Proper 11, Saturday, Year 1

The image above was taken tonight with my iPhone as the brilliant mid-summer sunset light streamed through the blinds in the kitchen and struck this icon in this rather unique way...what comes to mind is the Phos hilaron, one of the most ancient hymns of the church, traditionally sung/recited at the beginning of vespers or evening prayer:

O gracious Light,
pure brightness of the everliving Father in heaven,
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!

Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light,
we sing your praises, O God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

You are worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O Giver of life,
and to be glorified through all the worlds.

Today was interesting. I am the chair of the board of directors of the Oregon chapter of the Episcopal Church's outreach ministry to GLBT people, and today we had a much needed, long overdue board retreat. It wasn't a full-on retreat in the best sense of the word, but we spent a good six hours sequestered away in the basement of a suburban parish working out together what we think our mission is going to be in the coming year and some concrete strategies for doing that. It was a very inspiring afternoon. It's a really incredible, interesting, diverse group of people that God has brought together for this special ministry in this time and place. O God, you manifest in your servants the signs of your presence, says the BCP in one of the collects for mission at evening prayer.

The lectionary for today was interesting, as well.

The Saul-David-Solomon saga is only read during the season after Pentecost in Year 1, so once every other year. Yesterday's lesson, the last chapter of 1 Samuel, told of the deaths of Saul and his sons. Today, with the beginning of 2 Samuel, David is given the tragic news, and tomorrow he will sing "The Song of the Bow," his epic lament, in which he proclaims that his love for Jonathan surpassed his love for women. I find that a hard verse for the fundies to explain away; try as they might to dismiss it as poetic hyperbole, don't you agree that it's a very strange choice of words, of all the possible ways he might find to describe his friendship with Jonathan? "I love you more than I love women...no homo!" just doesn't seem to be credible...

Sigh...there's more I could say, but it was a long day with full on mental investment, and I'm fried. So I'll just leave it there. : )

Thank God for CNN

Today's top story: "A man identified as an Iraqi journalist threw shoes at -- but missed -- President Bush during a news conference Sunday evening in Baghdad, where Bush was making a farewell visit. In Arab culture, throwing shoes at someone, or sitting so that the bottom of a shoe faces another person, is considered an insult."

Okay...unlike, where, exactly, where chucking footwear at someone is a compliment?

So, Portland is having this once-in-a-century kind of blizzard thing. The cats and I are curled up under the tree listening to the wind howl. There is nothing on TV. I am actually considering watching the SciFi original movie about the great white shark terrorizing the canals of Venice. I'll probably just watch until a gondola gets eaten and then go to bed.

I'll leave you with this parting thought:

I Thought I'd Seen Everything

You know, I feel like more than 13 years of living in Manhattan allows me to be pretty jaded about quite a lot of stuff.

Nonetheless, when I was strolling around downtown Portland this morning and witnessed a man with his pants down around his ankles humping a trashcan, I have to say I was surprised.

Day Trip to Cape Meares, Oregon

Join the Impact: Prop 8 Rally in Portland!

In which it is revealed that I suck at community organizing.

In the wake of the passage of California's Proposition 8, which took away the right of same-sex couples to marry in that state, a national day of protest was organized by a group called "Join the Impact," with simultaneous rallies in every state in the country.

I decided this would be a boffo opportunity for the recently resurrected Oregon chapter of Integrity. The local network coordinator could not attend (Ducks game!), but he gave me his email password and on Thursday I sent out an email blast to basically the entire Diocese inviting them to the protest.

I know it was short notice -- the whole event was planned over the internet in just a couple of days -- but I confess I'd hoped for slightly better Episcopal representation. Only one other member of Integrity showed up -- and he hadn't gotten the email, he was just there by coincidence. So it was me, him, his straight roommate, and one very nice, very supportive lady from my church. Oh well.

The rally consisted of a series of speakers. For the first 20 minutes, they had no amplification whatsoever. Then someone brought a bull-horn, but the speakers were in the center of the crowd, so if the bullhorn wasn't pointed right at you, you couldn't hear what was being said. Eventually we moved away from the main part of the crowd since we realized no one could see our banner, and took up a spot on the steps of the PSU library. I think people maybe thought we were crazy Christian counter-protesters.

Sam Adams, the openly gay mayor-elect of Portland, gave a barnstormer of a speech. At least, I'm guessing he did. We heard the crowd roar repeatedly with approval, but I didn't hear a single word. Next time some AMPLIFICATION might be in order, folks.

At least I got this cute new profile pic of me and some other guy's dog. How gay is this?

Bumpersticker of the Day

"If We Ignore the Environment, It Will Go Away."

