it's true, that things have been getting pretty gay around around here, but that's how things have been getting around portland, and we've just followed suit.
to mark the beginning of summer, which finally got around to making an appearance on july 29, we took a river trip, and being careful to stay on trend (after thursday night's enrampagement we acknowledged that it would be good for us to mingle), we decided to try our luck at rooster rock state park on the columbia, the east end of which is synonymous with summertime portland faggotry.
the beaches at the east end of the park are about a half mile from the clothing optional signs at the east edge of the parking lot at the entrance to the park (where we warned the woman who stopped us that we might tell the state that she was charging people to get in). none of us having been to the park before, we'd no visual cues for when to turn off the east-west trail from the parking lot and go north toward the river and ended up slogging through the mud that the clothing optional men we met along the trail told us we could avoid if we went one or another way.
luckily, we found a dry patch of sand in the sun by the edge of the river without having to search for too long. the late middle aged clothing optional man sitting in a lawn chair on a rise just above where we laid down our blankets told us that there's usually more beach. the wide and rolling dunes at the aptly named sand island -- which is separated from the oregon side of the river by about a quarter mile of water -- were in full sun, but they seemed only accessible by boat when we decided to settle on our spot.
our group was mixed and included some first encounters, so we didn't get completely clo-op ourselves (use it: on trend), but there was a regular stream of unclothed guys (we wouldn't see a naked woman until we were leaving) walking near the water, cruising for a spot of their own.
oh, hey, tranny -- but for realsies. her name is alex, and we were introduced to her at least once before by sebastian, who has since the inception of our friendship come to himself by that same way. one of our group mentioned after alex's had passed that alex had been a part of the organizing force behind the big gay warehouse in san francisco. but apparently no longer -- and no surprise: a hundred make out rooms wouldn't have gotten us on that shuttle to south san francisco for the warehouse pride party with no guarantee of safe or easy passage back to the city.
get to the point already! is what we were all thinking when it was proposed that maybe i could make it to sand island if i weren't swimming alone. and, sure enough what had escaped me the other three times i'd gotten into the water came to easy yet wholly unexpected (but definitely hoped for) fruition with a companion. the view of the gorge from the other side of the island was worth the adventure, and the water in the shallow pools just off the beach was much warmer than at where we'd laid our blankets.
my girlfriend knew the score when i swam back to where she was waiting with the group. the return was significantly more difficult than the swim out, and not just for the energy we'd expended since setting out, but for having to swim against the current as we recrossed the eddies in the center of the water between the blankets and the island, the renaming of which we were notified immediately after our return. damn it, oregon. why can't i quit you.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
ALL ABOUT THE BENJAMINS
portland may have forgotten the memorial day of st. christopher (feast of, really...bastards!), but the rose city is definitely showing the bens of the city some love tonight. and duly so, because a certain five of them make us some of the better beer that allays our distress over the gloom year in and year out (and in particular this year, the year that summer never came). we're an hour away from the conclusion of the first annual benfest, july 25, 2011, held at the new(ish) grain & gristle on ne 15th ave and prescott.
the lineup (in no order of obvious importance):
the ben-alt-imate, a german style alt bier from ben engler of occidental brewing...done by eight when the christophers got here.
the friends with benefits, a three year aged russian imperial stout with black benberries from ben dobler of widmer brothers brewing.
the peach hefeweissben, an unfiltered wheat beer with peaches from ben edmunds of breakside brewing.
ben & jerry's ice cold cream ale, a collaboration between ben flerchinger of lucky labrador brewing and jerry fechter, the owner of lompoc brewing.
the bourben de ieso spades, a bourbon barrel aged version of hopworks urban brewery's ace of spades by ben love.
...and a bonus ben beer from outside of portland (although arguably from the pacific northwest), the midnight benshine, a black imperial steam beer aged in oak with brettanomyces from ben johnson of midnight sun brewing and ben millstein of kodiak island brewing in alaska.
maybe going for pints wasn't such a good idea. i've only had a chance to try numbers five and six, and the abvs of both are working along with my empty stomach to convince me not to have a third. coming directly from a ride might not have been the best idea, but now i know to stop by the occidental tap room then next time i'm taking the longer way home through st. johns.
far be it from me to comment on any of the beers on offer with such distinguished palates breathing over my shoulder, especially when more than one of them is going to be blogging about this tomorrow. i just wanted to start early enough to stake claim on my title. and anyway, i don't need to have an opinion on the beer. someone mistook me for jeff alworth.
the lineup (in no order of obvious importance):
the ben-alt-imate, a german style alt bier from ben engler of occidental brewing...done by eight when the christophers got here.
the friends with benefits, a three year aged russian imperial stout with black benberries from ben dobler of widmer brothers brewing.
the peach hefeweissben, an unfiltered wheat beer with peaches from ben edmunds of breakside brewing.
ben & jerry's ice cold cream ale, a collaboration between ben flerchinger of lucky labrador brewing and jerry fechter, the owner of lompoc brewing.
the bourben de ieso spades, a bourbon barrel aged version of hopworks urban brewery's ace of spades by ben love.
