HUMOR
■
Saturday
Crystal's
f
Gay &
Lesbian
Dance Club
■ August 17, 2002
€
Melody Ballroom
■
6 1 5 SE Alder
M O Cover at Hie Door
I
'
Full Service Bar
Catered Buffet
No Smoking
i
Produced by
CME Production!
Sponsored by Terri
Popejoy & Celia Lyon of
Bella Casa Realty, Inc.
Barely balanced
Religion peddlers never cease to amaze
Delivery Driver Wanted
Need money fo r b a c k -to -s c h o o l?
Need money to pay for summer vacation?
Need some money period?
Deliver papers twice a month for ju
(First and third Fridays)
Reliable car and d e p e nd a ble o w n e r re q u ire d .
Welcoming the Gay World Series Softball Teams!
Companion Pet Clini«
M -S at
8am • 6pm
W est L inn Sun 11am-4pm
s tf cM'l I J
For details contact Erin Sexton
at (503) 236-1252 ext. 10
Portland \ Salem \ Vancouver
W e s t L in n 19343 Willamette Drive • (503) 635-3115
C L A C K A M A S 16317 SE 82nd Drive • (503) 657-9225
T i g a r d 13500 SW Pacific Hwy • (503) 670-9707
Fine Arts & Crafts Festival
Labor Day Weekend
August 31M
September 1&20
^ I
Chris Gifftn. "3-D Mixed Media
Saturday & Sunday 10am-6pm
Monday 10am-5pm
Glowing Tree"
Pendant
\W Park blocks
between Burnside and Glisan
Portland. Oregon
www.artmthepearl.com
Tony Natsoulas
Maria do Garmo
Mirandan da Cunha
should have just stayed naked.
I was working in our home office, dili
gently trying to surpass the rank of ensign
on our new computer pinball game, when 1
heard knocking. It seemed not to be coming
from the basement, where our washing
machine occasionally takes itself for a loud
walk during the spin cycle. It sounded more
like the front door.
1 glanced up at the clock and wondered
how a whole hour had passed since 1 sat down
to balance my checkbook. 1 hadn’t even found
my checkbook yet. Could there really he such a
thing as procrastination police?
The knocking became urgent, as if our next-
door neighbor had run out of lemon juice in the
middle of a recipe. Or maybe Ed McMahon had
finally found my address. By this time the pin-
hall had rolled past the flippers, and 1 would
have to start a new game anyway, so 1 sttxxJ up
to get the door.
That’s when I realized I was still naked.
When 1 woke up this morning and promised
myself 1 would finally tackle the hank state
ment— OK, the past six months of hank state
ments— I was naked. I usually am naked first
thing in the morning, unless I haven’t gone to
bed yet. But this morning 1 opened my eyes,
made that checkbook promise to myself and
went directly into the office
without the formality of
underwear and T-shirt.
1 stood up from my desk
chair and looked around. Ed
McMahon was unlikely to he
as appreciative of my full
monty as, say, my doting
bride, hut I didn’t have any
clothes in the office. Mental
note: When tidying up, leave
one T-shirt over the hack of
the chair, just in case.
The doorbell rang. W ho
ever it was really wanted to
see me. It couldn’t he any of
my close friends because they
would have given the secret
call, which, if you promise
not to tell, is “yoo-hoo!” The
hall from the office to the
bednxMn provides a view of
the front door. (Our dog has
long ago chewed away the lower third of the
curtain that blocked her view of the street.)
So 1 could see the front porch and shiny
shoes and straight-legged dress slacks. Maybe
it really was Ed!
1 ran into the bedroom and slipped into the
first thing I could grab: my rainbow Lesbian
Pride T-shirt and Sweetie’s striped yellow
shorts. If Ed had his TV cameras with him, this
would have to be good enough.
I pulled open the door and got an eyeful of
two dykey spiky haircuts, crisp white shirts,
black jackets and thin neckties. Sugary after
shave wafted through the screen. The baby-
dyke faces shone, smiling in the morning sun. I
squinted in my most charming morning mole
face, trying to make sense of this picture.
Could these young toughs be queer youth
canvassing? I’ve certainly sttxxl at my share of
front doors waiting to inform residents about
whatever anti-gay ballot measure we were cam
paigning agaiast that year. But our state’s latest
measure didn’t make it onto the ballot (hooray,
hooray), so what could this be about?
f| L i v i n g
¿ y by S a lly S h e k lo w
A black name tag gleamed from the lapel
closest to me. Without my glasses I couldn’t
make out the name, but the embossed letters
clearly spelled “Latter-day Saints.”
Suddenly the two cute butchies at my door
morphed into a couple of Mormon proselytiz-
ers. (What is it with men going around dressed
like dykes?) Words failed me. All the times I’ve
been caught off-guard by door-to-door salva
tion hawkers, and I still haven’t come up with
the perfect thing to say.
Once, a car full of them drove up the ranch
road where a hunch of us bare-breasted women
were bucking hay. I was nearest, so I trotted
over and leaned into the front window, all
saucy and smart-ass: “You might as well turn
around, there’s nothing but us heathens here."
Wrong! These folks knew exactly what to say
to heathens, chapter and verse— literally.
And then there was the time back in my
years of youthful indiscretion when my date
and I were all coked up and enjoying an after
noon of jumping naked (in the bed. (What is it
about nudity that attracts these people?) We
saw the nice ladies through the window and
went m the front door in all our sweaty glory.
That wasn’t a deterrent, either. They launched
right into their rap and gave us no choice hut
to close the door rudely in their earnest faces.
I have tried it all: explaining I am Jewish
(do not try this with Mormons!), atheist, Wic-
can, socialist, queer, whatever. Nothing stumps
them; they have a pitch for everything. I had
no clever remarks or even hostility. I just saw
that name tag and my eyes rolled on their own.
A beleaguered groan— the sound of deep disap
pointment— emerged from my throat.
An understanding look crossed the faces
of the two young Not-Ed, Not-Dykes. “O K ,”
the blond guy smiled, “thanks,” and they
backed away. J H
S ally S h e k lo w lives a quiet Jewish, atheist,
Wiccan, socialist, queer life m Eugene. Write her
at saUy@wymprov.com.