I’m on a quasi alliterative titular jag, it seems.
Last night’s entry had lit in its title.
This morning/afternoon, I’m writing about embers.
Later today, I’ve got one tentatively titled woodwork that should post.
You didn’t really need to know that, but these are the things about my blog that I enjoy…so, I’m sharing.
It’s almost noon on Friday. The first Friday in nearly 49 years that Portland won’t be celebrating the weekend at a dance bar called Embers.
It’s been going nearly as long as I’ve been around. Sometimes strong. Others…well, it was one of the bars that I referred to as being in a three-way tie for second worst gay bar in Portland.
The worst, Casey’s has always in my mind held the best wishes for continued success by these three bars:
One of the contenders for second worst – The Fox and Hounds – sold a few months back and immediately launched a transformative campaign to alienate its base clientele by changing everything. The campaign was known as “We’re not going to be making a lot of changes or anything”.
Embers shuttered it’s drag stage and dance floor at 2:30 this morning for the last time after announcing earlier this week that its owner had suffered a stroke and was no longer able to run the business.
So…CONGRATULATIONS, EaglePDX, on being the last second worst gay bar in Portland!
Oh, and Casey’s quietly closed a few months back, so…this is a really big day for you!
All that having been said, Embers holds an awkward place in my nostalgic old heart. So much so, that I would still pop in every couple of weeks or so for a beer and some chat with the staff. Usually, I was the only non-homeless person and non-somehow tenuously employed by the bar patron in the place.
This is my life, people. Try not to cringe.
But back before making its run at the title for second worst gay bar in Portland, well…it was an IT bar for Portland.
I was forcibly relocated to the Great Plains before I could legally drink or patronize a night club in Portland. Two facts that the Great Plains didn’t really give a fuck about, because my Catholic High School honor student buddies started taking me to one of the two (only) premiere (by default) night clubs (dive bars) in beautiful downtown (no comment) Atchison, Kansas to do homework (I shit you not) when I was 14.
Kiby’s East – there was no other Kiby’s – was where I learned to both harshly judge and appreciate a true shit-hole-in-the-wall bar. When it’s 50% of your choices – 33%, if you seriously consider doing nothing to be an option – you make the most of it.
It was on the banks of the Missouri River. On sultry summer nights, they’d open up the back doors to let the breeze cool the dance floor.
They had $1 pitchers of beer for what would pass as happy hour. Perfectly affordable to us high schoolers whose after school jobs paid $2.35 an hour.
I once saw – while taking a study break on the mezzanine – a big muscly guy dancing by himself on the crowded dance floor. Well, I say he was by himself, but over his wife beater clad shoulders he was wearing what I hoped was his pet boa constrictor cum dancing partner. I watched as he flirted with it, lifting its head to his lips to kiss at it playfully as the snake’s tongue flickered at his lips.
Then, in an emotionally scarring PDA, he put the whole head of his snake in his mouth. I’ve seen similar things happen at EaglePDX.
So, from boas constrictor to feather, I have a good idea of what makes a bar tragic or fabulous or something of the unremarkable in between variety.
Embers was all of these at some point over the 21 years that I’ve been whetting my whistle at its gold fish inhabited bar.
One of The Fabulous Baker Sisters put Embers on my social radar via MySpace after I moved back to PDX from SoCal in the winter of ‘96.
When The Fourth Fabulous Baker Sister speaks, I listen. Especially about booze, clubs or in this case, both.
My socializing quickly began to include Embers.
Occasionally, I would go there after work with my team to dance our asses off and blow off steam built up over the course of the week. I would usually park my Jeep in front of the building I now live in and stagger back several hours later feeling invigorated and refreshed, baptized in the sweaty waters of a smoke machine filled dance floor.
The next day my chicken legs were rubber at work from too much dancing. But those nights of group dancing with Margi, Candace, Jackie Jack Ass, Erica-Schmerica and Panzy are some of my most treasured 20-something memories. Pansy being a couple decades our senior, but representing and showing us how it was done…even if toward the end of the night it was done on her back, waving her arms in the air on the dance floor after too many drinks and/or clove cigarettes.