...and a bonus ben beer from outside of portland (although arguably from the pacific northwest), the midnight benshine, a black imperial steam beer aged in oak with brettanomyces from ben johnson of midnight sun brewing and ben millstein of kodiak island brewing in alaska.
maybe going for pints wasn't such a good idea. i've only had a chance to try numbers five and six, and the abvs of both are working along with my empty stomach to convince me not to have a third. coming directly from a ride might not have been the best idea, but now i know to stop by the occidental tap room then next time i'm taking the longer way home through st. johns.
far be it from me to comment on any of the beers on offer with such distinguished palates breathing over my shoulder, especially when more than one of them is going to be blogging about this tomorrow. i just wanted to start early enough to stake claim on my title. and anyway, i don't need to have an opinion on the beer. someone mistook me for jeff alworth.
HOW TO GRACEFULLY COUNTENANCE AN OBVIOUS SNUB, AGAIN
from the "catholic encyclopedia":
(the historical martyr seems to have volunteered himself to the wrath of emperor diocletian after the man who is now honored as st. george proclaimed himself a christian and was tortured and killed by the same.)
the church did remove the feast of st. christopher from the calendar of saints in 1969, so it's understandable that the socially discriminating would want to avoid committing any possible faux pas by not too ostentatiously celebrating, but july 25 does remain the memorial day of st. christopher, so tributes and gifts of service, however belated, will still be accepted discreetly by us in the saint's memory and on behalf of those individuals who were given his name in recognition of this their gosh darn name day.
cash will gratefully be accepted in place of gold should the acquisition of the latter pose any significant obstacle to the presentation of the gift or its bearer. i'm sure that my dead godmother would have wanted it that way.
The legend says: A heathen king (in Canaan or Arabia), through the prayers of his wife to the Blessed Virgin, had a son, whom he called Offerus (Offro, Adokimus, or Reprebus) and dedicated to the gods Machmet and Apollo. Acquiring in time extraordinary size and strength, Offerus resolved to serve only the strongest and the bravest. He bound himself successively to a mighty king and to Satan, but he found both lacking in courage, the former dreading even the name of the devil, and the latter frightened by the sight of a cross at the roadside.
For a time his search for a new master was in vain, but at last he found a hermit (Babylas?) who told him to offer his allegiance to Christ, instructed him in the Faith, and baptized him. Christopher, as he was now called, would not promise to do any fasting or praying, but willingly accepted the task of carrying people, for God's sake, across a raging stream. One day he was carrying a child who continually grew heavier, so that it seemed to him as if he had the whole world on his shoulders. The child, on inquiry, made himself known as the Creator and Redeemer of the world. To prove his statement the child ordered Christopher to fix his staff in the ground. The next morning it had grown into a palm-tree bearing fruit. The miracle converted many. This excited the rage of the king (prefect) of that region (Dagnus of Samos in Lycia?). Christopher was put into prison and, after many cruel torments, beheaded.
The Greek legend may belong to the sixth century; about the middle of the ninth, we find it spread through France. Originally, St. Christopher was only a martyr, and as such is recorded in the old martyrologies. The simple form of the Greek and Latin passio soon gave way to more elaborate legends. We have the Latin edition in prose and verse of 983 by the subdeacon Walter of Speyer, "Thesaurus anecdotorum novissimus" (Augsburg, 1721-23), II, 27-142, and Harster, "Walter von Speyer" (1878). An edition of the eleventh century is found in the Acta SS., and another in the "Golden Legend" of Jacob de Voragine. The idea conveyed in the name, at first understood in the spiritual sense of bearing Christ in the heart, was in the twelfth or thirteenth century taken in the realistic meaning and became the characteristic of the saint. The fact that he was frequently called a great martyr may have given rise to the story of his enormous size. The stream and the weight of the child may have been intended to denote the trials and struggles of a soul taking upon itself the yoke of Christ in this world.
