It’s that time of year again, where you are either frantically trying to think of something cheesy and romantic to do for your partner (so you don’t have to endure another round of silent treatment) or you’re drinking yourself to sleep, after shitposting on social media about how you’re a strong independent so-and-so and relationships are stupid. Anyhoozle, we’re all in this fresh hell together, but this piece is specifically for those unfortunate women who have found themselves in a relationship with a musician in Portland (I couldn’t think of any hot tips for you lads out there dating a female musician, because you basically won the lottery—treat her like a princess and watch her cat while she goes on tour).The sad slice of the Portland demographic—who are both dating some unshaven, aspiring indie rock star in Portland and reading a strip club magazine—need look no further for some hot tips to spice up their disappointingly dull romance this Saint Valentine’s Day. I hope you have a frosty beverage hdjbooth, ‘cause it’s about to get HAWT in here...
Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, and in the spirit of that, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to take you, dear reader, on a journey with me, through an overview of the sexiest biota our world has on display. If anyone says romance is dead, point to any of these examples and scoff heartily...
It’s that time of year again, when everyone in this magazine has a Valentine’s Day article, and in general, people complain about the happiness of others far more than usual. Custom holds that you’re supposed to have a date on this auspicious occasion, and if indeed you do have someone willing to put up with you for an evening, that doesn’t mean you necessarily have a greasy fistful of cash to throw at the endeavor. Therefore, we find ourselves in great need of activities which require little or no coin, yet are still entertaining. In the spirit of those who are closer to broke than not and have little capacity for shame (yet, are nevertheless on the make), I present this list of date ideas to help...
I’m a big fan of cancel culture. As in, I really don’t think we should cancel anyone, but the culture that surrounds cancel culture makes for some great memes and interesting YouTube rabbit hole digging. It’s a lot like my appreciation for Slayer—themes of murder, genocide and holocausts are in no way good, but they’re entertaining as hell if consumed on a screen. This is how I found out about a guy named Jordan Peterson, who is either a transphobic, racist, sexist bigot who feeds on the blood of rescue kittens, or he’s a boring Canadian professor who writes books about cleaning your room and being nice to old people, depending on who you ask. I decided to do some research into the guy, and while the "controversy" surrounding the dude is of garden variety, the fact that his book, 12 Rules For Life, exists, is an anomaly. Basically, this edgelord convinced a bunch of 4Chan trolls to invest in a self-help guide that distills the most basic common sense into prophetic wisdom of the ancients. And, while I’d like to think that I’m not exactly a transphobic bigot hell-bent on "owning the libs," I do like the idea of making the mundane seem revolu
tionary. So, I give you to, loyal reader, a two-part series designed for the strip club DJ. It is worth noting that all of this comes from experi
ence and I am neither an expert nor a mentor—I am simply a guy who needed to fill some pages in a magazine...
I haven’t talked to (or seen) my birth father in 23 years. I recently found out the reason for this isn’t what I thought— not that he didn’t care and abandoned me and my two sisters, but because one of my sisters was so mad at him, she lied and said I wanted nothing to do with him, so he respected my " wishes" and hasn’t tried to contact me whatsoever. It’s been so long and he has a new wife and family. I don’t know if I should leave him be or if I should try to get a hold of him, as I just recently found all this out.
Happy Valentine’s Month. For some of us, February means love and happiness. For others, it means, "Hey, thanks for the slave labor, here’s a hashtag." But, for me, it means that I change my phone number, yet again, to avoid the cases of exes crawling out of the emergency jar and asking for some pipe action. I can’t be the only one who fears the sins of his past, so I’ve brought you this article to see how many other dudes and females-intofemales can relate. I wanted to do this gender-free, but it just didn’t roll off the fingers correctly. However, this column can apply to ex-boyfriends, as well—I just don’t have that many, so do the gender swapping in your head and enjoy...
I should let you know, up front, that there’s no satisfying conclusion to this insipid tale. If you enjoy intelligent pay-offs—or, even solid punchlines—you’re probably better off skipping this one. In fact, the very idea of telling it exhausts me (and, if you’ve already invented a dick-registry app, don’t take it up with me—I had nothing to do with this nonsense).
Bob and I were at the café, having the usual, as usual. This was last weekend, from my current point in the continuum. The conversation was slow and dull. When you know someone for long enough—and, if business has been slow—the act of verbal intercourse can be tiresome (even painful). Mostly, we sipped coffee and remarked about various automobiles or pedestrians that went past the window...
I leap to the pole from the halo rack that encircles the stage. One client gawks, another says, "Show me your tits." I ignore them both and flirt with myself in the mirror.
I glow with the victory of knowing my 35-year-old body still possesses power, control and stamina. I spin around the pole and admire my prestigious stride. I’m a fucking goddess—albeit, a broke goddess. I’m lucky if I bank $60 in five hours. In fact, I cash-in the old-fashioned way: connection. I converse with older men at the bar, who have no qualms in compensating me for my precious time.
Tonight’s my last night at the Mint Elephant. It reeks of fried chicken strips, stale beer and cheap perfume. I’m retiring to return to an office gig. The regular I’m with begs me not to leave and slips me his phone number on a tiny napkin, over the nicked bar. The ink blotches.
"I could fall in love with you," he says...
Portland, Oregon is a miserable goddamn town. A foul pit of quicksand that grips you the moment you slip and land there, eating away at your organs until you’ve turned to dust. Struggling will only pull you deeper, drive you to love madness, hate yourself, rip away at your own skin and spit out those old bones that once held you up, now too brittle to stand in the wind, like a tower of sand. The men are pedophiles, the women are whores, the children are stupid punks, the streets smell like hot piss at high-noon and everyone is out to slice your throat open while you sleep, take your hard-earned money and turn it into a bad habit—your very own vice, because that’s what everyone does here, once they’ve come into the gauntlet. Suits and students and pigs and preachers are no exception. Nose candy, racing machines, sex wizards, morning whiskey, blood ‘n’ guts ‘n’ shame junkies—it’s all here, in full, living color, just around every corner, at any time of day or night—like sending away Kix box tops and getting back real bazookas!...
