Happy Monday – Embrace the Cheese

Some months ago I had almost stopped writing on this blog, but I faithfully posted photos of smiling guys every Monday without fail. One or two of the subjects may have been shirtless. (Hey, it happens.) And then one day looking back at all the recent entries, I realized that all I had were men, men, men for weeks at a time. I thought to myself that I had somehow become another homo with a beefcake site. How cheesy!

So I stopped for a while, or at least cut back dramatically. Now, months later, guys keep telling me they miss the smiling men. Really, they insist, bring them back. So, okay, I am.

This week, it’s all shirtless smiling guys once again. I’ve decided to go with the flow. I’ve decided to embrace the cheese.

Phew! Glad that’s over.

Phallic Friday – Beer Cans

Cans and bottles are phallic enough on their own that direct size comparisons are often made with the real thing. So it makes it all the more interesting when a guy is driven by some subconscious instinct to rest his drink in a certain spot, a place where his hand has been many a time, and in just that position. Intentionally or not, he’s telling you exactly whats on his mind.

You doubt me? A simple Flickr search for beer and phallic (or bottle and phallic) turns up plenty of additional proof, like this “well placed bottle,” or this self-gratifyer, or this porn addict, or this Canadian exibitionist. The list could go on and on. We humans just have dick on the brain. (…and by we, yes, I mean me.)

Naturally, advertisers are well aware of this not-so-subconscious association. This ham-fisted ad, for example, shoves the sex right in your face.

On the other hand, this seemingly wholesome come-on from the Fifties is all about subtle suggestion. But, still, there’s no question what he’s after. I mean, he is trying to stick something in her mouth, and I swear her hand seems to be guiding it in. She must really like his bottle. Bet he’s got a nice one.

Another Sunset

It’s that time of year again, when the skies are cloudless, the blackberries are ripe but almost gone, and the apples are just beginning to turn red. I’ve been going on lots of rides to enjoy the last of the good weather, and my legs are whooped. I’ve picked gallons of blackberries up on Mount Tabor for making into jam then watched the sunset while people made out on the benches nearby.

 Sunset over downtown Portland from Mount Tabor

I recall writing about the very same things last September. Clear skies, blackberries, Mount Tabor, even the couples kissing. Now here it is again.

Growing up, I lived in a hot climate that required 24-hour air conditioning for eight months of the year. My memories of summer were of looking out the window at the glare and quietly reading books inside a sealed, climate-controlled house. It was always, always, 72 degrees, and there was always a quiet tssssss sound coming from the vents. It seemed like living in a space station or an isolated pioneer settlement on a far away planet with an inhositable atmosphere — like Moonbase Alpha, but without the sexy people.

Now in Portland, there are seasons, and my life changes and orders itself according to them. It’s cool. I plant in the spring, water in the summer, harvest in the fall, and hibernate in the winter, reading books and doing crafts. My activity level and my weight both fluctuate regularly and predictably. Without me really trying to make it happen, a natural rhythm has given structure to my entire year, year after year.

I like it. It’s good for the mind and the soul. I’m thankful to live this way, and routine helps settle the details and frees our mental energies to focus on the important stuff. But being me, I can’t help feeling uncomfortable with comfort. What experiences am I giving up to have a life so neat and predictable? What accomplishments will remain undone because they don’t fit into my orderly schedule? When I’m ninety-nine and on my death bed, will I look back and think, “Thank goodness I made jam that year intead of…?”

… instead of what?

Happy Monday – Late Summer

Every Monday, except sometimes, I post photos of guys smiling.

 Christopher enjoying the nude beach.

On Saturday, I went out to Rooster Rock with my friend Christopher for maybe the 4th week in a row. (My eager nudist friend Andy came this time too. You can see him on the very left in the sunglasses above.) Christopher had such a nice time the first time, he wanted to go over and over. Cool with me.

Rooster Rock is a state park in the gorge with a nude beach. Sounds kind of sordid, and sometimes it is, but mostly it’s just sitting next to the water and looking at the beautiful scenery. The weather has been perfect every time, and we’ve eaten snacks and drunk cheep booze all day in the sun. Plus, Christopher and I are a good team; he’s quite happy to anchor the blanket while I swim over to the island and run around on the dunes.

Every week I’ve run into someone I know, someone I would never have expected to see out there, and usually someone I wouldn’t want to run into accidentally while bare-ass naked. Saw this guy Filemon two weeks ago. I said hi, and it took him a second to figure out who it was. He said, “I didn’t recognize you with that hat,” and then after a long pause added, “…and no pants.”

Usually I come home from roasting all afternoon and immediately take a nap. This week, however, I had to go to our company party, and I changed clothes and biked ten miles up to St. Johns way up in North Portland. It was a such a beautiful evening — 75 degrees, the setting sun, views of downtown from the cliffside road. So though exausted, I was glad to be on my bike.

