Photo by Dr.B - 2008, One Dork, One Kid and a Pink Coat

Last night was the perfect storm of downtown Portland activity. There was the First Thursday art walk in the Swanky Pearl District and the 6th Avenue Street Fair in the reformed Old Town where hipsters a’plenty wandering the street and the annual May Day Protest for Socialists.

The scene can be set like this. On one side of the block we have skaters, punks, drug dealers, radio stations and a make shift skate park with ramps made out of giant timber, book ended on each corner by balloon animals and performance artists. On the other side of the street we have hipsters hanging outside a row of cheap art/living studio spaces clamoring for what might be free Pabst Blue Ribbon and Charles Shaw wine all the while oogling over “art”. Hipsters love art, they just can’t afford it.

Around the block, you have an overdressed, old mom trying to look cool while her daughter laughs in her face and her boyfriend snaps the photos for the soon to be released, “Documentary of an old woman in a pink coat on a spring day.”

Photo by Chantel Williams, I-5 Bridge over the Columbia River 2008

This photograph does not represent the weather. This photograph represents what I wish it would be like here. I need it to be warm, with a soft glow and long shadows from my tall margarita glass. I don’t know how many more anti-depressants I can shove into my mouth. But right now it looks like I’m turning up a bag of colored M&M’s straight down my throat every morning. I’m so sexy; I know. I haven’t time for anything coherent this morning so you’re getting a list of random things.

- “Pick your own zombie adventure” is my google status message.

- I passed the strip club down the street this morning, the sign read. “May 16, Bridget the Midget.” I’m thinking of going.

- How does a girl rack up a 60 dollar happy hour bill? Alcoholic much?

- My dog has diarrhea. On the list of reasons to not work from home, this one is the biggest. How would you relate to a co-worker crapping in the cube next to you every five minutes?

- I’m chronically wondering whether or not I wore underwear each day on the way to work.

If you live in the Northwest you are quite intimate with light deprivation. About this time of year its painful to sit and wait for a little more warmth and a little less rain. Its been dark here, its been cold here. I’ve walked out on my patio many days this week and raised my fist to the heavens and shook it at Mother Nature all the while yelling, “For Shame you bitch.” Then I realize that my neighbors saw me in my bathrobe and immediately start injecting Wellbutrin that I crushed and liquified in the middle of the night into the spaces in my toes.

Its about Fucking Time!

Welcome to Portland, The Home of the Hipster. This is the post where half the town will now hate me.

There is a certain time in your life when one must make adjustments. Adjustments to what you eat, drink, how you talk or, sin of all sins, how you dress.

A few years ago I was walking down the hall of my office when I felt like someone was following me really, really close. I turned around and there was no one there. I walked past the receptionist desk and asked her quickly, did you see that? She saw nothing, she confessed. I continued on to the break room when it finally hit me on the head like I missed V-8. It was my back fat lobbing around back there causing an extra echo in my step; making me think I was being followed. It was time to turn in the low rise jeans.

Keith Richards is a hipster gone bad. However, Keith is the coolest cat in the universe. Even I recognize he should have hung up his skinny jeans a long, long time ago. After all, he is Keith Richards and I’m sure he has a special relationship with God. “Thus sayeth God to Keith; you may keep your skinny jeans indefinitely.”

On the other hand.

I was driving around town last night with Dr. B looking for wings and beer and maybe a strip club. (OK just kidding) We passed a bar where this seemingly young hipster was hanging out front lighting a cigarette. He was dressed in head to toe black, his hair was cut in the required mod shag, askew just so and dyed jet black to match. As the hipster code states, he had the much demanded wallet and chain combination. Then he turned around…..

Turned around and then the bags under his eyes followed slowly from the side of his head. Turned around and his beer gut bounced a little from the rotation. He wasn’t a giant guy, he just had junk in all the places it wasn’t supposed to be. Well actually, it can be there. You just need to not wear skinny jeans and a vintage T-shirt you picked up at the head shop, ran over with your car to make it look, “authentic”. The problem is that he looked too old. Drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon until 3 AM has finally caught up to him. All that time penning sensitive lyrics for a band that will never get a record deal is starting to turn to bitterness and regret on his face. All of those cigarettes have started to sallow his skin and cause his fingers to turn the tell-tale nicotine yellow. Sweetheart, you are no Keith Richards and you don’t do enough heroin to keep that PBR off of your hips.

You’re getting pudgy, you’re getting wrinkles and you still think you can wear a size Medium Husky from the little boys section. There are times when I try to leave the house for a show and my daughter has to edit my wardrobe. It goes like this.

Her: Is that what you’re wearing

Me: Yes, don’t you like it?

Her: Ummm, you’re trying to hard and it makes look old(er)

Me: Really, I kinda like it.

Her: No dude, go back and try again.

My answer to you old hipsters….get a kid, sit them on the couch and have them tell you what you look like before you leave the house.

I love hipsters - don’t get me wrong. You’ve made the internet a cooler place, music and mash-ups have never been better. You’ve brought back heroin chic better than American Apparel ever could. You’ve done things for facial hair that I never imagined possible. Your sensitive forward combed hair is represented in your song lyrics and, your love for aviator sunglasses has enriched my life. I myself have an obsession with aviators, I like to buy them at every gas station in town and rock them with a silk blouse, cowboy boots and a pair of jeans that covers my back fat. Did you read that? I modified my wardrobe to fit the increasing size of my ass and my age.

P.S. - Have you ever seen a stripper and thought. “Damn girl, eat a sandwich?” 

I would give you a blow by blow account of the weekend. But I can’t remember. And you know, I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t kiss and tell although I will admit to liking the kissing part quite a bit.

Because the Pope was worried about St. Patricks day ruining Palm Sunday he moved it to the 15^th. I don’t know if he expected that it would cause 4 days of debauchery but I bet the effect he was looking was lost on those who think that its just another excuse to celebrate St. Patricks day for 4 days in a row. Actually the truth is, Dr. B would celebrate St. Patricks Day ever day of the year. However, he can’t because it would compete with Mardi Gras, Halloween, New Year and, Secretary’s Day. So he was really happy with 4 days of reasons to be drunk.

Where it all started: The largest Irish Festival west of the Mississippi

The next day, plans were made and scheme’s were hatched. With Kerri and her husband for a grown up’s evening. Unfortunately Dr. B immediately ruined any schemes to be sophisticated and cultured when out of his pocket, came strands of green shiny beads which, we were order to wear throughout dinner and into the night.

By the way dinner? Whoever decided to wrap jalapeno’s with bacon after they stuffed them with goat cheese is a goddamn genius and I will be going back to Casa Del Matador to make out with the chef on a regular basis. After dinner Dr. B decides to invite the crew to his place for absinthe.

Dr. B first discovered absinthe was legal in the US during a trip to New Orleans for his birthday in January. Where I received no less than 3 drunk dials. Where Dr. B proclaims, “dude I swear I’m not a drunk dialer, this stuff is potent.” He has since become devoted. Devoted in the sense that he doesn’t have near the alcohol tolerance I used to have. So he’s a teatotaler who loves absinthe. Weird huh?

A little known fact: Chantel should never drink absinthe after 2 margarita’s, before 1 bourbon, two beers and 1 vodka soda. The result?

Elvis Glasses

Green beads

Bad Pool Hall behavior

And Pirate Patches with bling

And then this, spinning, double vision and flashing lights.

Any questions?