Man, 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.

For 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.

Me '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.

Then 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.

Now, 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.

I've 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, lickety-split.

The 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?

This 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.

So, 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.