been away for awhile. But now I'm back with minimal vengeance.


Yesterday brought Jazibee and I into the Burnside heart of Downtown. With minor detours to the left of food carts, and to the right of cinema 21.

Our first stop on our destination was Ray's Ragtime. Dragged by the arm of JaziBee, I found myself in what was clearly the pantheon of vintage hipster outlet stores. (And I thought I had met my match at Andy and Bax) Kudos to the hipster behind the counter who knew the concept of smiling. He must belong to the non aggressive side of the cereal bowl.

Next on our route was Powell's books. Where Jazibee let loose her feminist principles in the Purple Room, aggressively clutching a copy of Nietzsche's essays on feminism. I thumbed through books containing gay art and studly photographs of WWII soldiers. Before pushing Jazi up the stairs into the Pearl room. We perused the "fun" books, such as the Pin-Up photo albums, the cake wrecks collection, and the art of the VHS box book. Finally, she settled on an issue of Bust magazine, and I purchased a book entitled: "Beefcake. The Muscle magazines of America 1950-1970," with some racy and titillating photographs. Outside, I encountered Olivia. Whom I'm proud to say has joined the rest of us in the class of unemployed, unpaid locals. If only she wasn't going to Paris in a few weeks, she wouldn't have an envy number seared on her pretty little head.

Starving, Jazz and I made our way to the food carts where I purchased a lamb euro, and she got some gross, nasty looking chicken shit at this Vietnamese cart. BLAH. We sat down at that scary bricked park area right across the street from, "The Escape nightclub," or as I like to call it the, "baby prostitution rink." The area was less frightening during the day. So we sat down, fed birdies, and laughed ourselves sickly over this overweight man who was lying down on a bench cuddling up with a Hello Kitty doll and taking a nap. It occurred to me at this point in our venture that I should have my camera out. So then it began, my inconsistent snapping of pictures. Here, there, and everywhere.

From the park we walked into Jackpot Records, where, again, the cashier/record expert treated us to good service and gay friendly smiles. It didn't hurt that his black hair and black beard made him one of the most dashing hipsters this side of the river, but also that I just happened to be wearing my Jackpot Records shirt. And here, as Jazi purchased a Bikini Kill c.d. that I made her promise I could copy when she was done, we reminisced about the July of last, when we came to this very same Jackpot Records and basked in the glow and touch of The Thermals when they performed their free show.

Up the Burnside road, past the creepy annoyingly antiqued Billy Galaxy, brought us to Buffalo Exchange. Where I forced myself NOT to purchase t-shirts to add to my collection of hundreds, but instead something for my legs. Both shorts and pants my closet was lacking in. As a man, or, should I say, a man who desires other men sexually, it's very hard to shop for pants that look good on my body. As well as the fact that sometimes, I forget about the scope and magnitude of my ass. Which even un firmed is quite large. Luckily though, I found a cute baby blue pair of shorts that help me pass for a hetero. Or a transgendered female. Which could come in handy, if I'm ever trapped in Gresham again. It was also here that I reminisced about the time I stole a button from this establishment by slipping it in to Jazi's purse, as she purchased a Suzi Quatro pin.

From there, we made our way into Spartacus. Where all of my favorite fabulous Spartacus employees, save for Ajah, were there. And wouldn't you know it, they happened to be selling spanking porn for five dollars! Lucky for me, Miki was there to take my money. I don't trust just anyone with my fetishes. ;)

So, up along Burnside even further, did we walk into Everyday Music to find that they had completely rearranged the store (AGAIN) much to my distaste. I mean, are they going for feng shui? Cause I'm not feeling it. Jazi purchased a c.d. by the guy from Starfucker (his solo work).

And so it was then that we made an exhaustive walk from Everyday Music, to Cinema 21. Passing up the chance to smoke Hookah in concern for our lack of funds. But I am now the proud owner of my ticket for the June 18th showing of Tommy Wiseau's, "The Room!" The blogger dashboard will be on fire come that night.

Luckily we managed to catch the streetcar just in time, got off at the Camella lounge to find that their selection of Bubble teas sound highly unappetizing not to mention employee-less, and on the way to Voodoo Doughnuts, discovered the holy church of Elvis. Really bloggers, there are no words to describe my experience at this patch of wall located between 4th and 5th, just near the Chinatown entrance. Due to the bad lighting and vicious glare from with in the windows, my pictures can't even tell the clear story. You...simply...must...just...go.