Other times, I’d sit alone at the gold fish inhabited bar and drink. Raven, one of the older drag performers would chat me up, hitting on my unreceptive ears as we watched Linda Lee obscenely tongue flick her way through performing a song whose words she was only vaguely acquainted with. This was how I preferred to watch the show after the first time a drag queen hit on me here. Jumping off the stage after her number and bee lining her way through the crowd of chairs right up to me to introduce herself.
That DQ was a sexy boy, turns out. I should have set aside my own homophobia and accepted his advances. Probably, it would have headed off some bad mojo I didn’t know was brewing for my future.
Every Pride Parade I attended in Portland passed by this Portland icon, overflowing the crowd into the street for the day, much like the scene from last night.
Sometimes, I would stop by with Black Sheep Bro, where without fail, my straight slightly younger brother would get hit on in a gay bar and I would not. That’s fair, thanks, universe. I chalk it up to my self-unrealized intimidating beauty.
Then there was the time I turned those tables and met a so-called straight boy whose friends had allegedly failed to show up for the evening. I turned from the bar to face the dance floor after ordering a drink, the machine generated smoke parted and out walked Sacha.
The good old days…yeah.
Ten years later, I moved away.
Ten years later, I moved home.
Embers was still there.
Portland’s heralded gay strip – which Embers was never on – Stark Street, graphically nicknamed Vaseline Alley, had been broken up. Now, instead of a street filled with gay bars and then Embers, way over there; Portland now had gay bars all over the inner part of the west side of town and Embers was sitting dead in the middle of them.
Literally, dead, as it came to pass.
Living now right across the Park Blocks from the bar, I’d go in there…and it just wasn’t the same.
Some familiar bartenders and staff.
The owner sitting at the end of the bar, being asocial.
Some drag queens.
But the crowd was hard to find.
An occasional crowd at a performance, but now the drag community – at least in these four walls – had become so insular as to be nearly exclusive. It’s probably my own fault, rebuffing Raven’s advances and dissing that other boy in a dress so many years ago…this was my karma.
Latin night on Sundays. That had a crowd! But the bar wasn’t so much a celebration of the Latin pop culture of Selena and Shakira as it was a horrifying celebration of a mariachis meets quincinera Latin culture. Again, it felt strangely exclusive to my old white ass.
Which is too bad, because Latin men…<swoon>. Looking at you, Wallpaper.
Pride was still an amazing experience here. Sadly, that raucous party was just a single day in the year.
I stopped trying to catch the nostalgic night scenes from my 20s and 30s and would settle for stopping by for a happy hour drink.
I began walking on the far side of Broadway from the bar after running into a day-drunk friend stumbling out of Embers for the third time in the first six months after moving back to the hood. Aaah, the glamor of a gay bar that opens at 11 am.
Also, running into bored daytime bartenders smoking on the street put me at too great a risk of becoming that stumbling day drunk person during my idle days.
But now that risk is gone, for better or for worse.
The neighborhood gossip mill has started in with the “here comes more ugly condos” trope, but it could be worse…the building’s decades long decay could just accelerate.
Surprisingly, the rumor mill hasn’t resurrected – as far as I know – the rumor that Silverado, one of the Vaseline Alley era bars, was moving from its exile in SW to take over the space, closer to the other gay bars. Since it and Casey’s were the only gay bars in SW – technically, Vaseline Alley was in SW, but only by one block – now that rumor would make total sense. This would leave Scandals as both the only gay bar of any significance in SW and the only gay bar left in the original gaybourhood…tightening the gay scene in Portland, once again.
That wouldn’t be so bad, in my opinion.
Alas, the news is reporting that the building’s owner is looking to sustain the space as part of the LGBTQI community, seeking investors from around the nation to invest some capital in the space and open a fresh gay club.
And that’s an outcome I can appreciate.
RIP Embers. And thanks for the mEmberies.