A hipster party in Lake Oswego? Why not?

This would be my second time in Lake Oswego, and the first time on purpose. My last visit had been a few years ago, after my divorce. My psychiatrist had me trying a variety of mood stabilizers and sleep aids, while I had myself trying a variety of hard liquor, no food, and sleep deprivation. The concurrent trials resulted in me watching a beautiful sunrise from within a bush in the suburbs. All things considered, this party was bound to be better.

I’ve been having car troubles, so I took the bus. So confused was Google Maps by my entering a Lake Oswego address that, rather than navigate me to my intended destination (an apartment), I found myself in a gated community, in the dead of night, in the rain. It was an eerie feeling being the only brown person prowling Lake No Negro in the dark—the feeling of casing the suburbs for a place to get shot. So I found a dark corner in which to send a distress call to the party’s host who was able, with some difficulty, to guide me toward her apartment. From there, she met and escorted me to her safe refuge.

This was a small party, with only three other guests, one of whom was a clearly intoxicated talking mime, because Portland. The other two guests and our host were open-mic comics. The apartment was skillfully arranged around cat trees and paintings crafted by the masterful hand of our gracious host. And for once in my life, I mean that with all sincerity, as the apartment, furnishings, and artwork were all tastefully aligned.

Small talk was forced but abundant, just as it should be in a group of amateur entertainers, but as our list of topics and YouTube searches whittled down, we needed something else to fill the time. The obvious and unanimous choice was to head to the nearest grocery store, pick up marshmallows, and play a rousing game of Chubby Bunny. For those readers unfamiliar, Chubby Bunny is a popular party game among the intersection of high school art club students and alcoholic twentysomethings: Players compete to see who can stuff the most regulation-size marshmallows in their jowls and successfully say “chubby bunny.” Numerous strategies have evolved over the years, such as “The Gillespie” and “Deep Throat.” I held my own, but was ultimately thwarted by our host and her otherworldly marshmallow capacity.

Having narrowly avoided anyone trying to get there, I opted to surf the couch, and be woken hourly by cats taking turns loudly burying their shit. It was an enriching experience, as I never suspected I’d ever consider helping a cat hide its feces just for an undisturbed hour of rest.

All things considered—Chubby Bunny, not getting shot, and cat poop aside—I score this party 10 of 10.