There is no better people-watching spot than Burnside and SW 3rd Avenue. It's a crossroads of hipsters, bums, rockers, meat market shoppers, junkies, prostitutes and pimps. The Paris Theater is right there, with all its precious goth and metal kids. Transients bunk upstairs. I saw one of them eat it after one last glorious speedball. It's potent, pungent shit. It's a moveable feast. And a purrrfect place to get a bootshine.

Thank God for the incredibly handsome Mr. David, who recognized this straight away and opened a bootshine stand right outside of Voodoo Doughnut. David must've noticed all the not-so shiny shiny boots of leather walking into Dante's, Berbati's and the Paris night after night and saw that there was a clear and present need for his services.

It was only a matter of time before we crossed paths. On this particular night I was running late for a date, but when I saw David I stopped in my tracks. I desperately needed a bootshine. David seemed to really appreciate my fishnets and insanely short skirt. I asked him how late he'd be shining.

"Until you come back! I don't care if it's 3AM--I'll be here!"

I giggled and stammered something unintelligible, and he responded with the best piece of advice I've ever received.

"Just go do whatchya wanna do, and keep doin' it 'til you're satisfied!"

Yes, sir!

A couple hours later I was happily ensconced in his blue patent leather throne, queen of the burnouts, holding court with Old Town's beatific freaks while David sprayed, brushed, lotioned, rubbed and buffed my favoritest Florentine boots until they reflected the moonlight like an oil slick. All sorts of Portland's grooviest Cool People paraded by, including Harvey Hardcock and his girlfriend Rosanna Arquette and later ELVIS! Voodoo Doughnut (the birthplace of the PMS doughnut, the Nyquil doughnut and the always popular Cereal doughnut) brought me a specially made cock-and-balls doughnut, the cock of which I happily devoured, saving the balls for Severina. [Sadly these pictures were too pornographic to run.]

By the time David finished what he assured me was a labor of love, a small crowd had assembled, including an especially florid bum who had recently wet himself. I was so thrilled with my boots that I planted one on David, who one-upped me by full-on frenching me within an inch of my life. Now that's service! Meanwhile the bum informed Mr. Pink, the photographer, that he was going to go home and jerk off, then asked, "Can I cum on you?"

SW 3rd and Burnside, man. No place like it in the world.