by D. Reed

Build it... and they will cum. What P town needs is a futuristic multi-teered Cotton Club/Blade Runner strip joint. Of course, Portland is already the leader in strip club over population, but I’m talking about a place Caligula would be proud of. A club that not only invited good mental fornication, but good conversation. Free flowing booze, candlellabra’s, 30-foot ceilings with grand white chiffon fabric cascading down from the sky, elaborate Indian rugs, plush black velvet couches(not for couch dancing, but for customers to actually sit in and hang), a live 20-piece 1930’s big band (mixed with synthesizers, turntables, and the occasional loud guitar), giant circular wall screens blasting slo-mo images of oceans/wars/star constellations (no sports, please), mysterious smoking rooms covered in local and international artist’s erotic photography and paintings, a comprehensive video and book library filled with the musings of our most left field sexual media makers, stone fireplaces the size of a Tri-Met bus, Virtual Reality booths, beautiful (and talented) male and female performers from all over the world on the grand “in the round” stage to unleash their mindbending erotic shows, an audience of 5,000 curious folks (and that’s just a Monday night), and finally, everything and everyone in black and white for the classic film noir vibe... (nah, scratch that, too cold. Color is a must).

The naysayers claim it’ll never fly. Portland is too small a town to support such an affair and, supposedly, we like it that way, right? Yet, somehow, I hear plenty of bitchin’ about nothing to do. Hell, you can always go to OMSI, except they close too damn early. But eventually the whole northwest will be a giant metropolis. The Portland Planning Commission reports 35,000 people are moving to our quaint little city every year. Californians, Tibetan refugees, Mexicans... I hear plenty of bitchin’ about that, too... but it’s good news. It has to be. There’s no turning back to a simpler time. Besides, everyone has just as much right to this corner of the world as anyone else. The Native Americans are the only ones that have earned a genuine complaint about the infestation of the area, but that’s another story. Bottom line... our hippie town is graduating to the big leagues. The airport will never be finished, traffic is already maddening. But the club would thrive. Bands would make guest appearances, tearing the roof off. Sweat covered Portlanders could go home knowing they experienced an off-world event. Yes, it would take a ton of cash to get it up and running. The life expectancy of such an endeavor is probably short, but screw the profit margin. There must be some bored millionaire lumber baron out there willing to drop the coin on Portlands’ sensual future. All his (or her) millionaire friends would visit, get off, invest, write it off. Or maybe the many club owners all vying for their small piece of the action could come together, pool their resources, as well as their dancers, and create the magic zone.

You’re right... it’ll never happen. Too many egos, so little time. We all want to run our own tiny kingdom. But what a joint that would be. Oh, well. Just keep it simple. Video poker, pool tables, dirty carpet, and plenty of attitude. I must have been trippin’. Until next time, take care of yourselves, your pets, your expensive drug paraphernalia, and each other.