Practical Uses for Pornography

Over the weekend I was in the town of Monmouth, Oregon to lead another LGBT faith outreach workshop centered around the documentary For the Bible Tells Me So. Just to put this in context, the giant billboard alongside Highway 99W just north of town proclaims in bold red letters, "POLK COUNTY IS PALIN COUNTRY." (In 2004, Polk went for Bush by 12 points.)

After the screening, we broke up into small groups for discussion. I talked about the challenges of trying to conceal my sexuality as a teenager from a born-again father. "That must have been very difficult for you," said a concerned, sympathetic older woman. Then I recalled one of my more brilliant strategies.

"Yeah. I used to hide pictures of naked women in my bedroom for my dad to find, to throw him off the trail."

Who's Got the Last Laugh Now?

Gail Collins' column from yesterday's New York Times brought back memories of my first-ever temp job as a telemarketer.

Picture it: Portland, Oregon, the fall of 1993. I was preparing to transfer to a school in New York City and took a semester off to live at home and work to save money for the move. I signed up with a temp agency.

When they called with the first assignment, they didn't really make clear that this was going to be a telemarketing job. I'm pretty sure they said I would be "handling the phones" at a comedy club downtown. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind -- anyone who knows me knows I hate telephones -- but I had to accept the first job.

I took an instant dislike to the manager of the club, the type of guy who obviously thinks of himself as a complete hot-shot. After telling me I didn't need to dress for work since the place wasn't open during the day, he showed me to a small, fluorescent-lit office where about four other people were sitting at folding tables with telephones and phonebooks.

"Here you go," he said, pointing to a chair and handing me a script.

"Hi, my name is _________________, and I'm calling from the Last Laugh Comedy Club in downtown Portland. Do you like to laugh? I thought so! The Last Laugh features today's hottest comics, including headliners from top-rated cable comedy shows. Can I interest you in a free pass for two to our club for this weekend?"

Ugh.

Now, this was before the days of fancy computer operations. I had an old-style touch-tone phone and a phonebook. We were under explicit instructions to ask for the person in the listing.

So, do you know who's home in the middle of the day? The unemployed, the elderly, sick people, and people who work the night shift. Very few of these folks are interested in free passes (with a two-drink minimum...) to a comedy club, and even fewer of them appreciate being awakened from their nap for the offer. I was hung up on. A lot. This exchange stayed in my memory:

Me: Hello, may I please speak with Mr. Edward Thomas?

[long, uncomfortable pause]

Fragile-sounding elderly voice on the other end: Who's calling, please?

Me: Hi there, my name is Andy, and I'm calling from the Last Laugh Comedy Club in downtown Portland. Is Mr. Thomas available?

Fragile voice: [after another awkward pause] Mr. Thomas has been dead for ten years, sir.

Me: [thinking silently, then why is he still in the white pages?!?!!?!] Oh. Ermm...well...I'm sorry to have bothered you...

That was one of the more successful conversations. The goal was to get them to give us their address so we could mail the flyer, which presumably they would present upon entry. The reason we were required to speak only with the person listed in the phonebook was because the management wanted to be sure we were sending the flyers to actual people; on my first day, the guy sitting next to me got reamed out by Mr. Hot Shot because a flyer came back marked "undeliverable." It was addressed to a guy named...Jim Shorts.

On my second day, Mr. Hot Shot told me I was "a natural" and that I had a really good "schpiel." This made me feel icky and it began to dawn on me that this was not actually a temp job, but professional limbo, where I supposed to linger indefinitely between hell and New York.

I called the temp agency back, explained that I was not comfortable in that environment, and asked if something else might be available. The receptionist who took my call was cheery and supportive and understanding and said, "No problem, Andy."

Except, she forgot to tell the person who assigned me. Which meant that no one told Mr. Hot Shot. So when I didn't show up the next day, he called the agency. The staffer called me and demanded to know why I hadn't gone to work; my explanation that I called yesterday and asked to be reassigned fell on deaf ears. "You embarrassed me in front of my client!" she shrieked, before hanging up on me.

I took a job at the mall, instead.

Opera Review: Salome in Hi-Def

First, a note to the Met website people: please post the complete cast list, not just the principal artists. Because this information is unavailable, I'll have to refer to some performers by character name only.

Today's live high-definition broadcast of Richard Strauss' Salome from the stage of the Metropolitan Opera reminded me again how valuable this project is. In addition to being a front-row seat to a world-class performance at semi-reasonable prices ($24 in the movie theater, versus $275 for orchestra prime in the house), viewers get a rare chance to see what's going on behind the scenes at the performance. Salome, being a single, salacious one-acter, had no intermission features, but we were treated to a brief introduction by dramatic soprano Deborah Voigt moonlighting as host. We were there for the moment when the afternoon's star, soprano Karita Mattila, opened the door of her dressing room, beamed into the camera and said, in faintly Finnish-tinted English, "Let's kick ass!" as the camera followed her to the stage.

