Musicians we remember, hair we'd like to forget: Legends of Rock-Offs past

Sure, Ray Lamontagne is selling out live shows all over the place now. But not all that long ago he was just another kid ditching class and brawling in the halls of a Morgan, Utah high school.

Maybe his biology teacher (who secretly rocked out to Bad English and considered himself a "with it" kind of fellow) thought he recognized a glimmer of musical direction in the kid. Or maybe he wondered if this Lamontagne boy would ever get his stuff together and at least graduate - maybe hit up a trade school and learn a skill or something.

It's a wonder what a high schooler might become. But it's a safe bet that most of our now-famous rockstars, crooners and singer-songwriters were once just unknown kids in a band, jamming with their pals in a skanky basement in the suburbs of some unknown town.

Thank God for skanky basements in the suburbs.

And bless things like Maine's Reindeer Rock-Off - the annual battle-of-the bands event - for giving high school bands the stage. True, many of the Rock-Off bands go their separate ways after high school (or sooner - it's a volatile time, high school is). Guitars are replaced by medical school entrance exams and drummers put down the sticks to take jobs in the family business.

But every now and then the music stays. And every now and then we get to say, "We remember them when..."

For the last 25 years, Rock-Off has given high school bands across Maine the chance to compete for cash and/or recording prizes, as well at the title "Best High School Band in Maine." For the last ten or so of those years, MaineToday.com has played an online role - posting band information, photos, music clips and whatnot.

This being the final year, Rock-Off Director Louis Philippe passed along a stack of old photos and newspaper clippings collected from over the years. Hilarious stuff, flashbacks to hair of yesteryear (and to the folks who were in Portland long before I was, remember a free entertainment publication called "Sweet Potato?")

But there are a few faces from Rock-Off past that many of us might recognize.

Take these guys. Anyone look familiar?

That'd be Howie Day on the bottom there with his buddies from "Route 66" circa 1996. Heard of 'em, right?

How 'bout these rockinish kids?

That's Jon Roods in the hat, Dave Gutter with no hat and Matthew Esty on the drums in the band Aces Wild in 1991. You'd know Jon and Dave better now as members of Rustic Overtones.

Of course, not all the Rock-Off bands went on to find musical fame and glory. But their old-school photos are a riot anyhow. And hey, one of these kids might be your insurance agent or next door neighbor now.

The band Trooper sporting the always classy leopard print back in 1987.

Under Fire (under all that hair, I'm guessing).

It's a shame all the Rock-Off has to come to an end, but Louie's putting his energy into other projects in the months and years ahead. But should there be anyone out there inclined to pick up the Rock-Off baton, please do.

Because Maine's got musical talent. And music makes the world go 'round, at least in a more audibly pleasing fashion.

Check out this year's Rock-Off lineup and show these kids some love. (because in ten years, when they've skyrocketed into stardom, you might need to borrow some cash. Get on their good sides NOW).

Last Stop in Auburn: BYOB and possibly get hooked

The problem with Chuck E. Cheese, of course, is that all those kids monopolize the games.

I've stood for 30 minutes or more waiting to get my club on Whack-A-Mole.

Sure, there's Dave & Buster's. But that joint only works if you happen to be in the Rhode Island area. For most of us, the commute from Maine isn't worth it.

But hark! There, just up I-95 in Auburn, it's the BYOB sanctuary Last Stop. Can you see it?

It may appear to be just another average convenience store, but turn the corner and find your way to the Last Stop doors.

Last Stop is a medley of pool tables, giant Jenga, giant Connect Four, beer pong and video games. Each room divulges yet another oversized game or thing-to-do. In yet another room, I was informed, we would find an inflatable boxing ring. Duos can don monstrous inflatable boxing gloves on knock the dickens out of each other...without actually causing one another to bleed.


We opted to stick with a game of Jenga to start - there's less punching.

There are two giant Jenga setups, positioned smack dab in the path of people passing from the beer pong room to, say, the dance floor. (Oh yes, there's also a dance floor.)

In this game of Jenga, you're battling physics, gravity and clumsy patrons.


One friend and I stepped over to the giant Connect Four, constructed of wood.

Ah, the memories of childhood! I hadn't played Connect Four since I was about six, when the game probably felt just as huge. Of course I hadn't started drinking quite yet then, so the experience had a whole new feel.


