Throw Sharpies without getting fired: Office Olympics at Jimmy the Greeks

Bosses typically don't have the best senses of humor around the office (mine not included, of course. He's simply the wittiest fellow in the building - the city - the state! And I'm not just saying that because he might read this. And I'm definitely not saying that to protect myself during any potential "sale" or so-called "layoffs.")

But most bosses would be less than impressed to discover you and a colleague had chosen to play an intense round of "white board magnet toss" to decide who was going to change the ink cartridge in the department printer.

Should a Friday afternoon office meeting devolve into Red Rover, Red Rover...well, HR might get called.

In the defense of office antics I must remind managers, directors and VPs across the state: Times are tough. The economy's in the crapper and unemployment is running as sticky and deep as the spring mud. We little workers need to blow off some steam. Shake it off. Laugh a little, even if it requires the sacrifice of a few trusty and hardworking staplers.

Maybe your office environment allows for a game of Extreme CD-RW Frisbee. Or maybe that kind of behavior isn't appreciated by your ER patients, political constituents or fellow librarians. So what then?

Enter Office Olympics at Jimmy the Greeks.

Every Friday from 6-8 pm, the folks at the Old Orchard Beach restaurant/bar set up a round of Olympic-level games like Sharpie darts and Wii bowling. Teams of four (officemates, friends or fellow unemployed) compete against one another for the title of Office Olympics Champion.

Last Friday, the games were kicked off with the announcement, "We're celebrating today. We have new bathrooms!" [Insert sincere applause].

My group's fourth still hadn't arrived when we were told the games' first event would be one-on-one Twister. After an exchange of "not it" went around, we three agreed that our late-arriving fourth would do the honors. We're good friends like that.

Victoria took the no-holds-barred round of Twister in stride and won (though not without a fight).

My team picked up a few more points during the mini-golf round (we call it putt-putt where I'm from, but it's hard to argue terminology with a plastic, child-sized club in your hands).

The final event, Office Chair Obstacle Course, was by far the fiercest of the night's competitions.

My team caused a rumble of mid-game protestations from opposing teams because we (read: I) failed to put the box of markers in the chair behind us as required by game guidelines.

Obstacle faux pas aside, we still we slipped into the finals. But following game rules was too much to bear and we lost time by not cheating.

The winning team continues their month-long reign.

So today, as you swivel restlessly in your desk chair and muse over the potential of "52 Paperclip PickUp," let me offer you an alternative. Let the office supplies be. Rescue your manager from the effort of reprimanding you. She may thank you later by, say, not pushing your name to the top of the "Fireable" list.

Save the Sharpie Darts for Jimmy's. Office Olympics continues through April.

Facial hair reigns during Stache Pag '09

SATURDAY'S 'STACH PAG' SHOWCASED A CORNUCOPIA OF WHISKERS, BOTH GRAND AND HUMBLE.

Ahem. Sorry for yelling.

It's just that my ears are still ringing from the "audience applause" portion of the contest (the audience, you see, was abundant with its enthusiasm).

The Stache Pag is "dedicated to March Moustache Madness and the importance of men growing moustaches."

Why? Because they can.

Novare Res was packed to the ceilings for the 2009 Stache Pag. I'm not hyperbolizing here. There were, quite literally, people pressed up against the ceiling.

Amid the crowd lingered painted 'staches and twirled 'staches.

Delicate wisps of 'staches and full-on muttonchops.

For men who felt lacking among the sea of 'staches, paper "mustaches on a stick" helped bridge the gap.

And regardless of the shape or ferocity of the mustache, every contestant billowed with facial-hair pride.

The mustached contenders lined up based on three contest categories: The Magnum P.I., The Uncle Rico and The Thigh Tickler.

Judges based their scoring on areas such as: exemplification of category, fullness, grooming, touch and full ensemble.

Once the judges narrowed the field to four finalists, contestants participated in a handful of final-round competitions including the Stache Strut and Rapid-Fire Five-Second Statue.

And, of course, the Drink of Stout:

Crowd applause ultimately helped decide the winners - and applause there was. Along with whistling, screaming and overall woohooing. The room seemed to rattle with the explosive ovations.

Winners walked (or strutted) away with champion titles, mustache honor and a stellar trophy.

Albeit some fellows (and yes, a few women) probably spoke a solemn goodbye and shaved off their mustache companions the next morning. But the memories? Those will live forever.

