Fourteen years ago, I moved to Portland with my spouse, during the Great Wisconsin Migration of 2003, as did a good friend from collegeā€”the host of this weekā€™s party. In those 14 years, I had seen this ā€œgoodā€ friend exactly zero times, which made being invited to their birthday party that much more interesting. To her credit, she came clean in record time that the reason sheā€™d never contacted me was because I was married with a child, and in her 20s, she just wasnā€™t fucking with all that. I agree with any parents who just read that and thought, ā€œThatā€™s some trifling-ass bullshit,ā€ but themā€™s the breaks out here in these streets.

Luckily, Iā€™m no longer married and only see my kid on a legally negotiated schedule. My old friend, on the other hand, now lives in a modest house with her partner, whoā€™s made entirely of condensed hipster trends, including collecting old organs, accordions, and similar keyboard instruments to dismantle and refurbish as handcrafted, boutique keytars.

Being Portland-generous, they invited me and a few other audiophiles to pick out vinyl records kept in milk crates, in a basement populated by cats. We all agreed that European orchestral music is hack, but were equal parts disgusted and amused by Mario Lanzaā€™s The Desert Song album, from back in the days when racist misappropriation was dope and could sell an album. Needless to say, no records were taken.

From within the basement, I could smell the lit fire pit no one was enjoying in the backyard, which had been transformed into a bog by the ubiquitous Portland rain. Instead, I returned to the living room to take necessary notes from a plush, blue chaise with a charming view of felted paintings of chickens, a flamenco dancer, and silk flowers. I suspect doilies play some role in their dĆ©cor when company isnā€™t present.

The date I brought along was clearly dismayed by how this column gets produced, because some people seem to think itā€™s rude to attend a party and take frequent breaks to sit alone in a corner texting jokes and observations to oneself. We in the business call those people ā€œamateurs.ā€

In a self-serving effort to alleviate my dateā€™s discomfort, I gave them permission to make us a pair of gin-and-LaCroix cocktails. My cup appeared to have been slightly used, but I figured gin is a good enough disinfectant, and I havenā€™t been [unknowingly] drugged yet, so it was probably safe. My date, however, managed to mix their beverage in a cup containing a reasonable amount of cigarette ash and, despite my medical credentials, didnā€™t trust my claim that cigarette ash is good for healthy gut flora.

After a couple of hours of listening to young, upwardly mobile professionals discuss their unrelatable lives in one ear and my dateā€™s sweet words of judgment in the other, I gave the party a score of 6 out of 10, dropped off my date, and returned home.