Like many Portlanders, I have been stuck for the last 36 hours wherever I happened to be late Saturday night. Bizarrely, this means I have taken up temporary residence in "Fang House" — the Southeast flop of local underage punk band White Fang. I had never met anyone in White Fang before Saturday night but I can now tell you with certainty that they are surprisingly clean kids who blast Fleetwood Mac, do their dishes and cook a mean chicken drumstick.
I imagine there being stuck-in-Fang-House type scenes playing out all over town this week, where people are forced by the nature into close and constant company of strangers. I woke up on Sunday morning in the company of other sofa-crashers, including one guy who was stranded and cross-eyed because he'd broken his glasses in the White Fang mosh pit. The bitter wind howled outside. No way was I riding my bike home in the Arctic Death Blast! And thanks to short-sighted Saturday night planning, my purse contained only one Hamm's, two comic books and exactly no money for emergency bus fare. A much better idea than scraping up two TriMet dollars was to grab every item in Fang House vaguely resembling a sled and head to Brooklyn Park, where a once-grassy slope was already lined with children in snow suits. The skateboard deck made a better sled than the pizza box and once, laying at the bottom of the hill after crashing on the completely shitty sled/yoga mat, a little kid rolled right into me on his inflatable inner tube. "THIS IS AMAZING!" the kid yelled and I 100 percent agreed.
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