I've been remiss in not writing lately - not that I haven't had anything to say (that NEVER happens) but I've been bogged down with very intense, top-priority, highly classified work. Nearly every waking moment has been spent hovering over the keyboard, engrossed in office necessities.

And by "office necessities" I mean watching the Portland firemen do whatever it is they were doing yesterday. Ah, firemen...

But I couldn't let today pass without an entry - for Thursday night is only two coffees, one 15-minute at-desk power nap, 37 e-mails and 5 avoided phone calls away. And Thursday night means karaoke night at Bentley's in Arundel. That's right, I said karaoke. And Arundel.

I rarely, if ever, use the saying "Don't knock it 'til you try it" because it always seems to come just after someone has made some perverse, grotesque or embarrassing admission ("...so I took the six pounds of raw beef, added the syrup, lit the fuse and wuddya know! It was awwwesome. Don't knock it 'til you try it." But I have to throw it in here: Don't knock it until you try it.

There's a definite theme to the joint out on Route 1. I'll summarize it in a list I call "B" is for Bentley's.

1. Bikes. The loud kind. The shiny chrome kind. The kind that make even the staunchest white-collar worker week in the knees. They're lined up in rows out front and hanging from the rafters inside.

2. Bras. Something else is hanging from the rafters - the supportive undergarments of several generous donors. Never seize the opportunity to fling your bra skyward at the now-closed Austin's Boot & Buckle? Here's your second chance.



3. Bad karaoke. When I say bad, I'm referring to my own disturbing attempt at song. I didn't capture any audio from my first-time-karaoke experience, but if you'd like a sampling of my singing simply throw a handful of Brillo pads down the garbage disposal. Sounds something like that. Victoria however, in the blue, did a bang-up job - as did most of the other Thursday-night rockstars.

4. Beer. You know what it looks like.

5. Bathroom signs with bad words. Because nothing makes a girl feel like a lady more than walking through a door that says "Ass Room" on it. Sorry for the blur, but the camera drank a few number 4s before going in.

6. Burn risk. Take one crowd (approx. 50 people) and add three parts alcohol and one part dancing, fold in a pinch of late-night carelessness and let stand near hot stove. Will scream when ready.

7. Booty. It must be surrendered.

8. Table-mounted, though content-looking, metal pig. It doesn't start with a "B" but it can't be left out. It's not motorized like those mechanical bulls, but that doesn't stop people from climbing up on the table and giving that little ham a dance (notice, also, the amount of patchwork this little piggy's endured). Alas, no one had the nerve to climb up when we were last there.

So go ahead, dance over the pig. Sing some Nickelback. Surrender the booty. It's a friendly crowd - regardless of what your mother says about men with tattoos.

Bentley's Saloon | Get directions

I've heard it said that what defines you as a person isn't what happens to you, but how you respond to what happens to you. And it isn't until you've experienced stress of some magnitude that your true colors emerge.

Maybe you don't consider white water rafting in The Forks a high-stress situation - but I do, okay, so back off! I was skittish. Bothered. Agitated. The entire drive north I did my best to maintain moderate calm in front of my friends (who had rafted before and who all appeared disturbingly lackadaisical about the whole thing). But that morning, with the raft looming, my stomach was feeling some internal rapids of its own. This is the vision I had in my head:

I came to grips with the reality that I likely would be the one jerk in the boat to fall out, so I took copious mental notes on what to to when I fell out and donned my life vest, which would keep me afloat when I fell out. Then I climbed into that inflatable raft with the expression of a death-row inmate.

I was excited, too, I think, somewhere deep down. But that didn't mean I couldn't frantically search for an escape. I even scanned the raft for some sort of hole or tear (which would, oh so sadly, force our party to remain on land). Finding nothing, I resigned myself to fate, sat quietly and began saying goodbyes in my head.

Goodbye Michelle, you can have all of my hats (except for the cop one, which I never gave back to Victoria). Goodbye Victoria, you can have my collection of pub coasters (and your cop hat back). Sell everything else, but someone please take care of my couch, lovingly known as Cocoa Microfiber, Jr.

And off we went.

I didn't freak out or fall overboard. I didn't shriek my way down the river. I paddled when told and "woohooed" when appropriate. I didn't freeze with fear or hit anyone in the face with my paddle. I committed no rafting sins. And somehow, shockingly, I found myself having a grand time.

In fact, by the looks of this photo, I not only look like I'm enjoying myself (second from front with perma-grin), I almost look like I know what I'm doing. I look like a professional. I could BE a professional. I could raft in the Olympics! I'm the best rafter in the world!

The great thing about high-resolution pictures - aside from being evidence that you did, in fact, go rafting - is that they offer a brief snapshot of river truth. Take a close look at both sides of the boat. On my side (closest to the camera) we're smiling like chubby kids in front of a make-your-own sundae buffet. The far side looks, well, miserable.

It's almost disturbing how pleased we look.

Just as disturbing, how unhappy they look.

In even closer examination, Phil appears to be having a mid-raft crisis of some sort. Is he crying? Is he holding on?

I won't hold it against him - partly because I'd like to think I'm a nice person and partly because there's also this picture of me:

I'm not ashamed. When you're looking at a rapid like this and the guide tells you to hold on, you do it:

Here's the highlight reel, which shows why guides are guides and we're not.

Yep, we're hardcore rafters alright. Or something.