Portland Santafada 1998
Fragments reassembled from the dribbling psyche
of Your Faithful Scribe, Santa Harvestore
4:30 PM: Initial swarming in Pine-Ear Courthouse Square, gathering Santi and momentum. Over two dozen Santi, probably more. Santa didn’t remember to count.
Drinking blue-tinted gin & tonics from a Windex bottle (Yum yum, Santa Wop! Thankyew!).
Lotsa cheap cigars, Chemical Hazard bags for presents, a bullhorn or two (“Hey, Eat my Santa, you Santa!”).
Bucky the Reindeer Head, Wolfgang the Doggy, Ouisie the Ferret, representing the animal kingdom.
Santa gooning at passengers on the MAX train and the cute little trolley car at every possible opportunity.
Giving toys to tots from the “nice” toys bag.
Handing out lumps of coal, weird presents and “naughty” toys and stickers to everyone else.
Spiraling through a mall on escalators, arousing the suspicion of the brownshirts, er, security guards.
Santa gets lost. Much wandering around downtown, dispersal, aimless meanderings. Hey, there he is… no, there he is. But, Santa’s homing instincts were working, and the Santi coalesced into one cell again, ready to pounce upon the unsuspecting.
A quick diversion into a piano shop where Santa regaled the manager with “carols”, the manager returned the favor by activating one of his player pianos. He had to look for the disk, though… hey, buddy, it’s Christmas, whaddya mean you don’t know where it is?
Invasion of an “Irish” bar and had the first real round of drinks. Wolfgang had to wait outside (the bastids). Bucky made it in, though…we hid him under a Santa suit.
A run through a restaurant, startling patrons attempting to dine on fish.
Invasion of a nightclub, upstaging the transvestite emcee (he/she got a weird yellow stuffed poodle decorated with extra eyeballs and little jingle bells acting as surrogate genitalia).
Annoying patrons outside of the Performing Arts Center (“damn it Martha, I came to see professional entertainment, not a bunch of FREAKS…”).
Santa came upon a roving wedding party trying to have pictures of the bride & groom taken. Santa can’t resist crashing a good photo shoot, so we surrounded them. The groom was pleasant but impatient, so we took a couple of group photos and moved on. They probably have a picture of all of us in their living room now and tell everyone how cool it was that Santa showed up.
Off to Hung Far Low for the strongest drinks in town (Santa’s bloody mary was very, very pale… Santa thinks they just set a tomato next to the vodka and called it good). Presents to unsuspecting bar patrons, the poor saps.
On to Mary’s Club to see the strippers, hand out Pez and eat big cheap burritos. Have you ever seen someone strip to “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”? Santa has. At one point, Santa upstaged the strippers for a bit with a dry humping demonstration.
Then off to one of Portland’s renowned downtown dives, the incomparable Patty’s Retreat, inhabited by professional drinkers of the first order. What a jolly bunch of guys. A table dance by the jollier female Santi was presented for their enjoyment, instantly winning the professional drinkers over. Santa then experienced some more spirit. Much more spirit. Lots of presents handed out. The beginning of true debauchery. One of the more soused patrons followed Santa for the remainder of the evening… he was later heard to exclaim that this was the greatest night of his life. This may indeed be true.
A run by the grimy windows of Powell’s City O’ Books… the worker bees were happy and swell, but the sullen hipsters and grumpy bibliophiles inhabiting the Anne Hughes Coffee Room gave us sour-faced sneers… bah, humbug.
Then… Scooter McQuade’s… where true depravity and Santa’s latent erotic tendencies emerged, floating to the surface like burnt yule logs on a generous pool of free beer. Presents all around for everyone. Several table dances ensued. A drink accidentally knocked onto a slack-jawed, wide-eyed bar patron while Santa showed off her undies. Sloppy wet kissing Santas. Full moons. Dry humping. Group dry humping. Lines of group dry humping. Little stickers being attached directly to Santa’s jolly little trouser elf. The bartender pleading with Santa, screaming “You can’t DO that shit in here!!!”. Drunken frat boys removing clothing for sticker application by Santa. More desperate pleas by bartender. Ho ho ho.
Your besotted scribe began to crumble like a cheap Christmas cookie around 1:00 AM, the sustained alcohol abuse, billowing clouds of nicotine and 90 decibel disco music proving too much for his swollen, emaciated brain. Santa Harvestore escaped into the damp cold night for oxygen and the long journey home.
Santa’s festivities continued for some time afterwards, from what Santa told me later. Santa suffered the next morning.
Who had a GREAT time, despite having a tormented countenance in his waning hour of consciousness.