(the historical martyr seems to have volunteered himself to the wrath of emperor diocletian after the man who is now honored as st. george proclaimed himself a christian and was tortured and killed by the same.)
the church did remove the feast of st. christopher from the calendar of saints in 1969, so it's understandable that the socially discriminating would want to avoid committing any possible faux pas by not too ostentatiously celebrating, but july 25 does remain the memorial day of st. christopher, so tributes and gifts of service, however belated, will still be accepted discreetly by us in the saint's memory and on behalf of those individuals who were given his name in recognition of this their gosh darn name day.
cash will gratefully be accepted in place of gold should the acquisition of the latter pose any significant obstacle to the presentation of the gift or its bearer. i'm sure that my dead godmother would have wanted it that way.
Friday, July 22, 2011
CRASHING THE TOUR
late evening coffee ain't no friend of easy sleep or early rising. and so i didn't make it to oblique coffee roasters or to st. honoré for a morning cup and to watch the climb up the "iconic mountain" between modane valfréjus and alpe-d’huez. i did, though, manage to drag myself to the computer in time to catch the rear of the group rolling through the finish of the stage on a live stream. "an amazing bit of sporting spectacle." tour commentary is almost more stirring than the race itself. here comes the stage recap montage set to "ain't no mountain high enough"! word is they're considering having a national holiday down under should cadell evans end up taking an overall first, but the yellow and green jerseys are both still in doubt. can voeckler do it for the french? talk to the guys talking on british eurosport. maybe it's just the accents, but they could probably get me excited about anything. tour! tour! tour! whoa: there's a game app? i wonder if it includes the frenzied spectators waving hands and flags and running up around the riders. the guys on british eurosport are surprised they don't cause more riders to go down. maybe if i actually watch one of the last two stages i can see a crash.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
HOW TO GET STARTED WITH ADOBE INDESIGN CS5
you pay adobe some hundreds of dollars. you see, adobe doesn't care that you only have a week left in your online class.
so it happens that, despite your pretensions to responsibility, you turn to the neglected distraction of the pile of books on the file cabinet. confessions of the letter closet has arrived to the apartment in all of its 290 pages and sits atop the pile. (for its recent arrival, reading it won't actually rectify the neglect of the rest, but what helps is helpful.) ironically, you've recently sold your copy of the first volume of foucault's history of sexuality -- the one you bought because it was cheap and forgotten at the seattle public library book sale -- a reading of which would have been indispensable in taking the most from the introduction of the book you're now trying to engage. the book you bought with the store credit you got for the other one was vaguely epistolary, but it had nothing to do with queer desire, so having read it doesn't really inform your understanding of the letter closet. had you not read it, however, you wouldn't have come across that interview with the woman who translated it in which she talks about translation as a layering of subjectivities and the intrinsic nature of the translating act to render contexts relative. you think, at least, that foucault would have liked that.
for all of this thinking, you think that some program somewhere would probably put you on track for an accelerated graduate degree. you and the basis of cultural criticism are already so tight. that's what he said, anyway. earlier. really. and you probably should have asked him to stay, but you thought it would be funnier to have something to write about expounding, loudly, as he left, on the uncertain space between encouragement and patronization. and a discursive conversation is only fun to talk about, not actually to talk. so you hugged and laughed about being over that dead end self-awareness, especially since criticizing it recently got you punched in the mouth.
so much coffee so late in the evening turns out not to have been any boon for productivity, although you might not have drank so fast had your internet connection not been suspiciously in favor of adobe's resistance to your signing up for another indesign trial. you know you're not going to cough up those some hundreds of dollars, but you know that you're thinking about it.
do not TELL me that the connection restarted again. not helpful. really. don't start with me, bitch.
so it happens that, despite your pretensions to responsibility, you turn to the neglected distraction of the pile of books on the file cabinet. confessions of the letter closet has arrived to the apartment in all of its 290 pages and sits atop the pile. (for its recent arrival, reading it won't actually rectify the neglect of the rest, but what helps is helpful.) ironically, you've recently sold your copy of the first volume of foucault's history of sexuality -- the one you bought because it was cheap and forgotten at the seattle public library book sale -- a reading of which would have been indispensable in taking the most from the introduction of the book you're now trying to engage. the book you bought with the store credit you got for the other one was vaguely epistolary, but it had nothing to do with queer desire, so having read it doesn't really inform your understanding of the letter closet. had you not read it, however, you wouldn't have come across that interview with the woman who translated it in which she talks about translation as a layering of subjectivities and the intrinsic nature of the translating act to render contexts relative. you think, at least, that foucault would have liked that.
for all of this thinking, you think that some program somewhere would probably put you on track for an accelerated graduate degree. you and the basis of cultural criticism are already so tight. that's what he said, anyway. earlier. really. and you probably should have asked him to stay, but you thought it would be funnier to have something to write about expounding, loudly, as he left, on the uncertain space between encouragement and patronization. and a discursive conversation is only fun to talk about, not actually to talk. so you hugged and laughed about being over that dead end self-awareness, especially since criticizing it recently got you punched in the mouth.
