A drag queen and a karaoke machine walk into a bar...

A little over a year ago some friends and I went to the Royal Majesty Drag Show at Holiday Inn by the Bay. The event was a fundraiser for the GLBTQ and Ally programs at USM. While it was a mostly student-driven affair, there were a handful of non-student queens-about-town included in the show.

One of whom was Bunny Wonderland, who we met briefly during intermission.

Small town Maine being what it is, it shouldn't have been a shock when, a year later, my friend would show up on her first day at a new job and discover that, in addition to being a drag queen phenom, Bunny Wonderland was also her coworker.

As it turns out, Bunny Wonderland isn't resting on his - er, her - Royal Majesty laurels. She's hosting Kamikazee Karaoke every Sunday at Styxx in Portland.

My friend asked if I'd be up for going this weekend to check it out and to support her fellow colleague. My response: "Yes. Absolutely yes."

To confirm, Styxx is a gay bar. But they don't flog straight people at the door. (Though if you're into that sort of thing, a posting on Craigslist might help you find someone willing to accommodate.)

Kamikaze Karaoke runs from 8-11 pm every Sunday, hosted by Bunny Wonderland (who's a natural in the spotlight and quite the entertainer).

And we've all been to karaoke nights - in Portland and elsewhere (for what it's worth, Bentley's in Arundel on a Thursday night is quite a riot). We've seen a handful of talented folks mixed in with a whole lot more…um…"less-talented."

But that's what karaoke is. No one expects the next Whitney.

Heck, I even got up there once. Just once. I held the mic at arm's length to minimize the damage.

But of all the karaoke joints in all the world, Styxx's talent on Sunday was the most impressive.

We were ready to poke some good-natured fun at the courageous karaokers. But one person after another sang and sang well. We applauded and "woohooed."

We remarked with surprise how "that chick rocked it" and "that young guy does a mean Elton."

And it became wildly clear that there was no way I could slip into the spotlight for a quick karaoke rendition of "Build Me Up Buttercup."

I'd stand out like a sore thumb.

Luckily Victoria skillfully represented our table with the 80s classic "Flashdance." (During which, Bunny Wonderland did an excellent Jennifer-Beals-inspired in-place run.)

If you fancy you've got talent, Bunny Wonderland's Karaoke Idol begins February 8th. It runs for 10 weeks - every Sunday.

So loosen up those vocal chords, pick a song that showcases your range and follow Bunny into Karaoke wonderland.

For more details on the bar read Amy Martin's review of Styxx in the Bar Guide

Wine from honey: What it all meads

I had the happy opportunity to tour the Maine Mead Works winery this weekend. And no, I didn't drive two hours out of town to some 100-acre tree-lined vineyard.

The Maine Mead winery is tucked into a small corner of a Portland warehouse on Anderson Street in Bayside. That's right in our backyard.

Mead, you see, is made from honey rather than grapes. And while mead was around long before Jesus made wine out of anything, it's popularity dwindled a few hundred years ago.

Luckily, mead makers like Portland's Eli Cayer and Ben Alexander are helping mead get back to its rightful place at our daytime celebrations and late-night confabulations.

The mead-making process starts with the honey.

The fellows from Maine Mead get their honey locally - from Swans Honey in Albion, to be exact. Eli, who kept bees himself a few years ago, said Maine Mead might get into the beekeeping business in the future but would still need to acquire honey elsewhere. They simply wouldn't be able to produce enough honey on their own to meet their production needs.

These barrels are filled with honey and water - the foundation of mead - and that mixture is sent via tubes into the next room for a cleansing hot bath and some yeasty fermentation.

These wall-mounted tubes are filled with ginger, which the yeast latches onto. The honey/water/yeast mixture tumbles through the tube like an almost-alcoholic lava lamp. Eventually, the blend drains from the top and into 50-gallon barrels in the next room.

These barrels currently take about five days to fill - that's 10 gallons a day - but the speed is expected to increase in the near future.

Once filled, the mead gets up close and personal with some oak chips. But after three weeks that relationship is split and the mead sits chip-free for a few more weeks.




