NO FEAR, NO LOATHING — WHAT WILL BECOME OF US?
NIGHTMARE ON BURNSIDE ROAD –
GRESHAM, OREGON IS DECADENT AND DEPRAVED
Thompsoning in Metro Portland, Halloween 2008
This is a savage place indeed. It’s Halloween night, I’m at Lucky’s Bar & Grill in Gresham, and I’m dressed as Raoul Duke. I’ve been here an hour or less, and I’ve seen things that make the hardiest of men shudder — one way or the other. The place is swarming. So far, I’ve seen several Sexy Pirates, a Sexy Geisha, Sexy Maid, Sexy Cat, Sexy Mouse, Sexy Aviatrix (in nothing but a bomber jacket — I admit I am intrigued), a Sexy Egyptian wearing what is basically a diaper, a Playboy Bunny and her Hef, AND FROG. Sexy Barmaid and two Sexy Schoolgirls just walked in. Marilyn Monroe has put in an appearance, as have Sexy Angel and Devil. All the cliches have been covered, I think. There are two Sexy Cops, one with her own prisoner. That should be fun later. Sexy Hausfrau is grinding with Marilyn, and Sexy Firefighter is all over a Schoolgirl. It’s like middle school all over again. And to the Ghostbusters theme, even. Is nothing sacred? On top of that, there are several girls who seem to have come as Sexy Themselves. The men are all dressed as Douchebags. It’s quite clever, really. More booze is required. Nobody wins tonight.
Sexy Freddy Kreuger. In the immortal words of Daffy Duck, I demand that you shoot me now. Have taken refuge in the restroom. May not make it out alive. They’ve started the fog machine. Surely this is the end. I will clearly have to change my title.
A SECOND Sexy Freddy. That’s it, new title: GRESHAM, OREGON IS DECADENT AND DEPRAVED.
[At this point, the combination of alcohol, nicotine, and repeating beats and thumping bass started to get the best of your friend the reporter. This is where it starts to get weird.]
This is madness. So far, only one person has offered The Good Doctor some acid. Same as everywhere: buncha savages in this town. There’s a man wearing nothing but a miniskirt and a mohawk. Still, I think any move would be futile. Matt just refooted a costumeless cougar. He might end up with something tonight. But I doubt it. There’s a Sexy Anne Boleyn. Insert “head” joke here. The strobes have started. I take it back. This is the end.
Matt is too much of a scrotum to dance with the Sexy Firefighter he keeps leering at. Clearly a nerd. He could make it, too. A Sexy Vampire over in the corner is eating some guy’s face. Actually, that might not be a costume. Also, there’s a sailor and two construction workers. I smell a Village People reunion.
Clove cigarettes ARE delicious. There is a consensus. Also, I am not motherfucking Gilligan, fuck you all. If I were anyone, I’d be the Professor. Chicks dig the Professor.
…Is that a Sexy Oompa-Loompa? Fuck it, I’m going home now.
As the night wears on, things become more of a blur. The boring hot people become even less distinct — my own company, more so. I answered the right ad. Costumes are blurring together now, and it doesn’t help that half of the bar staff is dressed as the other half. The Captain is on my side, though. I can’t feel my nose now, and I don’t dare look for a mirror. These are strange times on this, the wrong side of the continent. These extra three hours are being put to good use. This lighting casts strange shadows. No one is who they appear to be, and I’m not talking about costumes. Strange days indeed.
It’s far too easy to fall in love in this town, if only for a moment. Dangerous. To stave this off, I’m notably Not Dancing with the only girl here in a long skirt.
At this point, Sexy Magician dragged me onto the dancefloor, forever ruining any semblance of objectivity I may have had regarding this sick spectacle. I put up a fight, because I can’t dance for shit, and how the hell is that even dancing, anyway, but in the end, I gave in. Something about free drinks. There’s no saving me now. She did pull a rabbit out of her hat, though. And I really wish that was a euphemism. Faceless Michael Jackson is the best dancer out there. What the hell is this place?
Everything is muddled. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, and This Girl (the one in the long skirt) is watching me write. I can’t even bring myself to mind. I am full of rum. Somehow, this horrible mess is delightful. It turns out that Sexy Magician was acting under orders from my treacherous housemate, bribed with free drinks. I have become deeply entwined with this madness. Gonzo lives.
This is all wrong. Something’s got to give. GIVE, DAMN YOU. My writing is getting more erratic. ‘Bout that time then, eh? I grin to keep up appearances, but something is Very Wrong. I am Very Drunk. I think this is the necessary condition for this business. I just hope I can read my writing am morgen.
That firefighter is glowing. It really is time to go.
Back home, now. I’m at a bit of a loss. Probably a Scrubs rerun, and then sleep. But I can’t help but wonder what this terrible, decadent, depraved, wonderful city is doing in my absence. We can’t always win.
Mirrors aren’t even funny right now. The Fear and the Loathing are here at last.
Good night, city.