Check out The Stache Pag website for details on the event.

More Stache Pag photos

A remedy for winter's unsightly aftereffects: Quest for your Best contest

Remember when you were in high school and you threw that raucous shindig when your parents skipped town for the weekend?

It was a grand time, to be sure, until you surveyed the damage the morning after.

The lawn muddied and trampled. The floor sticky with spilled beer and…what is that? Nacho chips crammed into mom's potpourri containers. And of course the enormous, unexplained hole in the bathroom wall.

You had some 'splainin' to do when the folks got back. Suddenly the festivities didn't seem quite worth the impending repercussions.

Well, that's essentially how I feel about my body right now.

In essence, I haven't been very kind to my house lately.

Even the most elaborate of back-stories isn't going to excuse the disarray.

Instead we're looking at months of hard labor, reconstruction and probably a few apologies.

Scoff if you will. Continue to tell yourself that the closet's been playing a dirty game of size swap with your pants. Tell yourself a little shake in the middle is "in" this season (all your friends are wearin' 'em). Tell yourself that it's perfectly normal to be sore after carrying a gallon of milk through Hannaford.

But I'd venture to say that many of you understand my current predicament more than you'd care to admit. It's cool. It happens. There ain't no shame in it.

Well, maybe a little shame.

But I didn't come here to make you feel bad about you. That's your mother's job. Instead I came with an upside, a silver lining, a remedy for winter's unsightly aftereffects.

It's a contest MaineToday.com launched this morning (in conjunction with Head Games and The Landing) called Quest For Your Best.

The package includes 10 weeks of personal training, nutrition counseling, cardio strength and connected classes and reiki massage at The Landing. And for those who complete the program without skimping, cheating or otherwise going MIA, there's a Head Games makeover awaiting you.

MaineToday.com is picking four winners from the entries we receive in the next two weeks [check the contest page for entry details and a more comprehensive explanation of the program].

The winners will also be writing about their experience on MaineToday through the course of the 10 weeks.

And so will I, because this lucky fool gets to do the program too. (The abs of my future are eternally grateful and honestly won't shut up about it.)

So to you folks who've spent the last four months (or years) squatting to stretch your recently washed jeans, I encourage you to head over to the contest page and enter.

Because your house deserves it. And people pay good money for an in-shape house.

[Note: I'm in no way implying you should sell your proverbial house. Money's tight these day, but there are alternatives.]

Quest for your Best contest

Motley Crue's in town - and apparently running through the streets of Portland

Portlanders, on the whole, aren't an easily frightened people.

I think it has something to do with the eclectic, artistic and atypical population that converges here.

Por ejemplo: The ribbon and fire-twirling folks who sometimes hang out in Post Office Park during the summers. Or the gentlemen who'll create you a larger-than-life scorpion from a roll of tin foil in less than 20 minutes. Or the guy I spot regularly around town speaking loudly to himself in a fake British accent.

We're lucky to have them - those unique locals who keep Portland innerestin'.

One might even say it's a motley sort of crew. (Stay with me. I'm going somewhere with this.)

So when a group of big haired, tightly panted, makeup-wearing 80s rockers are seen running through town for no apparent reason whatsoever, most people aren't all that shocked.

For as the saying goes: Life is like the streets of Portland. You never know what you're going to see.

Of course there was the woman leaving the PMA who wondered aloud, "It's a little early in the day, isn't it?"

And the eight year old who clutched onto her parent's side and asked, "Mommy, what are they doing?"

And the two guys who whipped out their camera phones with the speed of kung fu fighters.

But on the whole, Saturday's Motley Crue Hash Run with the Portland Hash House Harriers was just another day in wonderful, strange Portland.


The run started at Matthew's on Free Street and quickly took a turn toward the West End and then down near the water under the Casco Bay Bridge.

Looking good, guys. Nice belly tattoos. And nice bejeweled groin.

If you're already looking ridiculous - on an afternoon run in 80s regalia - might as well take it all the way with an a capella rendition of "Girls, Girls, Girls."

The folks at Matthew's were altogether welcoming. So much so that a couple of hashers returned to the bar a day later with a blown up group photo.

The photo, I'm told, has been mounted in a place of honor on the wall next to the television.

A lucky runner left the hash with a pair of tickets to Wednesday's Motley Crue show. A well-earned prize for the wig-wearing effort.