And kick ass, she did.

There's a special place in my heart for Salome, not just because it's kinda twisted: it was the occasion of my European debut in November 2000, in the teeny role of the Cappadocian at the Zurich Opera under the baton of Valery Gergiev. Plus, where else can you get a Bible story featuring nude dancing as told by Oscar Wilde and set to music by my favorite composer? How can you go wrong?

The amazing thing about Salome is that it still seems shocking and modern 103 years after its premiere. It's two decades older than Turandot, but still comes off edgy and risqué. The audience for today's broadcast at Cedar Mill Crossing in Beaverton -- also generally two decades older than Turandot -- visibly and audibly shifted in their seats in discomfort at some of the purpler moments. They may have thought they were ready to see a woman sing to a severed head (though, the lady behind me too loudly commented that the head in question was unnecessarily realistic), but they were unprepared for the subtitles to reveal just what it is that she's singing: "You would not let me kiss your mouth, Jochanaan, but I will kiss it now! I will bite it with my teeth, as one bites a ripe fruit." Good stuff.

In the title role, Karita Mattila gave a glorious performance. Previously when I have heard her live, especially in the similar role of Chrysothemis in the same composer's Elektra, her top lacked focus and could occasionally be dry and husky. Today, however, the highest notes were spun like shining silver threads, even as the high-definition close-ups revealed the physical effort it takes to sing this role. Her middle voice was plummy and opulent and her frequent forays into the chest register were strong and expressive; she sailed through both the high, light lyrical moments and the powerful outbursts of passion and fury. She was fascinating to watch, engaged in every moment; she was petulant, manipulative, charming, seductive, outrageous and unhinged. The opera world should be forever grateful that this artist has been captured for posterity in her prime in this role.

Unfortunately, as the object of her desire, baritone Juha Uusitalo disappointed. His voice lacked the magisterial depth and warmth of the role's greatest exponents, which robbed Jochanaan of his prophetic authority. Even if Strauss envisioned his Baptist as a pompous, sexophobic fundamentalist blowhard, he still wrote beautiful, soaring music for him; I've always viewed Jochanaan as being in something of a permanent trance: wild, staring eyes and torrents of rich sound pouring out of a figure as solid and immovable as a boulder. Uusitalo's physical struggles with the role were a distraction.

Tenor Kim Begley was excellent as the sleazy, manic King Herod; Hungarian mezzo Ildiko Komlosi as his wife Herodias almost upstaged him just by virtue of her resemblance to Elizabeth Taylor, but she sang well, too: her forceful outbursts were as commanding as her easy stage presence.

As the tormented captain Narraboth, tenor Joseph Kaiser looked adorable; the power required to clear Strauss' orchestra eluded him in a couple of spots, but it's evident that he has a pretty voice and knows what he's doing. I'd like to hear him in something else. The Page sang adequately, but did not sound remotely German. In the prize comprimario role of First Nazarene (no, I'm not being snarky, it's really a plum small part) the phenomenal bass (thanks, Met Opera, for not putting his name on the web, sheesh!!!) displayed in spades what Uusitalo's Jochanaan lacked: here was a voice of immense power produced almost effortlessly, with dark bronze rivers of sound welling upward from his golden throat. Despite his ringing, heroic top, he might be too low a bass to comfortably sing Jochanaan, but I hope this is someone the Met is grooming for other roles...King Philip comes to mind. And I might be picky and biased, since clearly I own this part, but David Won as the Cappadocian (I remembered his name from the credits) couldn't possibly have looked less interested in the questions he was asking the First Soldier, mellifluously sung by (name unavailable on the website).

The Met Opera management did alert us via the press that for the broadcast, while Ms. Mattila would indeed go full-monty in the famous Dance of the Seven Veils (or, as Parterre's La Cieca put it, "jam out with her clam out"), the cameras would discretely pan away; as it happened, we got a shot of Herod's delighted leer. I imagine this was, in Janet Jackson's wake, an attempt to avoid the ire of the FCC. Because, you know, it's okay to show a woman's face covered in blood after she's been kissing a decapitated head, but God forbid we see her breasts or, gasp, a little tuft of high-definition fur. This is a century-old opera based on a Bible story, and we still can't handle some of it. Small wonder that it was yanked off the boards of the Met after a single performance in 1907 and banned for twenty-seven years.