And so Voodoo Doughnuts was ours. We waited in line behind a vibrating orgasmic baby, who was shivering and pounding the glass of the doughnut merry go round. My bacon maple bar was handed to me by a cute hipster in a grape colored voodoo doughnuts shirt who resembled Kermit the frog. He was nice enough, so I tipped him a quarter. (It's no secret that the employees at voodoo have their picture in the dictionary next to the phrase: dick fuck hymen doucebags) Which is not to say that they are ALL like that, but, most of them are.


Once our doughnuts were consumed, Jazi and I stopped in at the Paris Theatre to find out what just exactly went on in there. And now that we do know, we'll probably never go inside again.

And with that, boarding the max at the Skidmark fountain, our day was done. I will admit that in comparison to 2008's downtown venture with the then still in high school Jazibee, my heart wasn't too much in it. Be it because of unemployment, lack of bread, or just recalling all the things I lost in the fire. Yet through it all I still manage to keep a smile and enjoy what is left. I've come a long way since my Holden Caulfield phase.

Now, why can't everyone else?

Where in the world is Ernie Boy?

Unspotted: Dear old Ernie Boy is nowhere to be found. Our sources have told us that he was not at his place of employment on Thursday nor Saturday. And recent phonecalls have turned up as blocked. As in, this number is no longer excepting incoming calls.
An official A.P.B. is out on Ernie Boy, now. Whether we have to hold his cat, Bubbo, for ransom, or tie up a naked stripper from the Silverado to use as bait. Come out wherever you are, Ernesto. You cant hide in a city where every bridge leads to treasure.

Exile in Guyville: Bible passage

It just occurred to me that I should one day publish my own bible, and list the passage: Exile in Guyville qouth the prophet Liz Phair.


And so Christopher of the new Testament A.D. was exiled into Portland after the eastern God Archibald dismissed his undying love. Leaving him with a permanent scar upon his left arm.

Travelling through streets of the blackhearts and vagabonds, the disgraces to homosexuality, Christopher discovered the punishment of sin that had been placed on these devils for their taste of the Adam flesh.

It began with the rape by a performing gypsy, who sent the disease of insects into Christopher's feet. An angel of the lower east was sent to save Christopher, yet Christopher dismissed him too perhaps too soon feeling that this angel was not the answer to his exiled prayers, though the angel was the form of man.

A foreigner came in questioning, and Christopher offered his knowledge, in turn to be cast out once again.

Penniless now, he continued to wander. Only to discover a young cherub who opened Christopher's deepest sexual doors that only the cherub knew where the key hid.

Yet there was still an answer unfound. A mystery as well as questioning if the love for the God named Archibald could be replaced.

And replacement came in the form of a young man. Ensnaring all of Christopher's senses and seducing his mind with the simplest of measures. Yet this prince, was already annointed by his royal duke. And so Christopher sustained himself.

Until the second forthnight. The second forthnight in which the prince went beyond the means of seduction without penetration. A powerful force this was indeed. The cherub discovering this unruly wrath spit in Christophers face, And the Prince turned cowardly and cast Christopher off once again into guyville. Cast off as Archibald once did. Leaving Christopher to know that the Prince could only now rise to King, and Christopher a beggar.

Guyville is now festering with old shrews of men who are starving from years of abandonment that they prey upon. cast out princes and sprites drowned in too much fairy dust. It is a valley of dolls, and a valley of the poison within the dolls. Christopher still wanders. Feet torn, heart barely breathing. No one escapes Guyville. The city of exile.

And Archibald sprang from the clouds and said to Christopher, I miss you. Pray, my child. And see what promises can be broken, and what can be sustained.

Hall: 12:2008

Swine Flu was so 2009.