More Motley Crue Hash photos

More on Portland's Hash House Harriers

It's officially St. Patrick's Day. The locals have been ceremoniously dipped

The St. Paddy's Day Plunge went off without a hitch at 5:30 am (ie, as far as we know, no one was fatally trampled, frozen or swept out to sea).

Consider the plunge Portland's offical St. Patrick's Day kick-off. And consider it a sign that the locals might be just slightly left of center.

But boldly they rushed forth, half naked and woohooing, into the frigid waters at East End Beach.

A little crazy in action:

Even our friend Tom plunged ahead - with crutches. A noble effort on his part, but he admittedly took down two women with aforementioned aluminum walking aids (by accident, of course).

Aside from the post-plunge glory, St. Patrick's Day dippers were able to bask in the Guinness glow over at Ri Ra. By 6:00 am the bar was fairly well crowded with plungers, spectators and general holiday revelers.

And a fine Irish breakfast they're having over there.

It's St. Patrick's Day people. Expect more of this...all day:

Check out the Bar Guide for a round-up of St. Patrick's Day goings-on around town

Mary's Walk brings do-gooders [and some dark history] out on Main Street

Yesterday morning a crowd overtook the muddy lawn in front of Thornton Academy. Their "Slancha" shirts, laced running shoes and good spirits gave them away straight off.

It was the 11th Annual Mary's Walk/Kerrymen Pub Road Race. And a fine good-feelin' day it was.

The walk, for me and a town's worth of others, has become an annual endeavor. While I never knew Mary Libby (in whose honor the event was created) and I don't have any close friends or family who've met with and battled cancer, the cause is still one I believe in.

Because despite all the bar lounging, potty mouthing and inappropriate conversation starters, I still like to be a do-gooder. At least every once in a while.

So I joined the hundreds of walkers marching down Main Street in Saco. Most donned the Mary's Walk Slancha shirts. Some got into the St. Paddy's spirit with green hats and pants. And I spotted one group of folks walking in Hawaiian shirts and grass skirts.

Feeling altogether altruistic, I decided to sign myself up as a bone marrow donor too. Because if someone can find a good use for my bone marrow, they're welcome to have it. I'll do my best to take care of it until then.

Aside from the paperwork, I was asked to swap the inside of my cheek for the all important DNA. Should a match come up between now and my 61st birthday, I'll be getting a call. Glad to do it.

But Sunday wasn't all free hot dogs and balloon bouquets.

I also got wind of some dark Saco history, thanks to a handy historical marker on the side of the road. Historical markers often grab my attention because I'm into useless information. Not that history is useless - it's just that, well, I seem to have backed myself into a corner here.

So this marker is on Main Street, sitting comfortably close to a quaint white gazebo. I figure there must be some story behind it involving a stoic early settler or heroic Sacoite.

No, it's the story of Mary Bean. She died during a surgery gone awry and her physician tossed her into a Saco brook. The discovery of her body the following spring lead to a widely publicized trial, unearthed secrets and a couple of novels, including The Murder of Mary Bean.

Not the story I expected to run into this weekend, but I guess that's the way the world goes. Communities often have a few bad seeds or an unfortunate past. But judging by today's Main Street, flooded with good-spirited people and some welcome good weather, I'm still optimistic about the direction Southern Maine is headed.

Pastie in Portland: A night of Burlesque

The prudish ought to cover their eyes, divert their attention or otherwise set sail for places more Victorian.

When I say pastie, I'm not referring to the under-sunned and nearly translucent shins of our fellow Mainers. I'm referring body parts farther north.

Yep, those parts.

Burlesque is back. Oh my.

It's that saucy mix of risque dance, comedy, performance art and revealed skin. And if the packed house during last night's Burlesque, Burlesque! show was any indication, Portlander's are glad to have it.

A talented local cast took the stage at One Longfellow Square, including Kings of the Hill, Atomic Trash! and Whistlebait Burlesque.

Before the first of the night's two shows opened, MaineToday.com photog Cara Slifka ducked backstage to snap some photos of the primping performers. [The photos in this blog are Cara's. See all the stellar Burlesque, Burlesque! photos here.]


And then The Dirty Dishes Burlesque Revue took the stage.

It was the group's debut performance, but you would never have known it. Right on cue, hips went left and a blouse went...well, off. It's burlesque, after all, which implies a level of striptease. But fear not local censors, "naughty" parts were always covered with pasties, coconuts or strategically placed band-aids.

