I have previously mentioned the boys who explode, but I find that I'm increasingly needing to deal with The Boys Who Follow.
These are the guys who sort of latch onto me in a straight setting, and then insist on following me around all night. Sometimes they'll try to grab me on the way to or from the bathroom, or they'll just keep asking me for my phone number. Tonight was the first night that a boy ran after me and tried to follow me home, no matter how many times I told him it was awful and creepy. "I'm not trying to pick you up!" he kept shouting, grabbing my shoulder until I finally ran back and had to wait for an eventual cab. "Why are you acting like this?" was his (hopefully) final comment.
I don't believe that most men behave this way. Whenever I decide to walk home from Club Abstract, I always check carefully to make sure I'm not being stalked by some little possie with baseball bats. But tonight was the first time that I've been grabbed repeatedly and followed even while I protested, and I wondered why this is happening now and not ten years ago.
Maybe it's because I'm better and more confident at drag than I used to, but I really think that it's a double-edged sword of acceptance; once upon a time that sort of man would be too frightened to be a nuisance, but now that it's sort of "okay" for him to be attracted to me, he feels more confident about treating me (perhaps) like he'd treat some other girl. Which makes me, as always, appreciate in some small way what women deal with in bars.
What I find most interesting was his shout of "Why are you being like this?" I'm trying to decode what he was thinking when he said it. He obviously was accusing me of being suspicious and of over-reacting, and yet the guy was aggressively grabbing my shoulder and trying to pull me away. I wonder: would he REALLY do this to a girl? Or is it only okay because it's me? And if that's the case, is it okay because he can pretend he's just "a guy walking with a guy," or because my sexuality is largely unimportant, or because he was so repressed that he believed that he honestly, really, TRULY wouldn't do anything awful once we turned the corner?
It's a weird situation: cut-and-dried for me ("Get lost!") but muddy in its motivation.
Showing posts with label Club Abstract. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Club Abstract. Show all posts
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Cat Altruism Experiment
I studied Psychology at University, so whenever I come up with a hypothesis I feel that I need to test it, otherwise it's just some subjective thing which may or may not be true.
Tonight was my first night of fun debauchery in almost a month. Finally free of bronchitis and supposedly with my "Rotary Cuff Tendonitis" on the mend, I went to Club Abstract and had a really fabulous time.
The booze was helping.
But then I slipped, pinwheeled my arm, and -- OH HOLY COW GODDAMN! -- the pain! I spent a few minutes trying to ease the terrible electric chunking killing pull-out-the-tendon agony in my right arm, and then I decided it was probably time to go home. No more fun for me.
Still drunk (even so as I write this) I lay on my living room floor. I did the exercises I'm supposed to do to ease my agony. I lay there wondering...would my cat recognize how much pain I was in, or would she be totally selfish?
Now let me be clear that Zsa Zsa -- my cat -- is dying. She's still happy and possesses a "love of life," so I can't justify putting her down, but she really is reaching the end of her long career as best friend and ultimate comfort.
But still, I thought I MIGHT be able to elicit some sort of altruistic response from her. As I lay on the floor in a dense cloud of pain that I cannot even begin to describe, I called out to her: "Help me, Zsa Zsa...help me!"
I said this several times. Each time I said it, she would circle me, stare at me, then wander into the kitchen where her food dish was. Then she'd return, I'd say it agian, and she'd wander back to the kitchen.
Oooo.
Tonight was my first night of fun debauchery in almost a month. Finally free of bronchitis and supposedly with my "Rotary Cuff Tendonitis" on the mend, I went to Club Abstract and had a really fabulous time.
The booze was helping.
But then I slipped, pinwheeled my arm, and -- OH HOLY COW GODDAMN! -- the pain! I spent a few minutes trying to ease the terrible electric chunking killing pull-out-the-tendon agony in my right arm, and then I decided it was probably time to go home. No more fun for me.
Still drunk (even so as I write this) I lay on my living room floor. I did the exercises I'm supposed to do to ease my agony. I lay there wondering...would my cat recognize how much pain I was in, or would she be totally selfish?
Now let me be clear that Zsa Zsa -- my cat -- is dying. She's still happy and possesses a "love of life," so I can't justify putting her down, but she really is reaching the end of her long career as best friend and ultimate comfort.
But still, I thought I MIGHT be able to elicit some sort of altruistic response from her. As I lay on the floor in a dense cloud of pain that I cannot even begin to describe, I called out to her: "Help me, Zsa Zsa...help me!"