Some other friends took advantage of an open beer pong table. (To clarify, the cups are filled with water, per liquor licensing guidelines.) But that didn't hinder the competitive spirits. There's also a handful of tables and chairs here, for folks too exhausted from a riotous round of Duck Hunter to stand any longer.

We soon found out that the boxing ring that typically settles into the next room on Saturday Nights wasn't there. Instead, we discovered tattoo artists from Artistic Creations Tattoos (in Auburn) stationed there.

Behind their table, a nearly sheer parachute hung from a construction of wood beams. I could barely make out something inside. So I asked, "Mind if I peak under?"

And there, under the draped fabric, hung a harness. No piercing chair, no tattoo guns. A harness.

Turns out, these guys offer customers more than a permanent depiction of your girlfriend's face rendered on the canvas of your skin.

They'll obligingly put hooks into the flesh of your back and hang you, three feet from the ground, from said beams. [Like this example. Careful, it ain't for the faint of stomach.]

Unsanitary conditions being what they are in a bar, no skin hooking was done here. Instead, they invited anyone who was willing to get into the harness and dangle from the beams to get an idea of what the whole hook-hanging experience was like.

I tend to think hanging from a harness is probably quite different than hanging from your own pierced and stretched back skin, but then it's been a long time since I've dangled from hooks of any sort.

But hey, the $5 "donation to dangle" went to a Lewiston animal shelter. Not a bad excuse to hang - and spin - for all of Last Stop to see.


In case you didn't catch the BYOB reference earlier, let me mention it again. Last Stop is BYOB. Grab a bottle or two of your beloved brew, shove 'em in a small cooler and you're set for the night. No messing with bar tabs, $5 drafts or waiting in line.

We spotted one fellow pulling around a cooler on wheels. Accommodating? Of course. Mildly excessive? Absolutely.

I have no idea what the folks with the gallon of milk were concocting at a nearby table. Mudslides? An Allen's Sombrero? No matter, it's all welcome here. And if you forget your favorite ale at home, never fear. Just pop into the conveniently attached convenience store.

And while all the game-playing is free, there is a $10 cover to step foot in the place. On Saturdays, ladies get in free before 9 pm or pay $5 between 9-10 pm. It's $10, just like the boys, after 10 pm.

Check out Last Stop's MySpace page for more info.

Snowman Adventure: It's all downhill from here

I know what you were thinking Saturday morning.

You were thinking, "Heck, looks like a fine day to grab a sled and run up the East End hill, slide down at lightning speed, then bike around the Back Cove, pass a baton to a cohort who then runs back up the hill with the sled, slides down with the same gusto, then runs 2.25 miles and when he/she gets back we'll both hop onto our trusty sled and slide to the finish."

Maybe the sun puts silly ideas like that into your head.

If you did all those things Saturday, you were likely part of the weekend's Snowman Adventure Race. (Or very perplexed by all those costumed duos who totally stole your awesome idea and overtook the Eastern Prom.)

If instead you brushed those thoughts from your noggin, rolled over in bed and dropped back into a warm sleep, well then you missed out.

I hope the heavy regret doesn't hinder your future happiness.

But for the nearly 50 teams that showed up, sled in hand, at the East End parking lot Saturday, dreams came to fruition.

Casco Bay Sports' Snowman Adventure Race is a two-person relay (one person bikes, one runs, both have to jet up the hill with a sled and slide down to start their leg of the race).

These are serious athletes, folks. Athletes who wore costumes of mullet wigs, beer cans and pillows. Athletes who named their teams things like, "No Tampon for Old Men," "Two Hot Beeoches" and "Multiple Scorgasm."



My team, "Better off Sled" barely made it to the starting line, with me forgetting the all-important sled and my teammate forgetting her helmet (a race requirement).

But when 11:00 am founds its way to Maine, we were ready. The bikers were in charge of the first leg, and when "Go!" was shouted over the anxious teams, they bolted up the East End hill.



Then slid down it.

And off they went to bike the Back Cove. While they navigated the puddles of mud, sheets of ice and piles of crusted snow, we runners and spectators huddled near the heaters under the tent and waited.

When the first bikers started returning, it was clear they were having a rough go of it. Mud sprays spotted their clothes and faces. Most, it seemed, had wiped out at least once. Several collided. All were altogether spent by the time they passed the baton.


