This is what Portland is: the ironic picture of James Dean or some other 50s icon smiling down on a small, cramped turn of the century kitchen while we talk of bicycles and knitting. I am showing my zine to my friends, while another tab of firefox plays the theme from hackers on repeat. Glowing Fish says that Hackers is the worst movie ever, something I debate based on the fact that I saw part of it on TBS when I was 17. My other friend is moving into this apartment, and all of us feel in transition, dealing with the changing of decades and also wondering how and when the refrigerator can be fixed. This apartment's name of "The Victorian" is not a random name, it was given to reflect its age and modernity when it was built. The conversation shifts back, to how the apartments are switching around, something that came into being because someone passed away, someone who had lived in this apartment since having any refrigators at all meant the same thing as a Linux loaded laptop means today. And then the conversation shifts again, to moving to florida, we seal it with a hand shake. The sake flows, talking about gym memberships and what else there is to do in Portland. Portland feels immortal.

And even though we can't laugh through the night forever, and in a few days we will be doing the same banal shit as always, waiting in line, and forget all that we are feeling now, but right now we can imagine that the night will go on forever.