I said this several times. Each time I said it, she would circle me, stare at me, then wander into the kitchen where her food dish was. Then she'd return, I'd say it agian, and she'd wander back to the kitchen.
Oooo.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
The Boys and Girls Guide to Getting Down
On Saturday night I got a full-on eyeful of rutty, desperate, stupid, angry, cheesy, Jerry Springer-style sexual aggression, so I was a bit anxious about watching "The Boys and Girls Guide to Getting Down" this afternoon. Did I really want to see a movie about the kind of people I'd reluctantly shared a bar with just 24 hours ago, let alone a movie intended to REINFORCE such behaviour?
But no, it was wonderful! As a tongue-in-cheek "guide" to the typical party night, it certainly WAS dead-on, and it WOULD have been depressing except that the party-people in the film were far funnier and more interesting than such people are in real life (just watch the "behind-the-scenes" footage to see witty characters become boneheaded REAL people in the blink of an eye).
I particularly liked the movie's observations about the END of the night, when everybody is at the tail-end of their buzz and all promising to do fun things tomorrow ("Let's go to Vegas!" "Let's play Laser Tag!")...but nobody EVER calls, because they're all too exhausted and jaded to want to see each other. I also enjoyed their "mouse experiments," and their expose of the "coke bore" personality.
If you've ever looked at bar/club sexuality with a critical eye, this movie really IS a must-see. It even manages to have an upbeat message under all the debauchery: even if you're depressed the morning after, don't worry...you will rise "Phoenix-like" in just a few days, and you should be happy that you had more fun in a few hours than many people have in a month. As somebody who gets unaccountably melancholic after most nights out, this is good advice indeed.
But no, it was wonderful! As a tongue-in-cheek "guide" to the typical party night, it certainly WAS dead-on, and it WOULD have been depressing except that the party-people in the film were far funnier and more interesting than such people are in real life (just watch the "behind-the-scenes" footage to see witty characters become boneheaded REAL people in the blink of an eye).
I particularly liked the movie's observations about the END of the night, when everybody is at the tail-end of their buzz and all promising to do fun things tomorrow ("Let's go to Vegas!" "Let's play Laser Tag!")...but nobody EVER calls, because they're all too exhausted and jaded to want to see each other. I also enjoyed their "mouse experiments," and their expose of the "coke bore" personality.
If you've ever looked at bar/club sexuality with a critical eye, this movie really IS a must-see. It even manages to have an upbeat message under all the debauchery: even if you're depressed the morning after, don't worry...you will rise "Phoenix-like" in just a few days, and you should be happy that you had more fun in a few hours than many people have in a month. As somebody who gets unaccountably melancholic after most nights out, this is good advice indeed.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
As an Extension of the Below Post
Two come-on lines I heard tonight:
Unless I really WAS on "So You Think You Can Dance" and I just don't remember it.
MAN: Do you know how hot you two girls are?That's a clever way of determining a person's level of attachment. And then, said to me:
WOMEN: Yes.
MAN: Do your boyfriends know?
MAN: Were you on "So You Think You Can Dance?"What the hell? Who responds positively to that? It's so totally out of this world that the speaker must be both drunk and stupid.
Unless I really WAS on "So You Think You Can Dance" and I just don't remember it.
The Fetish
Friday nights at Club Abstract teach me a lot about human behaviour...I mean, the behaviour of humans that I don't deal with in every day life, at least not in an intimate, pseudo-sexual way.
These Friday nights are very heterosexual: young men go there to find women to have sex with, and young women are in the privileged position of being able to pick and choose among the men at the bar. This is not an unusual situation...
...until I arrive, because I genuinely enjoy the music and because I trust the staff. My very presence in the bar is a case study in gender, because suddenly the focus changes.
(I don't want to say that I am the ONLY person who could disrupt the bar's focus in such a way, because obviously I only know what happens there when I'm actually THERE. Still, I assume that when I'm there the men get somewhat distracted by the creature that is Muffy, and...well, I'm not really sure what the average girl does when I'm there).
I'm VERY curious about the men who are attracted to me...and I mean, the men who really know that I'm a man, which is increasingly obvious as I get older. I want to know WHY they like me, and my incessant questions are probably the ultimate turn-off for guys that I'm already determined NOT to be involved with: who do you NORMALLY date? What do you LIKE about me? What do you EXPECT?