It was time for the runners to take on that hill. And I started up, with our tube flapping in the wind, with the utmost gusto. But half the way up my energy waned - and I started walking. No, "trudging" is a better word. At the top, breathless, I threw the tube down and looked down the hill, which was suddenly steeper than I remembered it.

The East End must be on a fault line - and plate tectonics was having its way with the the altitude.

But sliding I went - and wow, I'd forgotten what a winter delight downhill sledding is.

Some runners, despite their fresh enthusiasm, were halted by a passing train. Just the world's way of holding back the fast people so we slow pokes can catch up, if only temporarily.

The run took us down to the East End trail toward Portland Company, then up to Fore Street. And just as I was plodding past St. Lawrence Street I realized that I had spoken to soon when I'd thanked the heavens for not putting me on a bike. Sure, the bikers fell down a lot and were covered in mud, but have you ever tried to run up Fore Street?

I don't mean to be dramatic or anything, but it's akin to dying.



Back at the East End, teammates and sleds were waiting at the top of the hill. I found my Better off Sled partner and together we tubed to the finish line.

Another team of friends close behind managed to pop their tube on the way down. Mine, it seems, is dying a slow death in the middle of my family room. These are the sacrifices we make to the Snowman Adventure Gods.

Post-race, we were treated to soups from Maine Squeeze Juice Cafe and took some time to warm up (or cool down, depending).

Then off to Ri Ra where a spread of chicken wings, potato cakes and spinach dip awaited. Oh, and the celebratory drinks, of course.

Awards were given, including Best Team Name, which went to Victorious Angels.

Looking at the results board, we saw that "Over Forty & Still Naughty" had beat us by 20 minutes.

Of course they did.

Our finishing time? Well that's not really all that important, is it? It's not about the TIME. It's about the EXPERIENCE. Yea, that's it. The experience.

But what an experience it was. And race proceeds went to Portland Trails - who's going to knock that?

If you missed it this year, consider yourself warned. We expect to see you, decked out in feathers or garbage bags, at Snowman Adventure 2010.

Check out the Snowman Adventure Race participants

Check out Casco Bay Sports for upcoming events & leagues

Impressed (and slightly reprimanded) at Port City Music Hall

The paint has been dry and the liquor stocked for weeks now at Port City Music Hall. But despite my earnest curiosity, I still hadn't been in the place.

I walked past it nearly every day and could only imagine what wonders lay beyond the black & white show posters in the Congress Street windows. (With a little help from the under construction sneak peaks from Hilly Town and Avery Yale Kamila.)

Destiny finally took charge - because I wasn't being "proactive" enough, or so I was told - and I found myself with ticket in hand at the Port City Music Hall doors last night.

When we walked in, Vermont-based Jazz Mandolin Project was putting the acoustics to the test on stage - and the hall was packed. I didn't recognize that once-a-club space that was formerly part of The Stadium.

High-top tables and couches filled the bar area, which was ambiently lit by dozens of rectangular light panels lining the walls from floor to ceiling (and that ceiling is a high one. Like rock gym high).

Most music venues still carry the scars from years of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. But Port City Music Hall feels shwanky. You could even still smell the fresh varnish - and your feet don't even stick to the floor. Bonus.

It's dark, too. The kind of dark that still allows you to see the general outline of a face, but that's dark enough that you can't tell if that guy at the bar is your 32-year-old former coworker or a 62-year-old stranger. The staring, of course, doesn't help confirm one way or another and ultimately just ends up frightening people.

I did my best to capture a few slightly blurred but usable photos (so's I could share this virgin venture with you, of course) but was interrupted mid-snap by Port City security.

It's a photo-free show, I was informed. That fact is noted on the Congress Street windows. You know, the ones I walk past every day.

"Sorry, I had no idea," I said. It wasn't my intention to break house rules.

A friend standing nearby stepped in. "She's press," she said, hoping to smooth things over.

"Yes," I thought. "I'm Shannon. You might remember me from the literary prowess of Couch to Beacon '08 or the ceiling-dangling mastery evidenced on the current cover of Switch. I'm just spilling over with credibility."