Spotted: Seamen on the Portland waterfront. Looks like the Sailors are in town. And although I would love to join in with the cliche, I prefer a nice, quiet, indie boy sea breeze to a studly Popeye. Careful Portland queers, think those sailors follow the Don't ask, Don't Tell policy? ;)
Yesterday brought on a hectic awakening which took place at 7 a.m. For the next three hours my time was spent on walking, max riding, job interviewing, and applying for college. .......What? You thought the Cereal Man didn't have any responsibilities? I'm just as human as you. Albeit a few personality quirks.
Between jobs and roaming pcc campuses, I stopped at Anna Bananas for one last time before my intentional hiatus. The experience was minimal at best. And it just goes to show that the banana has gone overly ripe. Sorry Anna, but we begged you not to ban smoking from the basement. What is there to do there now, except toss flannel to the hipsters, and watch the street car pass.
My last stop on this early morning venture was set for Lloyd mall. While stepping off the max I caught sight of a majority of pedestrians wearing surgical masks. Really people? I thought swine flu was over. Guess we've moved on to a new epidemic. And I wasn't even informed.
I haven't been to a mall since Christmas of 2008. Nothing much has changed. Well, almost nothing. The Disney store is gone, Hot Topic traded in their Gothic black door entryways to a modest almost brook stone style white wall (ouch), and the bathrooms now have folded heaters to dry your hands in. But the ice skaters still skate, the Asians still pass out free samples on level three, and the Pirate store is still standing?
This was also the first time I walked by Nordstrom since I had been fired. I even mustered up the courage to walk in, only to say hi to Amy if she was there. But alas, no Amy. And I made my way out the left entrance quickly. I'm torn over every job I've lost bloggers, it's never nice and it can sear you as bad as a breakup. To quote Michael Scott: "Good managers don't fire people. They hire people."
Ernie Boy wasn't at work, and so it was time to get back on the max for a P.T.S.D. laced journey. But since I've accomplished so much, the guilt of locking myself away in the house for a Gossip Girl marathon has diminished, and become rewarding.
In a bit of sad news, a report from Tonya last night at around 9:30 P.M. stated that Rue McClanahan has died. I am saddened, because this makes the third Golden Girl down. All that remains is Betty White. Hold on tight dear Betty. We're not ready to lose you. And goodbye dear Rue. If there is a heaven, and if God loves queers, I look forward to tossing back a couple of cosmos with you in the great big sky.
Or, do old ladies drink sherry?

"Flight of The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. (YYY Republic)" 2009

Hello bloggers, if you're even out there listening. Well, it's the second of June today. And still, God insists on pissing water down upon our heads. And considering the closest I'd get to any degree of fun involves a long enough of a walk to get waterlogged, I will pass for today. And instead shut myself up behind doors for a Gossip Girl marathon.
But so today's entry isn't a total loss, I'd like to take you back to a time when my unemployment was still fresh and the hopes of finding another job still flourished. When the sun was still shining, and your best gay friend lived only minutes away. I'm talking of course about the September month of 2009. In which I attended one of the few yet what I'm sure will remain one of the best concerts of my existence. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. My story is told from a first person perspective as well as a biographer's stand point. I play both of course.
So whip out your maps and compass Northwest to Karen O, you've got a date with the night:

"Flight of The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. (YYY Republic)" 

September 7th, of the 2009, was to forever be recorded in Portland history as the YYY bombing of the Crystal Ballroom. Told here, is the complete detailed and graphically recorded play by play of the event, seen and told through the eyes and mouth of the first human being to obtain the very first ticket for the concert at the time of the unveiling, August 22, of the 2009.


Here now, is Christopher.

It is with meth addled stumptown hands and a heavy ear lobe that I write this now. To go from the beginning, a challenge. To think what my life had been before. But here I tell.

My morning began in true celebration of labor day having recently been unemployed by the white man fascist supreme organization of Nordstrom. I celebrated my tradition of viewing, "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist," before every concert I attend, before calling my fateful Scorpio companion Ernie, who was to be my wingman for the night. He arrived decked in 80's checkers and thunder lightning ties. He was ready, as was I. In my armor of black ballet pants with on the outside were my red demon graphic speedo underwear. Above my waist, my Mexican orange mariachi shirt, and over it my red and white stripe top I wore in attendance of the Thermals landing. Gracing my head was my black bowler hat, around my neck a Texas chainsaw massacre tie. Ernie and I left the base, and marched onward to Half and Half.

There commenced our taking in of sandwich nutrition, and caffeine fuel. Pukage power was loaded after tossing back my quad americano, and sprang forth a Thurston Moore migraine within my brain lobes. Comforted by Barista Brain's promise to help me find a new job, his two armed hug, and best wishes for Ernie and I's Y Control plunge, we bought some smokes, peed in Everyday Music, and with an hour and 15 minutes to spare, we landed outside the Crystal, and waited silently beneath a barred window with loogie lined cement.

There we drank visos and tossed back some Camel Turkish Silvers. My headache was beginning to froth, but I was distracted by the young lush who sat with us in line, Alex. She was a beautiful girl. As beautiful as today's generation of women could be. Then came her friends. 18 year old Maryn, the Karen O enthusiast who was soon heading for LA to attend the Where the Wild things are premiere. Her 15 year old "son" Nolan, who embodied the mind and spirit of William Miller. And the mystery girl who Ernie and I decided to call Ashley. We shot the shit for awhile, and Alex helped guide me through the McMenamins bar to piss. 8:00 came, and we were in.