Maine Mead is hand bottled and hand labeled. That's a good deal of manual effort - and without a stock of employees to do the work, wives are likely to get involved.

Here, Ben Alexander's wife Carly peels and presses labels onto bottle after bottle. She was impressively neat and efficient about it. If it were me, a few bottles might've slipped into the boxes with sideways, backwards or missing labels. But then, that's why I don't own a company.



Maine Mead's HoneyMaker Dry Mead is currently on the shelves at Whole Foods, Aurora Provisions, Rosemont, Old Port Wine Merchants and Maine Beer & Beverage. HoneyMaker Semi Sweet Mead is expected to land at those locations the first week of February.




It's a fine concoction, smooth to drink and rather potent too with a 12.5% alcohol by volume. The alcohol content, I was told, is tested with a hydrometer.

It measures the gravity of a liquid both before and after fermentation. But I didn't need any hydrometer. My flushed face after a small sampling said it all (something to the effect of: "Hot damn, that's an effective mead.")

You can taste and decide for yourself starting today at the Great Lost Bear on Forest Ave, where Maine Mead is now available.

Or, check out Slow Food Portland's Writers Night on Thursday, Jan 29 at SPACE. Maine Mead will be hanging out and offering up some samples.

For all the background info on the endeavor, check out mainemeadworks.com

Annual Ice Bar: It's just cool

I saw a program on the Discovery Channel recently that followed the building of Sweden's Ice Hotel. The accommodations - from the lobby to the hotel rooms to the lounge (including the bar glasses) were constructed out of ice. Not just any ice, but crystal clear ice carved from a nearby river the winter before.

Of course ice isn't made to last and the hotel melts every spring, hopefully with no one still in it, to be reborn again a winter later.

It sounds adventurous at first thought - a serene arctic getaway. But I imagine after day two of doing your best to avoid the restroom (and the 10-minute process of declothing and reclothing) the romantic notion clouds a bit.

But the ice lounge does sound cool.

Lucky us Portlanders. We don't have to travel anywhere near the arctic circle to enjoy a bar carved out of ice.

Ice Bar at Portland Harbor Hotel opened last night. And while colleague Avery and I were across town at the Portland Museum of Art's Rock and Roll Photography show, plenty of other folks gathered near the bar's ice luges.

The Ice Bar opens at 4:30 pm today and again on Saturday. After that it'll go the way of "job security" and disappear altogether.

There's a $10 fee, but that cash goes straight to a local charity so quit yer complainin'.

DJ Jason Keith will provide the music and you can either bust out some heavy breakdancing moves to warm up or do what I do: linger near the outdoor heaters.

Two minutes next to one of those things and you'll find yourself pressing your face to one of the nearby ice sculptures just to cool down.

And while Ice Bar is historically well attended, you can still find some room inside if you need a few minutes to warm up.

Git all the Ice Bar details

Check out some pictures from last year's ice bar

Cross-country skiing just across town

I don't enjoy failure enough to fully appreciate new years resolutions.

Sure there's something to be said for making noble promises like "I'll finally finish reading that immense volume of American history I bought four years ago" or "I'll stop stealing and selling bulk office supplies to pay the bills."

But inevitably December rolls back into town and all you have to show for the year are an already forgotten chapter of American history and a hallway closet full of pilfered reporter's notebooks.

I'm not opposed to positive change. But instead of making resolutions, I make suggestions. Things like, "I should focus on saving money this year" or "Not sideswiping parked cars might be a good idea."

Thus, there are no failed resolutions. Only unheeded advice.

This year I said, "I'd like to amp up the outdoor winter activity." The notion was partly inspired by some lackluster beach photos taken on winter vacation and partly by some friendly advice I got when I first moved here: If you want to survive the winters in Maine, you need a winter sport.

Cross-country skiing seemed like as good a sport as any (cheaper than skiing and a lower paralyzation rate than ice climbing). So I acquired some hand-me-down skis and some clearance sale boots and got myself invited to a cross-country skiing excursion this past Sunday.