Instead I apologized again and tucked my camera away. The security guy was thoroughly polite about it and I felt like a supreme jerk for not reading the signs. Plus I liked the place so far and I didn't care to land myself on the "banned" list just yet. All in good time, folks.

So we cut our way into the crowd to enjoy the show. The Jazz Mandolin Project, while normally a trio, was backed by drummer Jon Fishman of Phish fame.

I also found out that Mr. Fishman calls Maine home these days. One person last night insisted he lived in Belfast, though Google tells me it's Lincolnville. I don't know who to believe. My informant is herself living in Belfast (though hadn't yet had a Fishman sighting) and Google has lied to me before (but we've talked it out and remain friends).

Guess I'll not worry over it either way.

But you know who else has ties to Maine (so I discovered through my online Fishman search)? Sir Hiram Stevens Maxim, the inventor of the first portable, fully automatic machine gun. He was born in Sangerville. He's also credited with the "Captive Flying Machine" amusement park ride, which doesn't really make up for the whole machine gun thing, but should count for something.

But I digress.

If you haven't yet had the chance to take in Port City Music Hall, get on it.

Check out the Port City Music Hall Insider for updates on upcoming shows.

Muffled clapping & screwing shoes: all in a winter day's work

MaineToday.com and The Maine Switch compiled a Winter Health & Fitness Guide that went live online this morning. We work well together like that.

Karen took on the spa - because your feet could use some serious attention this time of year. (Forget that "no one sees them but me' nonsense. No matter how thick those socks are, we can still hear their cries for help - albeit muffled.)

Avery rounds up some locally made lotions and whatnots that'll keep the winter itching to a minimum and support our fellow Mainers to boot.

My contribution to the effort was a piece on staying active in the winter. Of the three of us, I'm the most likely to shirk the chill, bundle with fleece and run outside.

I didn't say I do it often. But my sporadic outdoor jaunts still happen to make me the "athlete" of the trio. (Yea, I laughed at the thought too.)

But I was enthusiastic enough about winter running to make a pair of screw shoes a few weeks ago.

Yes, "screw shoes" sounds funny. It sounds like the athletic girl's version of those stilettoed, knee-high boots that are often referred to by another name that I can't use in this blog. (Our company's being sold - we're trying to keep the language on the up and up. At least until the dust settles.)

For someone who's slipped, crashed and otherwise harmed myself on a devilish patch of ice, running in the winter can be a daunting idea. So when I got wind of these here screw shoes (thanks to Ian Parlin of Trail Monster Running who spoke at Maine Running Company last year) I decided to give them a whirl.

The concept is simple: Get some screws. Put them in the shoes.

The screws have a crampon effect, making a slip and tumble on the ice a least somewhat less likely. The downside is they're quite slippery (and floor damaging) when worn indoors. So don't wear them indoors, even though you think they make a nice taping sound and you fancy you might have a Gregory Hines-level of tap dancing talent.

I had intended on running the Polar Bear 5K last Saturday with my screw-free shoes, but I procrastinated the registration and the race filled up. "Oh, darn" I said when I heard I'd missed the window of opportunity. But I was partially relieved.

I wanted to run jog it, but I also didn't.

Instead, a friend and I opted to volunteer at the event (she - being the noble sort - had offered her bib number to her brother who had also failed to register in time).

Perks to volunteering at road races:

1. You get to say things like, "Have a good run" and "Unfortunately you didn't register in time for a shirt. I'm very sorry. It's out of my hands. Please stop scowling at me like that. OK, here, you can have mine."

2. When the starting gun goes off and everyone starts running, you get to hang back and not run.

3. You not only get to cross the finish line, you get to hang out at it and high five every runner (or at least try). If someone could come up with a clappable pair of gloves for winter run spectators, that'd be lovely. Clapping in wool mittens is kind of a let down.

4. If you think ahead and dress in running attire, you can linger amongst the runners after the race and everyone will think you just ran that 5K, 10K or Iron Man too. Only you will know the truth, but folks like us aren't bothered by a wee bit of innocent trickery, right?

Downtown Showdown: A staircase livens the Square

During the summer, Monument Square sees a good deal of action. Lunchers linger at the outdoor tables in front of David's and high schoolers shirk the "Stay Off The Grass" signs to hang out at the feet of Our Lady of Victories.

But during these dormant winter months - from just after the Christmas tree is carted away without much fanfare to just before the farmer's market brings fresh evidence of the impending spring in April - not much happens in the Square.