After a brief interaction with Spanish men who had obnoxious stories to tell about "traps" they'd met in the past, I was extensively fumbled by a "straight identified" guy who simply wanted sex...and this was the sort of situation that could simply go on and on and on.
Who are these guys? These men who have virulently heterosexual friends and who go out looking for women, but perhaps never pick them up because they don't REALLY LIKE the women. What do they WANT? When I show up in their ecosystem -- the fish they truly desire to catch but never expect to actually find -- how do they ultimately RELATE to me?
That's the really interesting question. Sometimes they get disturbed and scared. Sometimes they express a deep hostility, quietly, under their breath. Usually they just tell stupid jokes. Tonight was the first time I was approached by a man who really tried to make me feel GUILTY: "I don't ever get chances like this and you're REFUSING my advances? You're ruining my LIFE!"
I suspect that this is a technique used by bar-men frequently, to get women to sleep with them anyway, so this is surely nothing new. In this situation it was particularly nasty because I honestly DO want such men to find comfort...I want them to be able to explore their sexuality without their jerkoff friends taking covert pictures of me, which they were, oddly.
But -- as I explained -- we're all adults, and we're all responsible for our sexuality...and if you want to keep your sexuality HIDDEN it's best not to do it around the aforementioned jerkoff friends. Especially not when you're way too drink and are about to be kicked out for two dozen different reasons, one of which is your treatment of me.
I don't pretend that my own sexuality something easy to deal with. I like to think that I'll help others to explore theirs as well. But I suppose my message to the world is that being somebody's "fetish" is not necessarily a complimentary thing, and -- most importantly -- that "no means no."
Still, however, I find myself wondering: what do these men want from me? Is this just a fantasy? Or, more unlikely, something more significant? What do they LIKE? Who am *I* to them? Everybody probably asks these questions, at least in their heads.
These Friday nights are very heterosexual: young men go there to find women to have sex with, and young women are in the privileged position of being able to pick and choose among the men at the bar. This is not an unusual situation...
...until I arrive, because I genuinely enjoy the music and because I trust the staff. My very presence in the bar is a case study in gender, because suddenly the focus changes.
(I don't want to say that I am the ONLY person who could disrupt the bar's focus in such a way, because obviously I only know what happens there when I'm actually THERE. Still, I assume that when I'm there the men get somewhat distracted by the creature that is Muffy, and...well, I'm not really sure what the average girl does when I'm there).
I'm VERY curious about the men who are attracted to me...and I mean, the men who really know that I'm a man, which is increasingly obvious as I get older. I want to know WHY they like me, and my incessant questions are probably the ultimate turn-off for guys that I'm already determined NOT to be involved with: who do you NORMALLY date? What do you LIKE about me? What do you EXPECT?
After a brief interaction with Spanish men who had obnoxious stories to tell about "traps" they'd met in the past, I was extensively fumbled by a "straight identified" guy who simply wanted sex...and this was the sort of situation that could simply go on and on and on.
Who are these guys? These men who have virulently heterosexual friends and who go out looking for women, but perhaps never pick them up because they don't REALLY LIKE the women. What do they WANT? When I show up in their ecosystem -- the fish they truly desire to catch but never expect to actually find -- how do they ultimately RELATE to me?
That's the really interesting question. Sometimes they get disturbed and scared. Sometimes they express a deep hostility, quietly, under their breath. Usually they just tell stupid jokes. Tonight was the first time I was approached by a man who really tried to make me feel GUILTY: "I don't ever get chances like this and you're REFUSING my advances? You're ruining my LIFE!"
I suspect that this is a technique used by bar-men frequently, to get women to sleep with them anyway, so this is surely nothing new. In this situation it was particularly nasty because I honestly DO want such men to find comfort...I want them to be able to explore their sexuality without their jerkoff friends taking covert pictures of me, which they were, oddly.
But -- as I explained -- we're all adults, and we're all responsible for our sexuality...and if you want to keep your sexuality HIDDEN it's best not to do it around the aforementioned jerkoff friends. Especially not when you're way too drink and are about to be kicked out for two dozen different reasons, one of which is your treatment of me.
I don't pretend that my own sexuality something easy to deal with. I like to think that I'll help others to explore theirs as well. But I suppose my message to the world is that being somebody's "fetish" is not necessarily a complimentary thing, and -- most importantly -- that "no means no."
Still, however, I find myself wondering: what do these men want from me? Is this just a fantasy? Or, more unlikely, something more significant? What do they LIKE? Who am *I* to them? Everybody probably asks these questions, at least in their heads.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
New Flickr Pics!