On a local technical note, I am wondering if they forgot to turn on some of the speakers at the theater in Beaverton today; I recall being overwhelmed by sound during last season's Macbeth, with the floor literally vibrating. While that may have been a tetch much, today only the speakers directly behind the screen were in operation; the sound was fine, but the experience lacked the visceral thrill -- and part of the point -- of seeing an opera in high-definition in a digital movie theater.

Must Have Been Some Crash

From today's Oregonian:

"Wolf said the 1967 Chevrolet Camaro hardtop was northbound on 135th at high speed when it rolled and came to rest against the side of a home on the corner. A passenger was ejected during the crash. Tualatin Valley Fire & Rescue responders found him on the roof of the home. He was lowered and transported to OHSU."

Happy Belated Blogoversary To Me

Oopsie. Missed my own blogoversary, which was September 19. (Thanks, Assisi, for the generous reminder!!!)

The truth is, I'm kind of depressed.

I have a good job, but it's not really a fit. I can't really call it boring, because the pace is frantic and I spend most of my time lurching from crisis to crisis. But not huge, important, world-saving crises, like protecting endangered species. When I get home I am exhausted. I'm good at my job, but it doesn't really play to my talents or passions.

Now, I knew it would be like this going into it. I never thought that my calling in life was to be a corporate tax admin. My circumstances are what they are, and I have to pay the bills, and this is the most money I can make given my skills and experience. So, there it is. Nonetheless, it's kind of a drag sometimes. I don't blog as much because I'm just uninspired; I feel like my creative, analytical brain is atrophying, like a houseplant in a room with bad light.

My social life isn't quite what I'd hoped for, either.

It's not all bad news, though.

Since May I have been working with Integrity and the Episcopal Diocese of Oregon to develop an outreach program on LGBT faith issues, and last Thursday was the project's first outing. I thought about advertising it on the blog, but then I panicked and thought, "Oh...what if it turns out I'm terrible at this?" So I didn't.

The program features a licensed screening of the 2007 documentary For the Bible Tells Me So, followed by a moderated dialogue on homosexuality and the church (hosted by yours truly), and our first event was held at St. John the Evangelist in Milwaukie, Oregon. We had about 25 people show up, and it was a wonderful experience.

To be honest, it was a little bit like preaching to the choir, or at least the parents of the choir; no one was hostile or unreceptive to the issue. I heard some incredible and moving stories; there were elderly parents of a gay man there and they recognized their own journey of reconciliation in the film, and a man whose son had married a woman who turned out to be a lesbian. Another woman shared that she had a transgender brother. The vast majority of attendees were heterosexual.

I left feeling excited and inspired. When I come home from work, I feel literally physically heavy, like I have lead in my blood, but on that night I felt alive. I need to do more of this. Fortunately, I have at least two more "gigs" on the line, one in Monmouth, Oregon at the end of October and another at my own parish, date TBD. (Note to self: talk to rector today!) I need to try to get more opportunities like this, and maybe someday I can even branch out of the Episcopal Church to face a more skeptical audience.

Unorthodox

Tomorrow I am attending the bar-mitzvah of the autistic son of two gay men, one Jewish, one Episcopalian, being held at a Presbyterian church.

Is it too much to hope for kugel at the reception?

Andy for GOP Secretary of State

If John McCain wins in November, I think based on my extensive foreign policy experience that he should definitely consider me for Secretary of State.

First off, I was born in the State of Washington, which is on the border with Canada, and I have even visited Victoria. I grew up in Oregon, which is right across the water from Korea, which means that I am familiar with the threat posed by Kim Jong Il. After a year in Los Angeles (which is close to Mexico), I spent nearly fourteen years in Manhattan, which, as everyone knows, is the home of the United Nations.

In high school I traveled as an exchange student to Japan, which is close to China. I also visited Hawaii, which has only been a state since 1959 and so barely counts as the U.S., which is why Barack Obama is only kinda-sorta an American. From 2000-2001 I lived for 10.5 months in Zurich, Switzerland, which is a real diplomaticky sort of place, and I spent a major percentage of my time there as an ambassador for our nation, explaining to the citizens of "Old Europe" why it was that the candidate who received fewer popular votes was actually the rightful winner of the election and assuring them that, despite what they had heard about George W. Bush, everything would be fine. "What's he going to do," I asked them. "Start a war?"

During this time I also sang for the Mayor of Zurich and the President of Switzerland. I have met hundreds, if not thousands, of queens.

In addition to Switzerland, Canada, Japan and the Kingdom of Hawaii, I have also traveled to Mexico, the United Kingdom, Germany, France and Italy. While in London, I saw Buckingham Palace. I speak fluent English, conversational German, passable Italian and can read French. Perhaps more importantly for present times, I have sung in Russian, Spanish and Hebrew. I also took three years of Japanese in high school, and once slept with the son of a Brazilian diplomat. (Okay, twice.) Oh! and a friend of mine is married to woman from Zimbabwe.