The only noticeable activity seems to be the incrementally growing or shrinking heaps of plowed snow that have built up there over the last few months.

And while it's maybe occurred to you that those mounds of snow could enable one crazy intricate fort-building competition, someone had a better idea.

Someone saw that growing mound of snow and thought, "A snowy mountain in the middle of the city. Now there's an idea." Or at least that's how I imagine the Downtown Showdown came to fruition.

The Downtown Showdown brought skiers and snowboarders to Monument Square on Saturday evening. It was the finale in a stream of events that made up the WinteRush Festival. Sixteen boarders and 16 skiers competed for cash and prizes - and we all got to watch.

Of course no one took a dive off the crusty piles of dirty snow already stationed there. Instead a city-sanctioned 30-foot staircase was built and good snow was brought in, courtesy of Sugarloaf and Sunday River. And there, in the middle of the square, a miniature mountain rose up.

The competitors came from all over - including some locals - and showed off their mastery of the rails. Uninformed onlookers got to learn phrases like front slide, back slide and hot garbage.

The skiers had the added pressure of a possible "groin incident." A few found themselves straddling the rail - and every competitor found him/herself toppling over in some fashion.

Despite the cold, there was a hearty crowd in attendance appreciating the stunts and the DJ'd music. Some folks discovered the parking garage offered decent views too.

Richie Paradise [pictured] won the freeskier portion and left Monument Square $500 richer and wearing a $900 Oakley watch. Local guy Tristan Corriveau placed first for the boarders because hey, Portland's got talent.

I admittedly hoped event organizers would leave the staircase in place for a few days - you know, to give us staircase novices a chance to try it out. But I suppose nothing kills an event faster than an amateur cracking his/her head open in the middle of the Square.

Guess I'll leave it to the guys who know what they're doing - and watch again next year from the safety of the firm ground.

On Valentine's Day, a kiss is a kiss at Planet Dog

Ah, Valentine's Day. No other holiday inspires so much romance...and bitterness.

For coupled folks out there, the day might imply a decent dinner (maybe even at a place that uses table cloths - and not even the plastic ones!) or a fist-full of flowers topped by a sweetly worded card.

Or the day might come and go as the others do because, hey, you've been loving on each other for months or years now and you don't need no stinkin' holiday telling you what to do.

Uncoupled people tend toward two camps: Ignoring Valentine's Day altogether or actively hating it. One friend of mine insists on calling it "Independence Day" as a way of professing her proud singlehood.

But last night's Planet Dog Canine Cocktail Party proved that some of us have the notion of Valentine's Day all wrong.

Forget the dinners and the heart-shaped chocolate. Not that there's anything wrong with chocolate - it's a fine treat to be sure. But the heart of Valentine's Day is really the L-O-V-E.

And you probably have some pretty decent L-O-V-E hanging around whether you realize it or not. Perhaps hanging around right at your feet, in the shape of a four-legged, contentedly panting dog.

Love was in the air during last night's canine-centered Valentine's party. There were treats for the pooches and beer and finger foods for the human attendees. But really, we all were there for the Kissing Contest - an opportunity for dogs and dog owners to show their sloppy affection for one another and maybe win the coveted title of "Best Kiss."

Some were clearly uncomfortable with the PDA - deciding instead to turn their snouts and/or look worriedly at the odd crowd of people watching (what are those people looking at?!).

Most of the dogs were too enthralled with all the activity and new smells to pay their human companions much attention.

But a handful were able to shirk the distractions, remain focused and execute a medal-worthy licking performance.

Some dogs went the sweet and gentle route.



Some chose the impressive, though hard to master "Tongue in the Eye."



Some dogs and their owners couldn't get enough of each other, even after their time in the kissing spotlight was over.



But only one canine could reign champion. He is Stewart. And he's a licking force to be reckoned with.


So maybe no one's taking you out to Back Bay Grille on Saturday. Maybe you won't awake to cherubs sprinkling rose petals on your bed. But I bet there's someone - human, canine or otherwise - happy to share some L-O-V-E with you this weekend.

All the Kissing Contest photos on MainePets.com

Just for the smelt of it

Actually, I went smelting just for the ice shack of it.

