By Alex Nash
As you have certainly already heard, or have been raptly awaiting since my last Mossy Log birthday coverage, my 21st birthday is right around the corner. Really, that article does mark the high point of the Backdoor — the only thing impressive about it since has been the rapidity of its decline.
A 21st birthday is important, not only for its revitalization of this disgraceful section. It marks the beginning of adulthood and the slow, inevitable descent into high-functioning alcoholism that defines our epoch. And while I could not be more excited to get another year closer to being kicked off my mom’s health insurance, I have yet to find any appropriate venue for my celebration.
Frankly, Portland does not have much to offer me. I am almost three years into keeping it weird, and I am unimpressed. This city is, to put it gently, in a decline that rivals my darling Backdoor’s.
Case in point — a few months ago, I accidentally spent $12 on what I thought was some nice farmer’s market cheese as a treat on a rare sunny day. It turned out to be “vegan cheese,” or rather a frozen brick of cashew and coconut oil. I have tasted better things that have come out of people. For a city with an “exciting food scene,” Portland has left me decidedly bored.
The sad state of the city means bad things for my party prospects. For every guy from Silver Lake obsessed with incel Midwest emo there is another from St. Paul who will not shut the fuck up about Kendrick. Any bar I could select for my festivities would be filled with Portland’s worst: the chatters. They ask you how your day has been so far and what you have planned for the night. They will compliment your outfit, and you will have to tell them where every piece is from. The only thing worse than veganism is the exchange of unsolicited niceties with a stranger.
That said, the rest of the country is arguably worse. Our nation’s leaders plan drone strikes on their iPhones and use emojis while doing it. Elon Musk is so deep down the Oval Office K-hole he may never surface. Hooters filed for bankruptcy. This used to be a real country. Men used to hunt. Women used to throw the O.J. Simpson case.
Where can I spend my birthday? Where in this world is still safe?
There is one place that comes to mind. A cavernous, reverberating warehouse that smells like chicken and also serves alcohol occasionally.
The Troom.
I guess I will buy my first drink at the Troom. Does anything really matter anymore? How the mighty have fallen … I guess the Troom is as good a place as any for a drink. Because I fucking need one.
Anyway, if you are so inclined, appropriate birthday gifts for me would include: something you forgot was in your car, stolen Bon silverware or a massive, hardcover coffee table book about typography.
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