For those who want a "taster" of my last two months, some new pictures are up on Flickr. Most importantly you'll see my tribute to both ringworms and my flaming car, as well as some shots of Schnapps and I warming up before the debut of our duet last week.
Incidentally, when I was leaving Club Renaissance after the show I asked a woman what she thought of the human/seal duet. "I hated it," she said bluntly, which introduced a shocked silence into her group of friends.
The only rational response to that sort of criticism is to do MORE duets with Schnapps!
Monday, September 01, 2008
24 Hours
A warning to the sensitive...this is a little gross. And I do apologize that so many of these posts are about my cat; I'm considering calling this "The ZsaZsaBlog."
5:00am: I wake up to a terrible smashing sound. I go into the bathroom and see that the cat has knocked a bottle of shaving cream off the edge of the tub. Nonplussed, I go back to sleep.
7:00am: I wake up again, this time to an overpowering smell of feces. Zsa Zsa is on my bed and she's troubled, because...well, there's a huge clump of(unmentionable) hanging out of her (unmentionable).
Fortunately I have a kleenex box beside my bed, so I protect my hands and pull several inches of yellow string out of her butt. Assuming that it's a piece of partially-digested mouse tail, I take it downstairs and throw it out...then I realize, holy cow, that was a DEAD ROUNDWORM.
9:00am: I make the rounds of the house and discover several places where Zsa Zsa had tried to relieve herself of the offending worm. Soap, water, sponge, gross.
1:00pm: I take the bus to Conestoga Mall and buy roundworm medication from the pet store. These are little powdery capsules that you're supposed to mix with her food. Since I don't want to pull another worm out of her butt tomorrow morning, I feed her a second time, mixing the medication in with her food.
2:00pm: In the bathroom, I discover why Zsa Zsa had knocked the shaving cream over: there's an enormous moth huddled up in the corner of the room. Since I am a seasoned moth-rescuer, I manage to get it outside without destroying it. This is good.
4:00pm: I take a nap.
5:00pm: I wake up to the strong odour of liver-and-chicken cat food; Zsa Zsa has vomited up and down the stairs in several artfully-arranged puddles. Soap, water, sponge, gross. I don't think she has digested any of the medication I gave her, but I don't want to give her more in case that's what's causing her to throw up.
7:00pm: I begin getting ready for the night. I wear my cyberlox hair extensions for the occasion, since they look a bit like roundworms. Zsa Zsa sits under the computer chair, incredibly thin, somewhat warm but responsive. I decide that she's only warm because my apartment is extremely hot, but maybe she's sick and has a fever.
10:00pm: Club Abstract. I have trained myself to love the inevitable bridesmaids. Sweet people everywhere and a general love of my cyberlox. Some folks tell me that cats ALWAYS vomit when you give them such medication, others say that cats should NEVER vomit under those conditions. I am reminded that everybody has an opinion about cat health but nobody really knows for sure. At least other people have pulled worms out of their cats' butts too.
2:30am: I return home, half expecting to find Zsa Zsa dead or dying. Instead she trots up to the door like she always does, expecting treats. I sit her down and explain that she has a parasitic infection and that we'll need to go to the vet. She paws gently at my cyberlox and then goes looking for mice.
5:00am: I wake up to a terrible smashing sound. I go into the bathroom and see that the cat has knocked a bottle of shaving cream off the edge of the tub. Nonplussed, I go back to sleep.
7:00am: I wake up again, this time to an overpowering smell of feces. Zsa Zsa is on my bed and she's troubled, because...well, there's a huge clump of
Fortunately I have a kleenex box beside my bed, so I protect my hands and pull several inches of yellow string out of her butt. Assuming that it's a piece of partially-digested mouse tail, I take it downstairs and throw it out...then I realize, holy cow, that was a DEAD ROUNDWORM.
9:00am: I make the rounds of the house and discover several places where Zsa Zsa had tried to relieve herself of the offending worm. Soap, water, sponge, gross.
1:00pm: I take the bus to Conestoga Mall and buy roundworm medication from the pet store. These are little powdery capsules that you're supposed to mix with her food. Since I don't want to pull another worm out of her butt tomorrow morning, I feed her a second time, mixing the medication in with her food.
2:00pm: In the bathroom, I discover why Zsa Zsa had knocked the shaving cream over: there's an enormous moth huddled up in the corner of the room. Since I am a seasoned moth-rescuer, I manage to get it outside without destroying it. This is good.