I have never been to Washington, D.C., but this just means that I would confirm McCain's outside-the-beltway-box thinking and his maverickyness.

Though I admit I have never served on the PTA, my stepfather was a teacher. I was elected to the Vestry in January of 2008, which means I have held elected office longer than Barack Obama has been the Democratic nominee.

Given the depth and range of my foreign policy experiences, I believe I would make an outstanding Republican Secretary of State. Oh, and as for the vetting process, I assure you that Rocky and Starbuck are up to date on licenses and vaccinations. Thank you.

*******

PS, on an unrelated note, prayers for the people of New Orleans.

Well, That Answers That

I've mentioned before that my father and I shy away from any kind of substantive discussions, especially about religion. (Brief summary for the uninitiated: he's a born-again Baptist and I'm a gay Episcopalian.)

Years ago he filled my head with all kinds of nonsense about Revelation and Biblical "prophecy" and "the Rapture" and whatnot, and only recently did I find the courage to look again at the marvelous last book of the New Testament and begin to explore what's really there. Some of my father's views have moderated a bit over time (he has stopped inquiring about my dress size and plans on voting for Obama this fall -- mostly because he has come to see that Iraq was a boondoggle of criminal dimension), but I've often wondered if he still held the same views about "the Antichrist" and all that.

Presently, he is on a solo bike tour of Oregon; he called me from a campground about 30 miles from Chemult (where?) to check in and let me know he's all right.

"Did we invade Russia, yet?" he asked.

"No, no, we're still talking that over," I said. Then, perhaps rather stupidly, I said, "Besides, everyone knows that Iran is next."

"I was kind of hoping Israel would take out Iran," said my father.

"Hmm...I'm not sure that's something we should really be hoping for."

"Well, it would mean that Christ's return is imminent, that's for sure."

Sigh.

Worst. Vacation. Ever.

So it turned out that the only thing I took with me on my fabulous August beach trip that proved to be even less useful than the condoms (hey...you never know!) was sunscreen.

It's been a busy, stressful summer and I haven't taken any time off, so I've been dying for a little "me" time to go hide somewhere and decompress. After church on Sunday, I drove out to Waldport, eager for some long walks on the beach and quiet time in prayer and meditation.

Okay, well...first, it immediately became apparent why the Howard Johnson had vacancies in mid-August. As Elizabeth Taylor said in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, "What a dump." Don't get me wrong: I wasn't expecting the Four Seasons, but wow, that place is long overdue for some fresh paint and some general maintenance. It might not kill them to pick up the trash in the grassy area between the hotel and the bay or clean the leaves out of the pool, either...not that it was warm or dry enough to go in the pool. Ahem.

I mean, sure, the room was clean. And by clean, I mean, it had this overpoweringly chemical "clean" smell that gave me a headache and made me sick to my stomach. Fortunately I had a sliding door with a screen...that opened up onto the "pet area." Watch where you step.

About 5 minutes after I arrived, fog as thick as pea soup rolled in and you couldn't even see across the street. I had planned on driving down to a decent restaurant in Yachats (there's not much in Waldport), but I looked at the fog and figured maybe I should stay local. I thought I would investigate the "Ahi Grill" on site at the hotel.

You can't really see what the restaurant looks like from the lobby; you have to go down a hall and around a corner and bang you're suddenly in the dining room, which is about the most depressing little excuse for a "restaurant" I've ever seen. But the waitress pounced and said, "One for dinner?" and I just didn't have the heart to say, "Oh, dear God, no," so instead I said, "Yes, please," with a sinking feeling in my gut. Ahi might be Hawaiian for tuna, but it's also Italian for "ouch."

The menu was depressingly limited; I had settled on the fettuccine alfredo with chicken, but just then the same dish was brought to the woman sitting at the table next to me, and it was far more food than I could possibly eat (and didn't look that great) so when the waitress came I asked for a burger and fries. ($6.95)

So, look, I just wanted to have a quiet dinner alone staring at the bay. Some people might find that depressing, I guess, but I think it's relaxing. Unfortunately, the tourists on either side of me had other ideas; they were the types that like to chat up strangers.

First they remarked on the weather, a reasonable enough starting point, and complained that it was 60, dark and rainy in the middle of August. (Hey, welcome to Oregon; you take your chances.) This prompted one man to say, "Yeah, global warming my foot, what a joke." To which the other table rejoined, "That's right, up in Spokane we had the coldest winter anyone can remember this year." And thus I found myself surrounded by global warming deniers. "It's just a plot so some people can make money." "Yeah, Al Gore -- he has a huge house and I heard he drives three humvees!"