Of course the snow started falling Saturday night and by Sunday afternoon a solid foot seemed to have piled up. My car had been buried and the roads where a glacial disaster. I was barricaded. Stymied. Homebound. Unable to play in the snow, on account of all the snow.

That's what we call ironical.

But on Monday my coworker Wendy introduced me to the local cross-country splendor that is Riverside Golf Course in Portland.

There are 8 kilometers of groomed trails for snowshoeing or cross-country skiing here - all of which manageable for a near-novice like me. And the sledding hills look rather enticing too (though I'll have to buy my own sled and head back this weekend since not one of the kids playing there on Monday agreed to let an adult stranger borrow their snow tube).

Despite being a holiday, the trail traffic was low. Nothing but the swish, swish, swish of snow pants and the crunch of snow to be heard. Maybe some panting. Cross-country skiing ain't effortless you know.

The scenery wasn't too awful either - the setting sun on a wintry horizon is just, well, cool.

It's easily worth the $2 donation (which should be slipped into the box at the trailhead).

And while I'm hardly destined for Olympic Nordic ski team, getting into a pair of skis sure beats that stationary Nordic Trak in my parent's basement. Of course I fell a lot less on the Nordic Trak. I suppose it's a trade-off.

If you're new to the sport: Walk-on adventures at LL Bean in Freeport are a great way to test the cross-country waters.

Are you ready for some rock wall?

Chicks get everything.

In truth, it's almost unfair. Doors are routinely opened for them. Cops write "warnings" when a ticket is in order. Jurors suggest lesser sentences at their conspiracy-to-commit-murder trials.

Heck, these days they can even vote and own their own businesses.

And now, thanks to Ladies Night at the Maine Rock Gym, it seems women really are on top of the world (and the wall).

My colleague Karen is writing a piece on Women's Climbing Night for The Maine Switch and asked if I'd join her on the indoor rock wall expedition last Monday. "Sure," I'd said. "I've climbed there once before. No problem."

I'd forgotten how Fear, that tricky little squelcher of life, can creep up on you. I'd forgotten that dangling from a rope above a trustworthy belayer far, far (ok, not that far) below can still be frightening as all get-out, even if you swear you've done this before (I swear!).

So I met up with Karen at the rock gym on Marginal Way, where she was chatting up co-owner Keith Morris for all the Maine Rock Gym secrets.

First, the paper work. We both signed our lives away and agreed not sue should we sustain any injuries at the gym (including, but not limited to, broken limbs, cuts, scrapes, bee stings, snake bites and lightning strikes).

We donned the shoes, tying them snugly. We stepped into the harnesses, pulling them waistward and tightening them to point that ensured both safety and maximum pudge amplification.

Then the friendly Nick guided us through the basics.

He showed us how the person on the ground locks into the floor strap and holds the rope. He showed us how to pull up on the rope to prevent too much slack as the climber climbed. He showed us how to hold the end of the rope behind your back when it was time to let the climber down.

Then he asked, "So, who's climbing first?"

Silence.

I eventually volunteered (ie, Karen volunteered me), clipped my carabiner onto the rope and stepped to the wall. It was then that I took note of the message duct-taped there.

(Nick informed us that each climbing path had a name and difficulty rating. The names came from previous climbers who, at some point along the route, yelled out or made a comment about the path. The path name was then written down and taped to the wall.)

I read this one aloud, "From miserable to memorial in one move."

"It doesn't say that," Karen interrupted. "It says 'memorable' not 'memorial.'"

Ah, must be the mounting panic talking.

And onto the wall I went, grabbing on however possible and climbing my way up. As I neared the top, my hands began to sweat and shake and I could go no farther. Less that two more feet and I would've been able to hit the "Easy Button" mounted near the ceiling. But I couldn't. I wanted down.

Karen and I switched places and she, of course, went straight to the top. An electronic voice called out "That was easy."

So I made attempt number two. "Stairway to Heaven" started playing over the gym speakers. Nice.

But I made it to the top, thanks to a bit of friendly competition and some encouraging words from below (something like, "Oh, come on. Just do it for crying out loud).

Press Herald photographer Fred J. Field was in the gym snapping pictures for Karen's upcoming Switch article and even climbed the wall himself to get some "from above" shots. Very impressive with a couple of expensive cameras around his neck.

