Sea Dogs 7, Flying Squirrels 1

On my recent trip to visit my family I was thrilled to read the above headline in my hometown newspaper. It means the Portland team now leads the East Division (of something) by 1 1/2 games. “One more win puts them in the playoffs for the first time since 2008.” My heart be still.

My sports knowledge and its accompanying enthusiasm are well-known to be stereotypically gay male; that is zilch, nil, nada; on the other hand, my loyalty to the local teams is stout-hearted and unquestioned. Another memorable item in the local paper was a letter from Irate Reader to the editor condemning the comic strip “Beetle Bailey” for “condoning violence which has no place in a comic strip!” I suggest Irate Reader needs a hobby. The police report was of daily interest as it gave insight into the extent and viciousness of the city’s criminal element. The arrests were mainly traffic related or “drunk and disorderly” with a few cases having to do with people being a bit vague as to the subtleties of ownership.

On another note, I heard not a word of Spanish spoken; furthermore, the shocking news greeted me that Portland’s historic second language, French, was about to be overtaken by the new champion – hang on – Somali. A large number of Somalis arrived a few years ago for a new life after facing persecution for their political and religious beliefs, just as our forefathers did.

The weather was beautiful with the exception of one night’s deluge of 6.7 inches; a very respectable number for many things, but a remarkable one for rainfall in Maine, or anywhere.

As I began, I’ll end my reminiscences with a sports comment. Basketball season fast approaches and the city and myself are eager to cheer on the (we hope) new champions of the NBA Group D: Portland’s powerful, fast, sexy – Red Claws. Yeah, team.

Guest treatment

When one is traveling on a budget, one is always grateful for accommodations offered by family and friends. However, common sense is often in short supply from the well-meaning hosts. I refer to a guest with a well-known cat allergy being subjected to a serious reaction and an emergency room visit only to be given the weak apology, “Yes, I know your bed was the cat’s favorite sleeping place, but she’s been dead a month.” Then we have the delightful wind chimes just outside the window; soothing to the spirit and the savage beasts, but not the sleeper.

LGBTers are familiar with the ploy of the hosting family member trying to end the shame of an unmarried relative by inviting a conveniently single girl/guy over “To make a foursome. What fun. We knew you wouldn’t mind.” There is also the free room in exchange for baby-sitting duty, “She’ll sleep all the time. You won’t know she’s there.” The shrieking starts the moment they are out of the driveway. Better yet, “Silly me. That’s the old emergency number I gave you. Oh well, the police finally came and it all worked out, didn’t it?” Another teeth-grinding episode occurs in a fancy restaurant at the end of a family dinner with three bottles of horrendously expensive wine, I, as a non-drinker, invariably hear the hated, “Oh, let’s just split it down the middle.” An incident a few years ago brought my favorite reaction, “Sorry about the cat peeing on your Gucci vicuna coat. Be sure to send us the bill for a new one.” Yeah, right.

We all have horror stories of good intentions gone bad. In fact, sometimes we are the boorish hosts; unintentionally, of course, otherwise to have committed various faux pas on purpose would lead to suspicions Motel 6 would be the preferred residence of choice next time. But we would never do that.