At the party, we had all manner of natural snack foods: Newman’s and Kettle instead of Nabisco or Lay’s. I had the (great) vegetarian lasagna instead of the grilled burgers or chicken. Desert was homemade ice cream from a hand-cranked churn. There was a keg, but I drank the box wine. Several dogs patrolled the floors all night for dropped food.

In the garage out back, there was some cut-throat ping pong action. These folks I work with are nice as can be, but make no mistake: they are competetive. Everyone laughed and smiled and joked and talked good-natured trash, but you could see challengers shuffling impatiently while waiting to take another crack at Orion, the night’s reigning champ.

I was having such a good time that when the guy with a truck was leaving, I opted to hang around longer instead of toss my bike in the back and catch a ride. Eventually, people started setting up tents in the back yard, preparing to spend the night. Others opted to sleep right under the stars.

When I did finally leave at 1:30 a.m., the air was still fairly warm, and despite my casual pace, I got steamed up in the old Pendleton I had donned. On the ten miles south, the sidewalks outside of bars were still full of patrons enjoying the late summer night. It felt so good that I rode very slowly. My forty minute ride took an hour. I couldn’t rush it. There wouldn’t be many more nights like this.

One of Those People

A few days ago, I bought myself a new camera. Digital, of course, but I won’t bore you with megapixels and optical zoom stats. It was the last one left, and so was 50% off. I thought it was blue, but bit the bullet and got it anyway. Now that I’ve seen it in the daylight, I think it may actually be purple. Is that better or worse? I can’t decide.

Naturally, I have turned into one of those people. You know the ones. They whip out their little point & shoot for any excuse then spend endless minutes finding just the right angle and flash adjustment. Suddenly, they’re Brassaï.

Because it was actually just unbelievably beautiful out, I went on a ride down the Springwater Corridor south of downtown. Couldn’t leave my new camera at home though. Snapped some (blurry) shots of a cute blond guy fishing with some kid. He never stopped talking on his phone the whole time. Still talking when I passed back the same way an hour later. It’s the new fishing — all the sitting with none of the annoying introspection.

I also saw my share of the old fishing. There was a picture perfect pair of dudes by the river — just rods propped and beers in hand. You know they were bichin’ about their bitches. Bro talk. But hey, at least they were talking to somebody who was right there, making that human connection.

On closer inspection, one of the guys turned out to be a retro punk kid. It made the whole thing that much more charming.

Further down the path at Oaks Amusement Park, I spotted Roller Derby practice through an open bay door. That’s so Portland. Whatever your odd little enthusiasm, there’s a club, team, support group, or social network here for you.

At the end of the path, I picked some berries off an Oregon Grape bush. They look poisonous, but I went to a talk on wild & edible plants and found out that they are high in pectin. Great for canning. Got a bag full.

I also stopped to check some apples on a special tree in the wildlife refuge. Here’s some facts for ya’. Most apple trees only produce a substantial crop every second year. I spotted this tree two summers ago. Fruit so red I could see it a hundred yards off. Made myself a big batch of apple butter. Last year, no apples. Not a one. This year, a bumper crop.

The apples were not ripe enough yet. I bit into one and the tartness made me spit it out. I spotted a couple of other apples on the ground with just one big bite missing. Looks like I’ll need to keep a close eye on this particular tree if I want any apple butter.

On the way home, as the sun was getting low, I tried for the one thousandth time to get a passable shot of this one work of public art. Alas, it eludes me yet.

On the other hand, I could take satisfying pictures of industrial structures all day long. Here’s Ross Island Gravel, which is the first thing you see on the Springwater Corridor. Ah, nature.

Near the end of my ride, back downtown, it was just past that point when the sun has set but the sky is still blue. “Real” photographers are always on the esplanade trying to get the ultimate shot of Portland’s world famous skyline. I chose to take snapshots of the photographers, which, by this point, is almost as much of a cliche.

Later in the evening, I was telling a friend about the new camera and said I’d been taking lots of picures, “but no porn.” He was incredulous. The very first thing he did after taking his Blackberry out of the box, he said, was to take a picture of his dick. Apparently, based on anecdotal evidence, that’s the number one use of digital imaging technology. If so, I’d like to invite all you fellas to share your photos. Or at least point me to your online profile. Come on now; you know you’re never going to be President. Might as well.

Phallic Friday – Dickalicious

Thursday was my housemate’s birthday, and I thought to myself, “What does Will love more than anything else?” And so I gave him one.

It’s from Voodoo Doughnuts and is called, quite uneuphemistically, the Cock & Balls. Will got so excited when he saw it that I had to rush downstairs with the camera to get a picture before he shoved it right into his mouth. Guess I should have expected that since he really loves, you know, doughnuts.

Big huh? It totally fills that little pink box. And those balls are cream filled — of course.