I was shocked when I first got into Portland because of the number of old people. Justin explained this as "oh yes, the migration of the snowbirds." Apparently each year as the weather get warmer the old folks who live out of RV's down in Arizona during the winter travel back up north during the summer and many of them stay for a while in Portland. Now I love old people and get great joy from spending time with them but not en masse. They were everywhere, I'm telling you it looked like West Boca!
Saturday night Justin and I went bar hopping. Portland has an absurd number of bars and clubs for 'men of discriminating taste' yes, gay bars. The first couple we went to were basic run of the mill gay bars, beer, pool tables, Cher impersonators no big whoop. Then we went to a couple which were more animated and had a few more amenities, meaning the men were better looking. Finally we ended up at a place called Club Z. Initially I thought that this was just another ho-hum club, same God-awful pop music, watered-down drinks but then I noticed that they had Guinness on draught. Hey this place was looking up. After a few pints I started to notice shoulders. I turned to Justin and asked if it was eighties night. His reply was "no, why?" "Because all the women are wearing shoulder pads!" It was then that I put my finger on what else was different about the women, they all had Adam's apples, those weren't shoulder pads they were men. I looked at Justin and practically screamed "you brought me to a tranny bar!" You know those moments in movies when the needle skips across the record, the music stops as does all conversations and all eyes look at you? Well I swear this happened after my outburst, Justin says it is all in my mind, and granted I did have about a liter and a half of Guinness in me at the time, but I know I drew stares and contempt. I regained my composure and quietly asked Justin why he brought me here? "You know these people give me the creeps." "Yes" he replied "but they have Guinness on draught so I assumed you would overlook the tranny thing." I told him if he bought me a pint we would call it even. Everything turned out alright and by the end of the night I was up on stage singing a karaoke duet of I Will Survive with some tranny that looked like my aunt Cecilia, mustache and all.
Sunday morning I woke up in time to go to mass, I was feeling a little guilty about my outburst the night before and as any good Catholic boy knows nothing goes along better with Catholic guilt than Sunday Mass. Earlier in the week I had noticed a beautiful cathedral called St. Sharbel's and thought, fleetingly, that I would go there Sunday morning. I briefly entertained the thought of waking Justin up and making him go with me but since he is Protestant and was lying face down & naked in his bed with his pants around his ankles and his shoes still on I thought better of it. After showering and dressing I jumped in the Redneck Cadillac I had rented a couple of days earlier and discovered, as you do, that I was still just a little bit drunk. Now as anyone knows the best way for a collapsed Catholic to go to mass is buzzed, it makes it all pretty and tranquil. I got to the church, walked in and immediately was hip to the fact that this was not my kind of church. I should have known from the name, who the hell is St. Sharbel? I sat in one of the back pews just in time for the procession of priests. As they passed by me swinging the censer I noticed a strange aroma, now in most Catholic churches the censer (incense pot on chain for all you heathens) contains a blend of aromatics usually consisting of sweet and pungent spices and herbs with a spattering of Frankincense thrown in for good measure. This is a time honored tradition and the blend of ingredients in the censer does not vary much from church to church, it is one of those things that makes you feel welcome no matter where you are. At St. Sharbel however the censer was filled with what smelled to me to be patchouli and pot.
I looked around to see if any of the other parishioners found this odd, it was then that noticed that the church was filled with new age, bran muffin, granola head types, I also realized that the odor was not coming from the censer but from the people in the pews. I sat, patiently, through the service which to my horror was conducted in English (I'm a traditionalist.) Finally we got to the sacrament of communion, thank you God. I just wanted to eat my cracker, drink my wine and get the hell out of there. I got my cracker, no surprises there, but then they handed me the cup of wine and I took a sip. Grape juice, fucking grape juice! What kind of fercockta Catholic church serves grape juice for communion? I know that Vatican II made broad changes but they did not make THAT change. I had had enough I bolted for the door, went back to Justin's and changed my flight to later that day.
Now I am home, cleaning and organizing to my hearts content and actually looking forward to visiting my parents next week.