4:00pm: I take a nap.
5:00pm: I wake up to the strong odour of liver-and-chicken cat food; Zsa Zsa has vomited up and down the stairs in several artfully-arranged puddles. Soap, water, sponge, gross. I don't think she has digested any of the medication I gave her, but I don't want to give her more in case that's what's causing her to throw up.
7:00pm: I begin getting ready for the night. I wear my cyberlox hair extensions for the occasion, since they look a bit like roundworms. Zsa Zsa sits under the computer chair, incredibly thin, somewhat warm but responsive. I decide that she's only warm because my apartment is extremely hot, but maybe she's sick and has a fever.
10:00pm: Club Abstract. I have trained myself to love the inevitable bridesmaids. Sweet people everywhere and a general love of my cyberlox. Some folks tell me that cats ALWAYS vomit when you give them such medication, others say that cats should NEVER vomit under those conditions. I am reminded that everybody has an opinion about cat health but nobody really knows for sure. At least other people have pulled worms out of their cats' butts too.
2:30am: I return home, half expecting to find Zsa Zsa dead or dying. Instead she trots up to the door like she always does, expecting treats. I sit her down and explain that she has a parasitic infection and that we'll need to go to the vet. She paws gently at my cyberlox and then goes looking for mice.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Pictures, Some of Which Feature Feet!
I've put up a few more pictures on Flickr. Click here to look at the most recent ones. Amongst other things you will see the "hair squid" that I bought from Exoskeleton Cabaret...
...and, by popular demand, a few shots of me with glasses looking oh-so-brainy.
Enjoy!
...and, by popular demand, a few shots of me with glasses looking oh-so-brainy.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
The Photojourney Continues
Over on my Flickr page I've just added some new photos. Besides a few devoted to getting my feet in the shot -- because my feet are an important part of my body -- you'll also see part of Zsa Zsa that you've never seen before:
In addition, I forgot to mention when I updated the photos a few weeks ago, so you can also catch Madison Hart and I doing our lame "Mod" impressions (among other odds and ends):
In addition, I forgot to mention when I updated the photos a few weeks ago, so you can also catch Madison Hart and I doing our lame "Mod" impressions (among other odds and ends):
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Exo Hair Postmortem
Last month Vanilla sent me a link to Exoskeleton Cabaret and told me that I absolutely MUST buy some of their hair extensions. I said that such things require elaborate makeup and clothing that doesn't suit me, and she pointed out that the models were quite understated and I should stop being a wuss. She was right!
So I bought two of their pieces: a ponytail fall made out of wool and plastic, and a pair of enormous "tubular crin" extensions.
Saturday was the big night and I gave myself half an hour to get them "installed." But you see, I've always had this problem with hair...
First off, I don't like the incredible PICKINESS of hairstyling, where everything must be meticulous or it looks stupid. Separating my head into REGULAR pigtails is arduous in itself, but building up HIGH pigtails has always been my worst nightmare. My hair is incredibly heavy and my arm-strength is marginal; after half an hour of building, demolishing, and rebuilding my high pigtails I was ready for the sanitarium, and also losing hair.
Then the extensions themselves, attached to thin strips of elastic fabric that are obviously intended to be attached to something -- like a barret -- instead of just being tied up and pinned to death. Then just imagine the joy of arranging these things; it was like herding cats, albeit sixty of them made out of extremely light, long, bouncy plastic.
It took an hour, and by the end of it I was hardly feeling glamorous. All I wanted to do was come back home and make a drunken video with a hand-puppet (see below).
But here's the thing: I think I can do better next time. Maybe I'll try putting them closer together, and attaching bobby pins to the extensions BEFORE I put them on. I can't recommend these extensions highly enough: they're sturdy, they look amazing, and people can't stop touching them.
The latest few pictures are up on Flickr, but I'd like to leave you with this enigmatic shot of Victoria and I which you can try scrounging up a rationale for:
So I bought two of their pieces: a ponytail fall made out of wool and plastic, and a pair of enormous "tubular crin" extensions.
Saturday was the big night and I gave myself half an hour to get them "installed." But you see, I've always had this problem with hair...
First off, I don't like the incredible PICKINESS of hairstyling, where everything must be meticulous or it looks stupid. Separating my head into REGULAR pigtails is arduous in itself, but building up HIGH pigtails has always been my worst nightmare. My hair is incredibly heavy and my arm-strength is marginal; after half an hour of building, demolishing, and rebuilding my high pigtails I was ready for the sanitarium, and also losing hair.