A drag king barbershop quartet called The Dynamic Dictaphones did an excellent performance to the song, "My Enormous Penis."

Yes, it's a real song originated by barbershop quartet Da Vinci's Notebook. And by the by, The Dynamic Dictaphones are also the USM Royal Majesty Drag King champs. Well deserved.

Burlesque meets Roller Derby with Victoria Von Teasdale, who piece by piece removed those cumbersome wristguards, kneepads and elbow pads. And yes fellas, by the end of the performance, she'd taken her helmet off too. Yowza.

Michelle Estelle shook her money maker in way that would put Shakira to shame.

While Burlesque, Burlesque! was a one-night-only affair, there's still a chance to catch performances from Atomic Trash!, Vivid Motion and others during "Reawakened" at St. Lawrence Arts Center tonight and Saturday.
8:00 pm shows Friday & Saturday

Geno's in Portland also boasts a bi-monthly Burlesque Night, the next of which is Sunday, April 19th.

So go ahead, let the Burlesque light shine some good-natured impropriety in your direction. Support the local Burlesque. No one's going to force you on stage to dance in your delicates. But hey, no one will stop you either, if you get my drift.

See all the Burlesque, Burlesque! photos

Voluntary mussel movement: Shampling the shellfish

When you're about to try something new, it helps to surround yourself with caring and supportive people.

If everyone you know who fits that description is working, out of the country or otherwise indisposed, you work with who you've got.

I was lucky. When I hovered apprehensively over a plate of mussels and kelp for the first time, I had compassionate colleagues at the ready. And I mean "compassionate" in a "heart-felt mockery" kind of way. Such coworkers play into my shellfish fears and then tell me to stop being so dramatic and just eat the damn things.

Gentle, cushiony support doesn't grow well in my office. Must be the lack of light down here in the basement.

At any rate, we headed to Brian Boru on Monday evening for "Meet your Maker - Your Beer Maker." The tasting was one of the final events in the 10-day RestaurantWeekME, which ended yesterday.

At Boru, the folks from Bangs Island Mussels were dishing out plates of mussels alongside Ocean Approved kelp noodles.

Shipyard's Brewmaster Alan Pugsley was pouring his personally crafted Imperial Porter as well as a couple of the more permanent Shipyard brews.

It was an evening of first-time tastings: me with the mussels and everyone else with the porter. Though I don't think any of them panicked with their first sip of beer.


I admittedly had a rough go with the first mussel. My mistake: looking at it. I mean really looking at it. I should have just eaten it, but I procrastinated by pulling it apart and analyzing the thing. "What is that in there? A kidney bean?" For all I knew it was an actual kidney. A once-functioning miniature shellfish organ. There might be a whole slew of parts in there, like a pea-sized pancreas or a rib cage.

The notion is absurd, of course, but you see how the thought train can veer dramatically off-rail.

But in a moment of strength I lifted the mussel from its shell cradle and ate it. Chewed it, even, which doesn't often happen with new food. And shock - it wasn't altogether frightening. It tasted to me like ravioli stuffed with beans - not at all like that saltwater jolt of an oyster. That's what we call "a learning."

I also learned that months with an "r" in their name (September to April) are considered the "in" season for mussels.

Monday marked one more small step toward seafood triumph. And I'd earned my Imperial Porter.


The porter is the creation of Shipyard's Alan Puglsey for the aptly named Pugsley's Signature Series. The Imperial Porter and a Barley Wine Style Ale have been available since November in 22-ounce bottles at liquor stores such as RSVP. Alan told me that the Barley Wine will be phased out to make room for a new introduction and eventually the porter will say adieu for yet another. Response from all ye beer drinkers will determine if any of the signature beers make a return.

The group at Brian Boru's on Monday seemed to approve of both the porter and the Bangs Island mussels (as evidence by the folks who returned for seconds and thirds and who also said, "I approve!").

I decided two mussels was my limit for now. One can't rush headlong into bivalve consumption.

They're fickle things, those victual aversions.

Crazies People in the water at York Beach

The calendar claims it's still winter. And the not-altogether melted remnants of snow are a good indication that this whole cold weather thing isn't quite over. Besides, Mainers aren't so easily conned by a weekend of mild temps. Some of the heftiest storms wait until the end of March or April to give the coast one last pounding of snow.

Even still, we know how to take advantage when Winter himself forgets to "spring forward" his alarm clock and oversleeps, allowing that impatient Spring to temporarily take the reins.