Let's see...the Spokaners complained about how Governor Chris Gregoire "stole" the election from Dino Rossi, then they all commiserated about high taxes and moaned that Barack Obama wants to give us "Canadian" healthcare, "even though everyone knows Canada has the worst healthcare in the world." Naturally then we had to gravitate to Iraq, and it was generally agreed upon that "the Iraqi people are tremendously grateful we are there" and that "the liberal media" simply refuses to report the good news. The oldest man in the group then remarked, "Iran is next, mark my words. Just read Revelation, it's all there."

By this time my blood was positively boiling and the Revelation remark was the last straw. You read Revelation, you butthead. I held my tongue, though (see James 1:19-20) and instead said, "Can I get the check?" I didn't have anything to drink with my dinner because I'd brought along a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir that was waiting for me back in the room; and it's a good thing, too, or I might just have told them off. Instead I wished them all a peaceful visit to Oregon.

About that wine: as I was shopping for the trip, I came across a new label, Anam Cara Cellars, and with my recent introduction to Celtic Christianity, I took that as a sign. Well...it's awful. Tart, no body, with strong hints of pickle. Gross.

It was only 7:00 and I was still mad, so I decided I'd go for a walk on the beach, even though it was windy and foggy. Alas, there is only one public access route to the beach from the hotel, and I hadn't gone very far past it when I realized it was already lost in the fog and growing darker. A storm was coming, so I turned around and went back to the room, cold, wet, sand-encrusted and depressed.

I decided to take the old fart's advice and read Revelation. All of it, so that I could feel justified about my self-righteous indignation. And it made me madder still, because it's actually quite wonderful and there's really nothing in there about Iran; it's about Rome. Anyone with seven heads and ten horns can see that.

A thunderstorm rolled in and, there being nothing else for it, I turned out the lights, reclined on the bed and watched. This was nice for about two hours, but then I felt really tired and wanted to actually sleep. I would drift off for about 10 minutes and then awake again to another window-rattling blast of thunder. The storm finally passed about 3:00.

I awoke about six and lay in bed debating with myself about whether I should try to get more sleep or get up and take advantage of the day; at 6:45 I rose and went for a walk on the beach, which was definitely the highlight of the entire trip. Got some great pictures -- see below -- until flashes of lightning appeared over the ocean and I decided I'd better high-tail it off the beach and get some breakfast.

After morning prayer I hopped in the car and drove down to Yachats to get coffee at the Green Salmon, which has amazing coffee and pastries and boy, if you dared insult Al Gore at the Green Salmon, you'd probably be thrown out. My kind of place.

They are closed on Mondays.

After sitting in the car in the parking lot in the rain for about three minutes chanting, "No! Fuck. No! Fuck. Fu-u-uck!!!!" I figured I might as well drive down to the Fred Meyer just north of Florence and go to the Starbucks there.

Ummm...I misjudged the distance. It's like 25 miles.

And the Florence Fred Meyer does not have a Starbucks.

They do have an imitation Starbucks. There were two customers in line ahead of me, which meant I stood there for 12 minutes until I got to order. (Yes, I counted.) I asked for a large coffee and a low-fat marionberry muffin. "Okay, sir, just so you know, the muffins just got delivered so it might still be a little bit cold, is that all right?" "Sure," I said.

Cold? Fucker was frozen. I'm serious. It was cold, wet and mushy on the outside and muffin-ice at the core. Also the coffee was weak and tasted like cigarettes. Within an hour I had a "you have not had coffee yet" headache.

It was raining.

At this point I decided it was time to give up and go home.

You know, the Oregon Coast is wonderful, even in inclement weather. All it takes is a good bottle of wine, a comfy chair and a marvelous view. Well...three strikes. I was outta there. I drove back to the hotel, told them I had changed my plans and asked for a refund for the second night.

The good news is, I got 37.25 mpg in the new car.

* * * * *

The day looked like it maybe had some promise; sunrise over Alsea Bay.

Alone on the beach; perfect.

The tide was definitely out; have you ever seen a beach so broad?

Kind of hard to tell, but these are pelicans.

A great blue heron.

As Paris Hilton Would Say, "Hot."

Okay...so, today is the third triple-digit day in a row for Portland, which is highly unusual. We usually see 100 degrees somewhere in August, but this is a little intense. Fortunately it's slated to drop to the upper 80s tomorrow and the low '70s on Monday.

Still, in the meantime, there's no question about the most popular spot in the apartment.

I have not (yet) taken a single vacation day this entire summer (too much to do!), but Thursday morning between fits of feeling like I wanted to cry I decided maybe I should ask for Monday off. I found a cheap hotel room for tomorrow and Monday night out at the coast, so I'm just going to drive out after church, spend the night, and then take all day Monday to do, oh, nothing.