Having made these new friends, them along with Ernie and I secured ourselves in the very front of the arena. As I purchased my YYY shirt*, my headache was beginning to boil. The Thurston Migraine was now becoming a silver rocket. I sat down in a sea of legs, my legs beginning to buckle. Trying to distract myself by the girl standing behind me, who has a brought a pair of her giant pink panties with her phone number written on it that were to later be Karen O's. Suddenly the voice of Maryn graced my ear and whispered, "Do you need water?' I looked down at her hand, and there she held, two Excedrin tablets. She pummeled her way through Los Angeles cunts and Amy Winehouse chipped teeth to get me a bottle of water. Within seconds my headache was gone.

9:00 came, and the mystery opening band was finally revealed. YACHT. Visionaries indeed, the two leaders, one man one woman, in the course of their performance, lept out into the crowd!!! Having turned to find Ernie, I suddenly felt a great weight fall into my outstretched arms. Turning I saw it was the man, Jonah. His white clad indie computer rock ass checks in my embrace. Well, he may not have been Hutch Harris but all the same, my hands were as giddy as marionettes.

Once they finished, the crowd got restless screaming for the yeah yeah yeahs to be revealed. At this point, there was no room to breathe. The mystery Ashley girl had now basically become my girlfriend for the night, having my left hand wrapped tightly on the stage bar, and my right arm wrapped firmly around her waist. I was lucky enough to be in a circle jerk of cool chicks. My new friends, as well as this kamikaze chick who had tunneled her way up front. I could write a book on the women of the event. But for now I will put aside the talk of the ladies, and finally reveal, the performance.

Karen O hit the stage in a pink louche mask, that lit up in spirals. They opened with "Heads will Roll." And once the song ended, Karen O whipped off the mask, and I practically shit my pants. She reached out her arm during her next song, and Ashley, my girlfriend for the night, grabbed her hand. When she let go I took Ashley's hand an rubbed it on my face. During the song, "Cheated Hearts," Karen launched her microphone to the front audiences mouth. Mine included. My lips were right on her microphone. "Hoo-hoo-whoo-whoo....." and at this I lunged forward, and touched Karen O's arm.

The crowd was at this point pummelling my back with their elbows, and ass raping me with their knees. I turned around to catch sight of a giant bull dyke who triggered p.d.s.d. memories of the Modest Mouse concert in '04. The pantie girl threw her panties onstage and Karen O caught em. Swinging em around in full glory. At one point, a churchy looking girl in yellow leaped up on stage, much to the surprise of a wide eyed Karen O. They grabbed hands and circle danced onstage, before she was pulled off by security, still swinging her head around in their arms. Its here I notice, Marylin Manson is in the crowd.

After two rounds of songs, including Zero, Date with the Night, Maps, Y Control, KISS KISS (Oh yea, Old school yeah yeah yeahs) it was over. The lights came on and removed the YYY film over my eyes. I realized that I was still standing where I rooted myself upon arrival. I had survived. No matter how hard those barely breathing hipsters tried, they did not take me alive. I had come out. On top and up front.

As Ernie, and our new friends slowly left the arena, we caught sight of Jona and his YACHT girl band mate. I ran to him to tell him that I had caught his ass while performing. While taking my hands he smiled, "Thank-you. I owe you an ass catch." Clearly a come on line, I am now determined to date Jona from YACHT. Take that in the ass, Portland!

We then made way for the safety base at Coffee time, our new friends followed from the hills. There I received more barista love from Scott. He doubled the hugs after telling him about my unemployment, gave me a free coffee, free bagel, and punched out my coffee time card so that I could get a free drink next time I was there. Ernie and I said goodbye to our new friends, walked home in the cold night, made all the more colder by our rock sweat, and ate cup of noodles while watching south park.

My hands, now ache at the retelling. Ache from detachment of true living, blessed only to those grifters of unemployed and lonely in love. Myself. I am one with the people and one with the musical republic. I have touched Thurston Moore. Been touched by Hutch Harris. And now I have touched Karen O, and with that have embraced what she has unleashed to her legion of fans.

There are gods among us.

Intro of Boy Wonder and Little R.

Memorial Day gave us Brunch with the Double R's. Robin and Rachel that is.
Location: Gresham, Portland's bastard son. Rachael departs to gold 'ole Dallas Texas in two weeks. So then it was as it shall be mandatory that we gathered for one last goodbye. Now while I cant help but think about Pee Wee Herman trying to find the basement at the Alamo, I digress into a sea of stuffed hashbrown plates. As well as Rachael's uncanny resemblance to Jenny Humphrey on Gossip Girl. Watch out for those tornadoes, Little R. Unless they have a navigational gps system that will blow you back to Portland. :(
Looks like Robin the boy wonder and I will have to hold court till you return. And while the idea of you staying away till your 21 is glamorous, we hope you remain tight with your decision to only stay for a year.
Until next time bloggers, this brand of cereal is off the market.

Cereal Man.