it's getting harder every year to keep you kids
entertained. Ya always want louder faster grosser
naughtier bloodier sexier. More real and real dangerous.
You'd yawn at quadruple-X live alien sex starring
the president on top of your sister. Well, yawn
no more. Portland, true to form, has outdone itself
again and brought you the most fucked-up and retarded
performance art yet, a postmodern potpourri of shaving
cream, monkey poo, and Pabst Blue Ribbon. It's low
art that stinks to high heaven; it's the first Wednesday
of every month; it's PORTLAND ORGANIC WRESTLING.
those uninitiated readers, the POW is a cast of
downtown's least-loved characters (Elvis, Dirty
Hippy, Knotty Clown, Biker Boy, Harvey Hardcock,
Femme Fatale, etc.) who dramatically, artfully beat
the shit out of each other once a month at Satyricon.
Each event is semi-choreographed, just enough to
ensure that by the end of the night somebody's gone
to the hospital and everyone's covered in filth.
It's a total testosterone fest and the exact opposite
of good clean fun.
after guys in jeans and t-shirts. Guys who smell
like guys and who itch at the
stubble on their faces."
'n' the Superfines regularly call the sewing circle
together to meet at Satyricon 'round 10pm. We get
all gussied up, from fur-lined leather-gloved fingertips
to fishnetted red-lacquered toes. We learned rather
quickly not to wear our favorite furs, suedes or
cashmeres, but have yet to resort to the raincoats
and fencing masks some fans are sporting. We stake
out our spot: It's best to position yourself somewhere
where you can be shielded from the stage OR the
crowd (or beat a hasty retreat) as the need arises.
Also, a spare glass (in addition to the one holding
your Wild Turkey) is recommended for use as a weapon.
the fun begins. It's so utterly stupid, it's smart.
Each character's got their little outfit and soundtrack
and hangers-on and playing card and favorite vegetable,
but that's just the lube on the dildo. It's broken
ribs and head wounds you're there to see, and the
POW all but guarantees your satisfaction (but not
your safety). Some of the fights are predictably
pathetic, but others are pure genius. Plus, you're
wasted, so you can't really tell the difference.
it's crossed my mind that this inane celebration
of testosterone, in all its virulent, violent, explosive
and gooey glory, is the male equivalent of the striptease.
often lamented that male strip bars just ain't sexy
enough, and after following up the POW with a nightcap
at the Three Sisters--an all-nude male revue up
in Vaseline Alley--I think I know why. It's cuz
the testosterone is missing. The boys at the Sisters
are beautiful, clean-shaven, immaculately groomed
and barely dressed in blue and white-striped nylon
hot pants, orange surfer-dude sarongs or loose-fitting
Levis rolled up at the cuffs. They've got muscular
bodies and look pretty darn healthy. They lean in
close to you. So close you can feel their flaccid
pricks on your forehead or feel their breath titillate
the tiny hairs inside your ear. So close that if
this were a girlie bar, you'd be busted for prostitution,
male strip-club is good clean fun, and that's so
not what I want from my males. What am I gonna do
with a hairless hunk of tanned boy meat, already
undressed and waving his soft stuff in the wind?
is why I get a hard-on for the POW. I lust after
guys in jeans and t-shirts. Guys who smell like
guys and who itch at the stubble on their faces.
Guys who drink whiskey and eat hamburgers and hit
other guys with ladders. Guys who break pint glasses,
burst sewer pipes, and injure walls.
on February 6th, if I'm not interviewing the Strokes
in Honolulu, you'll know where to find me. Saunter
over with a black eye or a cut forehead, smelling
of beer and cigarettes, and say something stupid
to me. Maybe I'll let you be my Valentine.