I think it was the camera's presence that kept me from crying.

Karen and I eventually moved on to other walls, our confidence growing with each one. We even undertook the climb that sends you swinging out from the wall after you reach the top.

It's very Tarzan and a hell of a time.

The Maine Rock Gym is a welcoming place for beginners - and a workout that stayed in my forearms and shoulders for at least three days.

It's open daily through the winter (closed Mondays in the summer) and has an array of programs for both indoor and outdoor climbing.
Check out www.merockgym.com for all the details.

Women's climbing night is on the 2nd and 4th Monday of every month starting July 1st through the spring from 7-9 pm. Cost: $7.50 for climbers pass, $5.00 for equipment rental and $5 for first-time instruction. No appointment is necessary.

If you can't make it Monday's, don't worry. Women are welcome to climb the dickens out that rock wall any time.

Bowl, Portland! Bowl!

Bowling leagues: The hobby of gray-haired women on a night off from bingo, junior high students with lack-luster social skills and Schlitz-drinking overweight men in rural Minnesota.

Is that what you think?

It's true, bowling leagues have historically had a tough time trying to knock their way into the cool kids club. But if Bowl Portland is any indication, the sport has rolled right into the hearts of Portland's beer drinking, trash talking, big ball spinning crowd.

The league formed just over a year ago, but was such a hit it filled to capacity for the '09 season. And it filled early. I thought about signing a team up back in July but thought, "Nah, games don't start until January! It's too early. I'll look over-anxious and besides, I'm too distracted by the hot weather and all this sun to think about winter occupations."

Hot weather - remember it?

By the time I got around to signing up, the league was already full. Damn.

But pure luck being what it is (in addition to whining about not being in the league in front of the right people) I managed to squeeze myself onto a team (much thanks Bubbles and Miss Beers).

Last night was Bowl Portland's opening night at Yankee Lanes (big ball, people. None of that candlepin nonsense). It was 26 lanes (nearly the entirety of the bowling alley) of bowlers. It was a sea of men and women in an array of colored team shirts, high fiving and woo-hooing in anticipation.

Bowlers got crafty with their team names: From Hyper-Bowl-E to Great Lost Spares to Alley-Gash Rollers to Three Fingered Willies to my team, The Incredi-bowls. And within each team, each bowler picked his/her official bowling name.

I went with Shank (Shannon + my middle initial = Shank) because I though the prison yard connotation would send opponents into a panic. I plan to enhance the effect by tucking a sharpened toothbrush into my shirt pocket and penciling in teardrops under my right eye (three…one for each of the bowlers I've offed in the past).

It seems there was a mix-up, however, and last night I ended up with a shirt donning the nickname Silver Fox. "Silver Fox" isn't quite as menacing as a prison stabbing, but I'll make it work until the Shank shirt comes in.

Beers were purchased in preparation - and done so easily thanks to the ingenious beer window opening into the alley bar (it was also conveniently placed 15 feet from our lane).



We each took a few practice rolls to perfect our form.

Here's an example from Boston of the "I'mma touch the sky" roll, also known as the Sistine Chapel.



Boobs McGee went with the "pat down" stance, but made it her own by only lifting her arms slightly.



I went with the "jazz hands" toss, not to be confused with the "big foot spotting" roll in which the bowler looks over his/her shoulder when releasing the ball.


And so we bowled. Our opponents, Derelict My Balls, were hearty competition. But the folks on my team were gifted rollers. I mean, a few of us broke 100. We were just that good. We took all five points in game one, though My Balls took points in game two. But the one point we won in the final game was enough to launch us into the winners circle.

That's right. We won. I think this Bowl Portland thing is going to be a fine way to spend these wintry Tuesday Nights.

And while the Bowl Portland league is full, that shouldn't stop you from forming your own dang team (with matching jerseys, perverted names and all) and heading over to Yankee Lanes for some back alley entertainment. The pitchers of PBR are cheap, the shoes are solid and the renovated Port City Sports Bar has enough flat screens to line Fore Street from Una to Rosie's.

