Portland, Oregon's working class has a contempt for the upper social class like no other I've seen. The poor, poor dears if they only knew what it felt like to get cramps from holding fists full of cash! If those Little Beiruties spent a day in my Jimmy Choo's they wouldn't be so quick to judge. It literally took me hours to find a condo in the Pearl. HOURS!
Just the other night when the Harry Swindells-Schnitzer and I were leaving the Weiden Kennedy Champagne-A-Thon fundraiser for The School of The Americas, I felt a strange sensation. Was it that time of the year? My insides where shivering like one of those Street Roots volunteers. I clutched my tiny waist as we got into the strangest looking limo. It was short, with only four doors. Was this the new hummer I had heard about? No. That's not it. The interior was not leather. The smell reminded me of mother... Channel Numba 5 served up straight in an ashtray. I leaned over to Harry to ask him if we had any of that crushed aspirin he's so fond of shoving up his nose when he blurted out, "Let's make a run for the border!"
"Good lord Harry! Canada? This time of night? What on earth would we do in Canada?" Pamplemoose season was not for another month or so. Oh, how I missed scatter shot and gin parties up north. One year Uncle Jeff Gianola and I bagged a nice 4 point Pamplemoose. I haven't had that much fun since babysitting for Neil Goldschimdt!
"Kendell! Making a run for the border is a little trick I picked up from the kids at The Lakewood Center for the Arts. After a night of drinking they get in their parents Bentley's and drive to the nearest Taco Bell and order food through the window of the car!"
"Taco what?" What on earth was Mr. Swindells-Schnitzer talking about? I was feeling empty. Had I not drunk 4 bottles of champagne? Normally that does the trick but tonight was different.
"Taco Bell you drunk bitch! Taco Bell!" He kept shouting and pointing. The limo driver turned around and looked me right in the face. I hadn't seen the eyes of a limo driver in years!
"I don't make 'runs to the border.' It stinks up the cab." Cab? What was all of this gibberish I was hearing tonight.
"Darling Harry, I feel queer and all this eye contact from the limo driver is making me uncomfortable." I said, holding my stomach. "I think I am hungry."
"That settles it. Driver! Take us to Taco Bell at once!" barked Harry.
"Couldn't we go to Four Seasons or something?," the city was starting to look blurrier than usual.
The limo driver turned around and looked me in the face again. She must have left her manners at home along side her drivers cap! "Lady, this is Portland, Oregon. It's not my job to cart your sorry drunk ass around and take orders from your gigolo. You want to go to Taco Bell, suit yourself. You are what you eat, corporate, mad-cow, soul-sucking scum!"
I will end this story here because I can't quite rememba what happened next. I tend to black out just when things get interesting. Harry must have gone home on his own. There were yellow wrappers and what seemed a million little pieces of lettuce everywhere...
photo by Annie Leibowitz for Vanity Fair
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