so much coffee so late in the evening turns out not to have been any boon for productivity, although you might not have drank so fast had your internet connection not been suspiciously in favor of adobe's resistance to your signing up for another indesign trial. you know you're not going to cough up those some hundreds of dollars, but you know that you're thinking about it.
do not TELL me that the connection restarted again. not helpful. really. don't start with me, bitch.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
(SUMMARY) ACTIVIST JUDGMENT
the fags are all up in portland, like they followed us back from san francisco or something. (and we use that once derogatory term only to indicate that the same-sex loving going on between the new arrivals/permanent visitors is generally presenting male). and it's not just a new generation, unless you consider that maybe "our" efforts to promote and attend wild polyamorous dance nights have made it easier for older, once cloistered gay men to walk down the street hand in hand.
at the final race of the mt. tabor road series on wednesday evening, seeing the fag himself (although he's a fag in name only and that name can no longer be mentioned here) made us wonder which of the shiny legged and spandexed warriors ripping around the mountain might have tastes for other than their cheering girlfriends. sadly, that wondering came to a negative result (excepting, of course, the constant summary conclusion that all of them must -- frame of reference and all that). bicycle racers are always the last to know, and in this case, they probably just haven't taken the time to get down from their bicycles to see how they might like finally walking the walk (hand in hand).
not that seeing fags downtown is ever any surprise, but they do tend to be of a certain ilk (the eponymous "downtown gays," who have, in fact, been showing up more and more often outside of their reserve lands near the west side waterfront). and it was a surprise to realize that three of the four sitting at the big table at central (shh! it's a secret!) on thursday evening weren't there for the photo shoot the rest of the patrons probably assumed, but had simply arrived for cocktails and crepes in, not matching, but exactly coordinated purple gradient plaids. not that any one of those shirts would have been unattractive (or off trend) on any one of the individual men, but the gathering of them all together was enough to convince us to take our fingers off of that weakening pulse. at least the odd man out was the one we knew.
friday presented similar frustrations but from the opposite end of the spectrum, although that's just portland: sure he's sitting close with that girl, but that's not beyond the bounds of friendship, and no, no one cares who you saw staring at what, unless you're accusing him, because we thought so, too -- and besides, you understand full well the assumptions that come along with living too long in this city. downtown excepted, the obvious ones must have been observing the sabbath.
the odd man out at central was in impressive form (and character) at the booty reunion at branx on saturday, where the odder were the expected and most welcome, and which we felt obliged to attend to congratulate puppet, who was in part responsible for the creation of booty back in the days before porky's became the eagle and who had actually followed us back from san francisco (if only for a weekend). our visit to bunk bar earlier that night isn't even worth mentioning. the gay not-gays and the general confusion caused by their proliferation in portland was friday's topic, anyway, which on friday had taken an entire tray of e.l. fudge cookies to put out of mind.
it was just as well that we were trapped in a classroom all day sunday as it was pouring rain from morning until afternoon. so maybe it was for the best that someone caught the cop punching on video (although you can't detect the pcp on screen). the topic of personal video histories by anonymous documentarians (and the regrettably recent origin of the technology responsible for their current ubiquity) came up afterwards at dinner, as well as did the persistence of traditional publishing and the physical book market. who would want to read something like confessions of the letter closet: epistolary fiction and queer desire in modern spain (gays in spain!) as an ebook? right. no one. that's why it's coming to the apartment in 290 actual pages delivered by actual courier -- from somewhere in california. you see, it's not just with the fags, although it's just basic kindness to show the newcomers some portland hospitality, and our commitment to that responsibility has been unexpectedly consuming. moniquipher has been busy. as far as this summer's reading list goes, we've already strayed dreadfully far afield of goodbye, columbus. we just hope you'll understand when we don't have much time to share.
at the final race of the mt. tabor road series on wednesday evening, seeing the fag himself (although he's a fag in name only and that name can no longer be mentioned here) made us wonder which of the shiny legged and spandexed warriors ripping around the mountain might have tastes for other than their cheering girlfriends. sadly, that wondering came to a negative result (excepting, of course, the constant summary conclusion that all of them must -- frame of reference and all that). bicycle racers are always the last to know, and in this case, they probably just haven't taken the time to get down from their bicycles to see how they might like finally walking the walk (hand in hand).
