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I became aware that the Queen of England was living in Southeast Portland the night I saw her do a Wednesday open-mic set at Funhouse Lounge. They announced her as "Lizzi Windsor," and I thought to myself, "Hmm, why does that name sound familiar?"
I remember being of the opinion that she was funnier than you'd expect the Queen of England to be. Some of her material was very relatable, though most of it was not. Then again, you could say the same for any performer onstage that night. She finished with a guitar routine that reminded me of Dana Carvey.
Later that night, I sidled next to her at the bar. "Pardon me, but I'd like to buy you a Rainier."
I asked her how long she had been in Portland. "Not for very long," she replied, "though it already feels like home." In many ways, she was the consummate Portlander before she moved here. She was used to long, wet winters. She enjoyed rose gardening. She had a headstrong streak, and was quick to fire off an unprovoked opinion.
Her arrival in Portland was preceded by an exhausting few years as a royal, with Charles and Camilla (she had some choice words for her) appearing every day in the supermarket tabloids. Southeast Portland was her refuge from that notoriety. It was somewhere for her to never be noticed—as was, she quipped, doing standup comedy at open-mic nights.
After five beers, I made the mistake of commenting on her son's marital situation. It was like poking a bear in a cage. Immediately, the Queen bore her frighteningly sharp bicuspids at me. "What do you mean by that?," she responded. "You honestly have no idea. Do you make it a habit of going around espousing your opinions about that which you do not know?"
I stammered something about charity.
"I do good things, too, but the cameras never see it," she said. "Those damn cameras. They always seemed to be capturing Diana handing out blankets to poor, skinny children. And me? If you believe the cameras, I'm always stepping out of a Rolls-Royce or scowling at my subjects."
This double standard seemed to make her livid, and she grew redder in the face, and finally reared back and smashed her ruby-encrusted scepter into the bar, exhibiting extraordinary strength, splintering it in half.
I didn't get a chance to ask for her number so we might hang out again. She was 86'd from Funhouse Lounge—the first time I had ever seen anyone kicked out of that particular establishment.
I did see her a few times after that riding around Montavilla on a recumbent bike with a safety flag emblazoned with St. George's Cross. I ran into her another time at Dean's Scene. She was smoking a Philly blunt and didn't seem to remember me. I asked her how she had been, and she said great, she was starting a new job on Monday as a part-time cashier at Mr. Plywood.
Dr. Mitchell Millar is president of the Olde Portland Preservation Society and a consummate collector of any gossip relating to rich and famous people making appearances in the city.
Willamette Week