One advantage to living by the train tracks is the ongoing flow of entertainment afforded by our beautiful location.
When I first moved to Portland I found a place over in NE, just off of Sandy. Back in that time (and I swear to God if I hear one more person say "back in the day" I will be forced to rip off their arm and beat them over the head with it), Sandy was where a gentleman would go to find a companian for an hour or so. Prostitute central. Even Vera decided that maybe there were a few too many hookers, and declared that they were no longer wanted in the area. This was back when E.J.'s was still around, and Chin Yen's, Holmans, and the Hungry Tiger were the only real restaurants on 28th.
My entertainment at the apartment complex was walking up to the cars parked out front, where the girls were servicing their clients. I would walk up with a clipboard, and bang on the window with a bike light, shining it inside the car. With the light in their eyes they couldn't tell if I was a cop or what. It was fun seeing the girl's heads pop up and the guy try to zip himself back up. I would then give them my speech about getting the hell out of my fupping neighborhood before I started sending their license numbers to the cops patrolling the area. It was a pretty common occurence, and it wasn't unusual to find used condoms, and syringes strewn all over the street. Awesome when you have a five-year-old living with you in the apartment.
So now that I am in a way classier part of town, the new entertainment can range from: watching a guy hopped up on a speedball, walking on the train tracks and alternating between screaming obscentities and making chicken noises, taking bets to see if the cops would show up to take him away before an Amtrak turned him into mush on the tracks; to the people who showed up for 06/06/06 day to give their thanks to Satan.
It was about ten at night during a weekday, so silly person that I am I thought I'd get ready to go to bed, having to work the next day and all.
I hear fireworks going off, nothing unusal. Only it starts getting louder. I throw on my shoes and a coat and go outside to check out what's going on. There are people on bikes, some in costume, starting to congregate around the walkway by the bridge. I recognize some of the frankenbikes from the Chunk 666 group.
After a good size crowd gathers, someone sets up a cooler, pulls out a boombox blasting appropriate satan-worshipping music, and the major roman candle, pabst-drinking festivities begin. I would guess at this point there are about 30-40 people hanging out. Some people are running for winner of the Darwin awards by climbing up onto the fencing covering the bridge about 20 feet up, and dancing. Most the people were just sort of hanging out and seeing if anyone recognized how cool they were.
At this point I realize that they aren't going anywhere soon. I can either call the cops (boring), or go grab my camera and tripod and take some pictures. It seems like people assume no one lives in the area, even though there are houses all over the damn place. I have become the cranky person who goes out at midnight during the week, and yells at the assholes to stop smashing the beer bottles and get the hell out of our neighborhood before I kick their asses. I'm usually doing this in a bathrobe with my floppy slippers on, waving a broken wine bottle over my head. So far it's just been kids who get embarrassed and skulk away. Luckily I have neighbors for reinforcements.
So I grab my camera, steal a beer, and hang out taking pictures. The sparks against the corrugated metal were amazing. Unfortunately nobody fell to their death off the fencing.
Eventually things wind down, meaning they ran out of beer, and they pack up their stuff and leave. It probably was partially due to the cops coming around the corner. It turned out that someone got tired of the whole thing and called the cops. Apparently it's not okay to stand around drinking beer in a public place and lighting off illegal roman candles, even if you are by the train tracks.
I'm looking forward to the next impromptu celebration of his holy horniness.