A while back I promised you a live-blogging roadtrip event for Hermiston, Oregon's first-ever Gay Pride. Umm...I didn't really get around to that. Co-traveler SMB live-blogged (as best he could, given spotty wireless access) on the JustOut webpage -- read here for details. (No, I did not go with him to the strip club. Honest.)

Here's where we stayed. "Tillicum" is a ubiquitous local Native American word, but I have no idea what it means. I confess that, churchgoer that I am, I picked the motel for its dirty, punny connotation. (And the $50/night rate...which, I have to say, was possibly a little inflated, given the amenities.)


Actually, we had a great time. For dinner Friday night, we ate at the first-ever Shari's Restaurant, which was founded in Hermiston, and had truly excellent table service. Breakfast the next morning was at a new restaurant in Umatilla (home of a chemical weapons dump), and while the waffle was excellent, the water was not; and I think the waitress was not entirely sure what to make of two men not in cowboy hats who whiled away the time until the food came by browsing the restaurant's antiques for sale.

Afterward I followed SMB around for some [wo]man-on-the-street interviews, and ended up buying some homemade lavender soap from a friendly, gray-haired lady who said, "It's okay with me if people choose to be gay [!!!], but I don't think Hermiston is ready for any 'New-York-style' protests." I don't think she has anything at all to worry about. As we walked away, SMB remarked that he wasn't sure she even comprehended that we ourselves were queers, despite the fact that I'd talked to her about living in New York and yoga and...well, I bought a lavender soap from her.

"Hermiston Pride" never really got off the ground. First, I guess "Pride" was judged to be a tad ambitious, so it was retitled "Equality Day." The "event" was co-hosted by Western Farm Workers and the Society of Friends, who were there to protest the Iraq war (and had an amazingly powerful Tibetan prayer-flag display).

Hermiston was represented by the local organizer, his mother, and one 18 year old girl who came up to me and said, "So...are you...G, L, T, B...?" I smiled and said, "Oh, I'm G, very, very G." She smiled back and said, "I'm B...which stands for 'bitch.'" I liked her immediately and immensely. Aside from that, the entire turnout consisted of two guys from local organizations in Portland (one of whom was beautiful but clad in a most unfortunate hawaiian-print shirt), a lesbian MCC minister from the Tri-Cities (Pasco/Richland/Kennewick), SMB from JustOut, and a reporter from Spokane's local gay paper. I don't think a single random person from the greater Hermiston metropolitan area even came by. I snapped this picture of a rainbow flag in the park where 'pride' was held because it seemed to me to perfectly encapsulate the flaccid nature of the entire day.

Because the Sanctity of Marriage Needs Defending From the Gays...

You can't make this stuff up. Well, I guess you could, but you'd have to be brilliant. From the Oregonian:

Clackamas rape report turns out to be consensual bondage

by The Oregonian

Thursday August 07, 2008, 11:00 AM

CLACKAMAS -- A man and woman arrested Wednesday night in a reported rape turned out to be engaging in consensual bondage sex after meeting through a Craigslist on-line bulletin board.

Detective Jim Strovink, Clackamas County sheriff's spokesman, said a homeless woman spotted the couple and called police, believing the bound woman was being raped. When deputies arrived, the couple ran.

Deputies then called a K-9 unit and used tracking dogs to catch the couple -- fully clothed. The couple, a Milwaukie man and a Portland woman, were booked into the Clackamas County Jail on accusations of public indecency, disorderly conduct and criminal trespass.

The man told deputies he ran because he didn't want his wife to find out.

Of the Birds and the Bees...and the Mice

Another absolutely perfect summer day in Oregon. I was able to leave work early again today, and made it out to the pool about 3:00, and for the first 20 minutes or so, I was completely alone as I stretched out on the chaise. I fell asleep almost instantly. I could feel my muscles relaxing in the warm golden sunshine, a gentle, dry breeze blowing away my cares.

Alas, my reverie was broken by that most unwelcome of pool intruders; no, not a cloud, or a raindrop, or a hornet...a toddler. Not even maximum volume on my iPod could keep out the stream of conscious shrieked forth unceasingly from this little girl.

As her grandmother was applying her sunscreen -- "Gramma, it's COOOOOLLLLD!!!" -- a small garter snake, about six inches long, slithered across the patio. The scream that emitted from the tyke...indescribable. I am hoping my hearing comes back tomorrow.

"Oh, you don't need to be afraid of him, dear," said Grandmother.

"He can't eat me?"