I haven't fished - on ice or otherwise - since my brother and I were little. We'd catch bluegill from a local pond using nothing but our lightning-fast reflexes and a Slurpee cup with holes poked into the bottom.

Given my inexperience, I opted to keep the fishing haul expectations to a minimum.

Some friends and I headed north to Leighton's Smelt Camp on Monday night to experience the winter joy of smelting. My two cohorts had first-hand knowledge of the smelt experience but left me fairly in the dark regarding what to expect.

I knew there'd be an ice shack. And as we pulled the car up along the Abagadasset River in Bowdoinham, I spotted the small smelting village lit up and still on the frozen water.


We paid at the office ($16 per person), bought some bait ($5) and we were led out onto the ice to our smelting home: Shack #8.

Unlike ice fishing shacks I've seen in the past, there's no circular hole drilled into the ice floor. Instead, two troughs are cut from the ice - one on each side running the length of the shack. A dozen lines dangled from a length of wood mounted to each wall with flexible cords.

There was enough room for three of us to sit and move around - but I didn't move much at first. If anyone's leg was going to end up knee-deep in the frozen waters of the Abagadasset, it was going to be mine.

It didn't help matters when one friend regaled a story about his uncle getting a li'l too tipsy one smelting evening and falling off his chair - straight into the trough, as luck would have it. His pals were kind enough to make sure he didn't sink.

I decided to forgo the Geary's for the time being - just to be safe.

Instead, I worked the bloodworm. If you've never seen a bloodworm, I can attest that they look nothing like their gentler, innocuous-looking earthworm cousins. These bristly, wriggling creatures are the thing of childhood nightmares (or adult ones. I've had "Tremors" flashbacks for two days).

But then again, they're just worms. And ain't nobody gon' call me a coward. So I picked up a worm piece (cut into segments for maximum bloodworm usage) and baited the first hook like I'd be smelting since birth. And I only grimaced a little.

After all the hooks were baited and lowered into the water, it was time to...wait.

Fishing for smelts doesn't really involve a whole lot of "fishing" in the traditional sense. It's more of a "play cards, drink beer, tell dirty jokes" kind of sport.

We ate some grub, shared a few stories and sporadically checked our lines to make sure that, yes, the bait's still there and no, there aren't any fish.

We spent some time haggling with the fickle wood stove too, which raged one minute and fell asleep the next.


And then - a line moved! My friend pulled it up and sure enough, he'd caught a smelt. A minute later, another one! "Must be a school coming through," he said.

I turned to my lines and watched. A boat-load of smelt were likely darting through the dark water below the shack. Any minute now and they'd go after the bloodworm bits dangling from my lines. I'd struggle to keep up, with five, six, seven lines moving in the water, the hooked fish circling below and knotting them up.

Yea, any minute now...

But nothing happened. So we returned to our ice shack conversation with one fish, two fish to show for our efforts.

A fellow from a neighboring shack knocked on the door and stepped in.
"Catch anything?" he inquired in typical fisherman fashion. He peeked into the bucket. "Last week we were bringin' home buckets of 'em. But the full moon ain't gonna help nobody tonight."

He wished us luck at any rate and a moment later we heard him questioning the folks in shack #9.

My friend informed me that, "no matter what, the fishing was always better last week - at least that's the story you'll get." He noted he'd caught plenty of fish during a full moon before (all last week, I'm sure).


But the world rewards good effort, and by the end of the night I'd caught a whopping haul:

Absolutely nothing.

Seriously, not one single fish.

So the three of us left with two smelts. My friend did the math: $48 to rent the shack for 6 hours ($16 per person) and $5 for bait means those two fish cost us $26.50 a piece. That's some pricey fish.

Some might even say not worth the money or the effort. But I'd have to disagree. The entire evening was worth it.

For more info:
Leighton's Smelt Camp in Bowdoinham

Other Maine smelt camps

Regular ol' ice fishin' info on MaineOutdoorJournal.com

Winter runs (and so do I)

I've never called myself a "runner." Even during those two consecutive summers that I trained for and ran the Beach to Beacon, I considered the endeavor one of complete absurdity. I mean me - NOT a runner - training for a 10K. That's what made it funny.

In high school I spent a portion of my freshman year wearing shin guards, loitering on a field in front of a soccer goal. But I never dared to refer to myself as a "soccer player."

