THE ACTUAL UNEXPECTED THING

that sparkling wine was delightful after it thawed. the carbonation had gone, and some of the water must have been lost in the melt, because what was left was not just flat, but heavy, syrupy and intensely aromatic. the wine, a cheap one, has a strong grape flavor to begin with, so the reduction produced something like brandy or tokaj; but it's also spanish, so it's more likely that the grapes were some much less fancy muscat variety from malaga or jerez, which complimented "volver" just fine, and second nightcapped the earlier flamenco event perfectly. the total effect was equally exhilarating and soporific, a periodic motion between charles ryder's drinking to enhance and sebastian flyte's drinking to escape -- all out of a stolen champagne coupe.

the bottle was, though, opened for an entirely different (though no less pretentious) purpose. yesterday was the day of the annual cirque du cycling criterium. wikipedia has a fine definition of a crit(erium), but laura miller's abstemiousness still has a small measure of sway over editorial decisions at 'looking good in pants,' so a description here is also desirable. a crit: several dozen bicycles (and their elite riders) going dangerously fast over a short closed loop through tight city corners. one hour. the crashes are colossal. the whir of the peloton gliding at 40 mph through its turns is a fitting soundtrack for an event that spectators seem to watch with frightened apprehension, but when that apprehension sees its fears realized, there's nothing like the sound of tens of thousands of dollars of carbon fiber splintering amid gasps and dissociated shouts of "we've already called 911."

yesterday was also portland's first day of summer. and there's something very special about summer in the northwest. northwest denizens necessarily accustom themselves to the rain, then eventually insulate themselves further with a layer of mysticism that they, again by necessity, ascribe to the soggy green drear. and to the gray. and to halfassed temperatures that only dictate wardrobes and the direction of the thermostat because of the changing of the month. then summer comes. the sun finally breaks through the clouds and holds its ground, and every year the memory of the previous one has been so obscured by clouds that it's absolutely baffling that something like warm sunshine could even be possible. the cirque crit is held every year on mississippi avenue, which is only a block and a half from the new apartment. so the editorial staff of 'looking good in pants' donned our shorts, leggings, sun dresses and sleeveless shirts, took a bottle from the fridge, dangled glasses from between our fingers and went out into the still too good to be true light of the strange daytime star to strut the avenue (thanks chickens).

the race itself is worth planning an afternoon, but this year's heat also introduced the enticing possibility that spectators would be treated to the gentle lovers quickly peeling off their kits post race. no such luck, unfortunately, but in retrospect, it might have been worse even than this year's one crash had sam nicoletti, who took second (and whose headless pictures were featured at this blog here), bared his chest after inciting bacchanalia by just his profile in that skinsuit. and mark blackwelder, future 'looking good in pants' trophy husband who led the race in the first third, hmm. suffice it to say that the face and the legs, well, apparently make it impossible to write with a laptop actually on the lap. he might even have been staring in this direction.

then, despite that eventual silver lined disappointment, on borthwick at the backstretch of the course, a cavalcade of hellos. and chance but not surprising meetings (portland is the littlest big city in the world). annie from the bye and bye was watching from the retaining wall on the corner of failing street. that pretty cyclist that disappointed half the city by kissing a girl that one night in the parking lot was drinking beer behind shawn small of ruckus components, who talked about having just ridden sixty miles to justify not entering the category 3/4/5 race, his plans for one hundred miles tomorrow and then about finishing his first fully custom frame. the baby momma of that barista from the albina press waved from her second floor terrace.

only two glasses were filled from the bottle before the end of the race and the scurrying toward the promise of flesh at the podium, which is why the bottle was left to be accidentally frozen, luckily empty enough not to explode. it was really best as a prop anyway. a prop that was essential to a lot of silly but damn hott posturing, during the course of which it was by half chance reaffirmed that portland is sexy as all get out, the neighborhood is still full of possibility and that, as wantonly sentimental ("gay" in formal parlance) as it sounds, the community of once ugly ducklings is here still welcoming. oh, and where to find a barbeque to crash? check. bring it on, summer.