"No, honey. He's much too small, and he wouldn't want to, anyway. Snakes eat...well...let's see, I suppose he'd eat small birds, and bird eggs, and maybe turtle eggs if he found them, and mice --"

"And mice eggs?"

"...."

"Well, no...mice don't lay eggs, honey."

"Why not?"

"Well...because they're not the kind of animal that lays eggs."

Safely strapped into a vest and inflatable arm thingies, the little girl splashed about in the pool while Grandmother sat in a chair and tried to read a magazine.

"Gramma...Gramma...Gramma! Watch this."

"That's good, dear," said Grandmother, not looking up.

"Gramma...Gramma...Gramma!....GRAMMA!!!!!"

"What, honey?!?"

"Did you know mommy has a bagina?"

Is that a $600 Check in Your Mailbox or are You Just Happy to See Me?

I am officially stimulated.

Most of you are probably thinking, "You just got your check TODAY?" Well, yes. The IRS distributed the checks according to the last two digits of the taxpayer's social security number. My last digits are 98. Could have been worse, I suppose.

My dear friend "Anonymous" was looking in vain (though, not very hard) for some instance where I disagreed with Barack Obama; this is one. In fact, back in January I said the only politician on the right side of the government's "economic stimulus" bill was...Mike Huckabee. I am still upset that we're going to borrow billions of dollars from China (ummm...that we have to pay back, with interest) to send people a paltry $600.

Granted, right at this moment I'm pretty relieved to have $600 more in my checking account, but it irks me that this isn't actually a tax refund, it's essentially a cash advance on a credit card that George Bush and the Congress took out in my name.

* * * * * *

Following up on Bp. Robinson's visit to the UK during the Lambeth Conference from which he is being excluded on account of some other bishops' discomfort with homosexuality, the Vicar of St. Mary's, Putney -- where Robinson preached this past Sunday -- wrote one of his predictably acidic and hilarious columns for The Guardian about the event.

Money quote: "How on earth does Gene Robinson cope with the disgusting abuse to which he is subjected most days – the protester who interrupted his sermon in my church on Sunday being a pretty mild example? Day after day, buckets of spiritual shit are thrown at him, sometimes by fellow bishops, and he just keeps going."

Wow, I am loving the phrase I emboldened there (to use a favorite word of the President's). It's vulgar, sure, but so, so, so accurate. Absolutely the right metaphor for the situation.

* * * * * * *

It's To Wong Foo meets Priscilla meets The Last Debate: fellow blogger and JustOut columnist SMB and I are teaming up to cover Hermiston, Oregon's first ever Gay Pride event. Okay, well, no SMB will cover it, I'm just driving and along for the thrill of it. It's the weekend of August 1-2; stay tuned for another exciting Road Trip Live Blogging Event (this time without cats, I'm afraid.)

A Follow-Up

It's been a crazy couple of weeks. Work has been busy and then of course on Wednesday we had the memorial service for my stepfather, which was a moving and fitting tribute attended by a couple hundred people (including a couple of this blog's readers; thank you, again).

* * * * *

My company has "summer hours," which means that we can leave at noon on Fridays until September, provided the boss is satisfied that everything that needs to be done is done. I worked like a crazy person for four hours yesterday morning and disappeared precisely at the stroke of 12. A few minutes later I could be found reclining on a chaise by the pool at my apartment complex, basking in dry, 83-degree bright sunshine with a gentle breeze, exhaling a deep sigh of exhaustion.

There was a familiar face hanging out with a couple of friends. They were deep in vapid tweentalk which I tried hard to ignore, until suddenly their voices dropped to a hush. My ears pricked up, because I'm wise enough to know that meant they were actually going to say something interesting. Here's what I overheard:

Girl 1: ....

Girl 2: How do you know that?

Girl 1: He told me.

Girl 2: What, he just came out to you, like, randomly?

Girl 1: Umm...it's a long story.

I can only imagine she was referring to this.

* * * * *

Readers may note that I have disabled anonymous commenting for this blog. It seems I have tremendous difficulty restraining myself from feeding the trolls. So now, if you'd like to comment, you'll need to sign in.

No doubt "Anonymous" will once again accuse me -- or would, if he were still allowed to comment here -- of being unwilling to debate (note the blog title), but the truth is, I will happily engage differences of opinion as they relate to a common set of what are known as "facts." "Anonymous" accuses me of not wanting to know "the truth" about Barack Obama, and then proceeds to insist that he is a stealth Muslim who, like all blacks and Hispanics, hopes to initiate slavery reparations using white folk's 401(k)'s.

For a time I found attempting to educate this dullard entertaining, but I've grown weary of it. His repeated "threats" to not return to my blog have not been kept, and he has ignored my pleading to go the hell away.