True soccer players love the game, train to improve and don't ask the coach if they can be goalie just so they don't have to run as much.

See, nouns like "runner" or "athlete" or "night stalker" have certain implications. They indicate a lifestyle, a passion, maybe even a talent. They raise expectations as to how fast you move or how well you can disguise yourself behind residential landscaping.

"Runners," in theory, run often and run well.

I do neither.

So no, I'm not a runner. But for some reason I sometimes find myself running anyway.

I've already blogged about the Portland contingent of the Hash House Harries (officially dubbed "Pour-Me"). It's an excellent excuse to get motivated during a season that makes it so easy to...well, nap. But if you don't like ending your runs with dirty drinking songs and inquisitions into your sex life, there are plenty of other runs to get your feet moving.

Polar Bear 5K: Feb 14th

Yes, it's Valentine's Day. And sure, being greeted in the morning with flowers and an original sonnet (read aloud and backed by a violinist) is one way to get your heart racing. But should you suspect that that might not be how your Feb 14th is going to begin, why not do something good for yourself?

You could down a vodka millkshake instead, if that's part of your journey, but I think you deserve better than that.

All the Polar Bear 5K info

The Snowman Adventure Race: Feb 21st

Four words: A sled is involved. The two-man relay starts on the Eastern Prom and requires racers to take a sled down the East End hill. One person runs 2.25 miles, the other bikes 4.5. Post-race soups from Maine Squeeze will help deter the chill. And a post-race happy hour at Ri-Ra will supply the drinkable reward.

And heads up: Race director Patrick Hackleman tells me that you might feel out of place without a costume. So prepare yourselves.

All the Snowman Adventure info

Pineland Farms Winter Tri: March 1st

This ain't your momma's triathlon. It's a 4K snowshoe run, 10K mountain bike (on roads) and 8K cross-country ski. I think we've all harbored a few fantasies about running in snowshoes. There's just something graceful and courtly about it.

You can enter as an individual or get some pals together for a relay.

All the Pineland Farms Tri info

Irish Road Rover 5K: March 8th

This St. Patrick's Day-inspired 5K has been running (pun intended) for over a decade. The course heads up India Street to the Eastern Prom, loops back and ends agreeably close to Brian Boru.

I'm just sayin'.

All the Irish Road Rover info

Don't fancy yourself a runner? Me neither. But I'm running 'em anyway.

Running with Scissors: Highly improv-able

Local improv comedy group Running with Scissors (not to be confused with Augusten Burroughs' family of lunatics) brought some improv action to the Comedy Connection this weekend.

I've always considered improv the highest form of comedy.

Stand-ups have the luxury of an often well-practiced set of jokes (not that that really makes it any easier) and the only time the audience gets involved is when said comic decides to mock someone in it (not that there's anything wrong with that).

But improv is off-the-cuff, unplanned, dynamic.

It's like the difference between following a recipe and mixing five randomly selected items from your fridge in a pan and baking up the concoction.

Sure, with a recipe you know exactly what you're going to get. And who doesn't love a well-prepared green bean casserole?

But there's something thrilling about that random goulash. It could go either way: an evening of debilitating stomach cramps or you, rightfully accepting your place as America's Next Top Refrigerator Chef.

Running with Scissors improv relies on suggestions from the audience for each skit. You might be asked to supply a location (someone always yells "gay bar") or a personal issue (yes, yes, "Tourettes" is very original).

If you're brave enough to volunteer, you might get to guide the skit with your own injection of comic brilliance. Or at the very least, make funny noises as a "Jeopardy" buzzer.


But Running with Scissors improv isn't entirely blind comedy. They have the benefit of having some ridiculously funny people in charge.

Thus the result will always include some belly-shaking laughter. Or at least some chuckling, if you're one of those prudishly reserved people.

If you missed the improv this weekend, don't punish yourself (seriously, put down that stapler). You can catch a FREE Running with Scissors comedy event at Flask Lounge, Portland on Feb 18th at 8 pm.

Running with Scissors showcases the improvable comedy of
Rachel Flehinger [also of Acorn acting class fame] and Tuck Tucker and Dennis Hunt [also of C.I.A. improv fame]. Brent Askari [also of Mad Horse Productions fame] also sits in on occasion.

FMI: Running with Scissors on MySpace