not that seeing fags downtown is ever any surprise, but they do tend to be of a certain ilk (the eponymous "downtown gays," who have, in fact, been showing up more and more often outside of their reserve lands near the west side waterfront). and it was a surprise to realize that three of the four sitting at the big table at central (shh! it's a secret!) on thursday evening weren't there for the photo shoot the rest of the patrons probably assumed, but had simply arrived for cocktails and crepes in, not matching, but exactly coordinated purple gradient plaids. not that any one of those shirts would have been unattractive (or off trend) on any one of the individual men, but the gathering of them all together was enough to convince us to take our fingers off of that weakening pulse. at least the odd man out was the one we knew.
friday presented similar frustrations but from the opposite end of the spectrum, although that's just portland: sure he's sitting close with that girl, but that's not beyond the bounds of friendship, and no, no one cares who you saw staring at what, unless you're accusing him, because we thought so, too -- and besides, you understand full well the assumptions that come along with living too long in this city. downtown excepted, the obvious ones must have been observing the sabbath.
the odd man out at central was in impressive form (and character) at the booty reunion at branx on saturday, where the odder were the expected and most welcome, and which we felt obliged to attend to congratulate puppet, who was in part responsible for the creation of booty back in the days before porky's became the eagle and who had actually followed us back from san francisco (if only for a weekend). our visit to bunk bar earlier that night isn't even worth mentioning. the gay not-gays and the general confusion caused by their proliferation in portland was friday's topic, anyway, which on friday had taken an entire tray of e.l. fudge cookies to put out of mind.
it was just as well that we were trapped in a classroom all day sunday as it was pouring rain from morning until afternoon. so maybe it was for the best that someone caught the cop punching on video (although you can't detect the pcp on screen). the topic of personal video histories by anonymous documentarians (and the regrettably recent origin of the technology responsible for their current ubiquity) came up afterwards at dinner, as well as did the persistence of traditional publishing and the physical book market. who would want to read something like confessions of the letter closet: epistolary fiction and queer desire in modern spain (gays in spain!) as an ebook? right. no one. that's why it's coming to the apartment in 290 actual pages delivered by actual courier -- from somewhere in california. you see, it's not just with the fags, although it's just basic kindness to show the newcomers some portland hospitality, and our commitment to that responsibility has been unexpectedly consuming. moniquipher has been busy. as far as this summer's reading list goes, we've already strayed dreadfully far afield of goodbye, columbus. we just hope you'll understand when we don't have much time to share.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
GOODBYE PDX, THE VANISHING
we gave away the chicken paw we brought home from wong's king seafood restaurant on sunday too early to find out if it might actually grant us our wish of wishes of this week and keep the teenager with us. her mother wants her back?!? what a system. and what about the stress of uprooting her again? especially now that she's finally adapted to the rhythm of the life and style of moniquipher. how can she possibly cope with arizona again knowing that everyone on the avenue is waiting to see her on her next walk?
cathedral park was deserted on tuesday evening except for some dog walkers and a couple of men fishing off the jetty at the river. the mood on the free box blanket on the lawn under the st. johns bridge was melancholic, a jaded nostalgia for the view of the north end of forest park across the river and a sad warmth -- despite the chill -- that seemed intentionally cultivated to shield the picnic from the looming sadness of the coming morning. then there were the meth fags (conjured, perhaps, by some serious wondering over which van sant film had included a scene in the park), and that's a piece of sentimental education that our fourteen year old would never have taken in had she not come to portland. who cares now what she's done for our image, but who could question what she's done for portland's collective heart?
before one last portland ice cream, we made sure to mess up the sidewalk on mississippi with one last family walk. if she's leaving anyway, she might as well make a scene. and notoriety is what gets you covers. at least that's what our agent said when he asked us for the video to leak to vanity fair. hugs. get what you want. and don't worry. just let those tears come.
cathedral park was deserted on tuesday evening except for some dog walkers and a couple of men fishing off the jetty at the river. the mood on the free box blanket on the lawn under the st. johns bridge was melancholic, a jaded nostalgia for the view of the north end of forest park across the river and a sad warmth -- despite the chill -- that seemed intentionally cultivated to shield the picnic from the looming sadness of the coming morning. then there were the meth fags (conjured, perhaps, by some serious wondering over which van sant film had included a scene in the park), and that's a piece of sentimental education that our fourteen year old would never have taken in had she not come to portland. who cares now what she's done for our image, but who could question what she's done for portland's collective heart?
before one last portland ice cream, we made sure to mess up the sidewalk on mississippi with one last family walk. if she's leaving anyway, she might as well make a scene. and notoriety is what gets you covers. at least that's what our agent said when he asked us for the video to leak to vanity fair. hugs. get what you want. and don't worry. just let those tears come.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)