Read Amy Martin's Bar Guide review of the sports bar

And did I mention the Friday night karaoke?

Pub crawl? Nonsense! Pub run with the Hash House Harriers

Yesterday afternoon my pal Andrea and I stood at the curb, shin-deep in snow, waiting for the light to change. A car drove by, topped with a pair of surfboards strapped to the roof, and Andrea and I both wondered if the duo inside were on day pass from a local institution. "Where are they going? It's freezing out," she said.

But then, we were on our way to run three miles in the snow (and the cold and the wind) for no good reason whatsoever, leaving us little room to point the "crazy" finger.

We were off to Ruski's to meet up with the new Portland contingent of the Hash House Harriers. Best known for being a "drinking group with a running problem," hash members, it seems, retain two qualities: they're okay runners and great drinkers. Some of them might even be great runners, but that's not what hashing is about.

"We all have special names and offices, we have weird, embarrassing initiation rituals and strange traditions, and it's really...about getting people together and having fun." So says the Portland Hashers co-founder - who prefers to be referred to by his hash name, "I can't believe it's not butt hare."

The Portland Hashers came to fruition this past November and now have about nine runs under their belt, each starting and ending at a Portland bar. And while hashing in other cities and countries has been going on for decades, this Portland group is still in its infancy. Traditions are still being established.

But the essential concept is simple: A "hare" runs out first, marking a trail along the way. The rest of the pack follows suit, keeping an eye out for marks that indicate the correct path.

Everybody runs (some - ahem - slightly slower than the others) and the trail ends at a local watering hole. They start at a local watering hole too. And sometimes you stop halfway at - you guessed it - a local watering hole.


On the trail, an arrow is what you think it is. It points the direction. In drier weather, the trail might be marked in chalk, but yesterday's hare chose red Gatorade. It was a brilliant idea - aside from the few marks lost to the tragic pitfalls of post-storm snow plowing.

But when you do spot an arrow, yelling "On on!" alerts the pack behind you that an arrow's been spotted and you're headed the right direction.

But then, sometimes you discover that you're not headed in the right direction at all. This mark means, essentially, "Ha ha. You're going the wrong way." Then it's time to turn around to try again.

And while it may seem frustrating for those fast runners at the front of the pack (I wouldn't know, I've never been one of them) it's a welcome opportunity for the rest of us to catch up...and pant and clutch our quads in pain.

Yesterday we did get lost about halfway through, so I took the time to talk my legs out of a disturbing suicide pact they'd apparently agreed upon as I ran down Fore Street.

The lungs chimed in, not being at all pleased with the 19-degree temperatures, but were still altogether grateful for the fresh air.

But my feet, of all things, felt fine. Or maybe they didn't feel anything. Climbing over mounds of piled snow and running through slushy streets might've set them to go numb way back at the start.



So why, then, would anyone do this?

There's always the bar to look forward too, of course. And that feeling of accomplishment, if you're into that sort of thing. But mostly it's the bar.

And there's something to be said for weirding out the locals with on-the-street antics and inappropriate attire (though, admittedly, this run was under fairly decent control).

But hashing also a stellar way to meet new people who share a penchant for the run and a love of the drink. As I was told, "It's a great way to meet people. Not much makes a group of strangers bond faster than collectively making an ass of themselves."

So, so true. I've met some of my favorite people that way.

Once back at Ruski's, and after we'd each warmed up with our beverage of choice, the group went outside for the hash circle. I'd like to describe the goings-on, but it's really something you should experience without being tainted by my description.

Let it suffice to say that crude drinking songs and mockery were involved - all in good fun, of course.

While the basics are simple, hashing has its own set of intricacies - the kind that take more than one hash run to understand. But based on my first-timer experience, I'd say you're well prepared with some decent shoes, $10 for the bar and a healthy sense of humor.

The next run is Saturday, Jan 17 at 2:30 pm, starting at the Front Room on Munjoy Hill.

For more info, or to get the e-mail blast about upcoming hashes, contact the folks in charge: portlandhashers@gmail.com

Or take a gander at the Portland Hashers Facebook page