Maybe you walked the Boulevard or jogged your neighborhood. Or maybe you were one of the folks I spotted wearing shorts and buying street meat in Freeport.

A friend and I chose to revel in the weather with a little bike ride along York Beach. You remember bikes, don't you? Those peddled, two-wheel vehicles of season's past?

York rests on Maine's Southern tip - that touristy space not far from the NH border. In the summer, the streets are crammed with visitors jockeying for parking or some elbow room on the beach. But much like Old Orchard Beach, it's the kind of town that quiets dramatically in the winter. Shops close all season. Beachfront condos stare vacantly out into the water.

But on weekends like the one we just had, life begins to creep back to the beach.

Dog owners linger all day. Kids dig in the rocks to find treasures of smooth rocks and crab parts. Kites fly brazenly - and sometimes dive headfirst into the sand.

Aside from a convenience store and a coffee shop, most of the storefronts remain boarded up until April. That makes getting a hot dog basket or cone of soft-serve a little harder. But maybe we're not quite ready for that yet.

A least the waterfront parking is easy to come by.

And while I still wore thin gloves and a knit hat (because 55-degrees isn't necessarily 55-degrees in the wind) there were some beachgoers happy to go shin-deep into the water (or all-the-way-deep, with a wetsuit).

Up the road a bit is Nubble Light.

While Portland Head Light might be the most photographed lighthouse in North America, the island lighthouse at Cape Neddick wins top ranking in my lighthouse book.

My first glimpse at Maine - years before it occurred to me to move here - was an afternoon stop in York. Time didn't permit a trip farther up the coast, so my fellow roadtripper and I just hung out on the rocks and watched the water. At York Beach we marveled at the handful of swimmers who'd ignored the 60-degree May temperatures and jumped in the water as though it were the height of summer. "They must be Canadians," someone had said.

Maybe.

Or maybe they were locals who were tired of just watching the water. Maybe after a Maine winter we're all more than ready to hit the water before it's altogether sensible.

Although, to this fella we spotted waist-deep in the water for no obvious reason, March is pushing it.

A costume's worth a pair of Motley Crue tickets

Knock on a stranger's door on nearly any given evening, with a pillowcase in hand, and demand that free stuff or candy come forthwith and you'll probably be met by a firm slap to the face, a slamming door and possible jail time (if your neighbor's the 9-1-1 dialing type).

Show up to a Medieval Times party in jeans and a Patriot's jersey and you might find yourself denied the customary goblet of wine and instead lead to the pillory to be ridiculed as Ye Olde Buzz Kill.

Let's face it, costumes get you things. Plain clothes are fine for those day-to-day activities.

But if you want free stuff (and who doesn't want a little free stuff now and then) you need to dress yourself up a bit.

I should note, this is not a steadfast rule. Costumes DO ensure an increased likelihood of freebies in many social situations, but showing up to work or a court hearing in full Pope Benedict XV regalia will NOT win you a year-end bonus or a lesser sentence.

Something you can get with a bit of costuming? Free Motley Crue tickets.

MaineToday.com got their hands on some tickets for the upcoming March 18 show at the Cumberland County Civic Center. And with a little hairspray and some snake skin rocker's pants, you could win them.

That is, of course, if you don your best Motley Crue attire AND run with the Portland Hash House Harriers. The Portland Hashers are giving away a pair of tickets to the show during the March 14 Motley Crue Hash.

[The Hash House Harriers are the "drinking group with a running problem" I wrote about in January.]

Don't be afraid if your athletic ability is sub-par. The only qualifications for this hash run are 1) the ability to move yourself through downtown Portland by walking, jogging or running, and 2) a Motley Crue-inspired get-up that could frighten passersby. If you don't mind beer-drinking, even better.

The hash starts at 3:00 pm on Saturday, March 14 from Matthew's on Free Street (that'd be "The Oldest Bar in Portland," or so I've been told). The "run" is typically 3-5 miles, though there's plenty of stopping along the way. Run ends...somewhere. That's the fun of hashing. You don't know where you're going and you don't know where you'll end up. And in this case, you'll also look a fool running through the streets of Portland.

But isn't looking a wee foolish worth rocking live to Dr. Feelgood and reliving your 80s awesomeness?

March 14 Motley Crue Hash
March 18 Motley Crue show
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Questions? Email portlandhashers@gmail.com