Then the extensions themselves, attached to thin strips of elastic fabric that are obviously intended to be attached to something -- like a barret -- instead of just being tied up and pinned to death. Then just imagine the joy of arranging these things; it was like herding cats, albeit sixty of them made out of extremely light, long, bouncy plastic.
It took an hour, and by the end of it I was hardly feeling glamorous. All I wanted to do was come back home and make a drunken video with a hand-puppet (see below).
But here's the thing: I think I can do better next time. Maybe I'll try putting them closer together, and attaching bobby pins to the extensions BEFORE I put them on. I can't recommend these extensions highly enough: they're sturdy, they look amazing, and people can't stop touching them.
The latest few pictures are up on Flickr, but I'd like to leave you with this enigmatic shot of Victoria and I which you can try scrounging up a rationale for:
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Pictures, Pictures, Pictures!
Originally I thought it would be fun to reenact my "fixing the furnace" experience to the tune of Meat Beat Manifesto's "Plexus." I spent my sacred "Saturday Breakfast Time" coming up with an elaborate shooting schedule. It was to have been a monumental experimental video to rival Luis Buñuel's "L'Âge d'Or."
Then I came to my senses. Screw that, I wanted to have FUN on Saturday, not to hop around shooting some crazy video with barely a moment's notice.
So instead I took a bunch of pictures.
These encompass tonight, mostly, but also go back to New Year's Eve. Enjoy!
Then I came to my senses. Screw that, I wanted to have FUN on Saturday, not to hop around shooting some crazy video with barely a moment's notice.
So instead I took a bunch of pictures.
These encompass tonight, mostly, but also go back to New Year's Eve. Enjoy!
Friday, January 25, 2008
Deathbreath
On Saturday night a friend walked into Club Abstract with her scarf over her nose. I said "It's cold out, isn't it?" and she shook her head and mumbled a reply. I leaned in close and said "Pardon?" She pulled down her scarf and yelled "No, I've got STREP THROAT!"
This was basically like spraying infected phlegm directly on my tonsils. No amount of recoiling or huffing or puffing would change the fact that I'd gotten a huge whiff of bacteria in my face, and two days later I was down with the flu, exhausted and feverish, missing appointments and neglecting my work.
Lying on the couch, dazed and with all of my immediate responsibilities piling up around me, I imagined what my brains would look like if I were -- just for example -- shot in the head. I figured my brains would be so full of infected gook that they would slowly crawl away from me. This is because I've been watching all those horror movies, and also because I tend to get a bit pessimistic when I'm ill.
I suddenly remembered something my father had told me a long time ago. He said that if everybody would stay isolated for a week, the flu would be eradicated...anybody who had it would manage to kill it, and it wouldn't be able to travel to anybody else. This was quite an awe-inspiring thought when I was younger but not so much now, especially since most flu strains can survive on doorknobs for ninety days (why they hang around on doorknobs I don't know).
So assuming we could all stay isolated for NINETY days...what about people who have medical emergencies during that period? Or the people who work at essential services, maintaining hydro and telephones? What about people who live in one-room apartments with a bunch of children? What about the flu strains that cross species barriers, or strains that mutate naturally while within a host?
No answers there, but this got me wondering about the "flu season" in general, and why we tend to get the flu during the winter time. My mother always said it was because we didn't "bundle up" enough outside, therefore compromising our immune systems. But it turns out that mom isn't always right, and that nobody really knows why the flu travels so well in the winter.
In any case, this will be a weekend for much sleep and for catching up on the things I should have done, and also for mourning the fingernail I broke at the grocery store today. Please, I implore you: go out and do something exciting, and then tell me that you had a terrible time so I won't be jealous.
This was basically like spraying infected phlegm directly on my tonsils. No amount of recoiling or huffing or puffing would change the fact that I'd gotten a huge whiff of bacteria in my face, and two days later I was down with the flu, exhausted and feverish, missing appointments and neglecting my work.
Lying on the couch, dazed and with all of my immediate responsibilities piling up around me, I imagined what my brains would look like if I were -- just for example -- shot in the head. I figured my brains would be so full of infected gook that they would slowly crawl away from me. This is because I've been watching all those horror movies, and also because I tend to get a bit pessimistic when I'm ill.
I suddenly remembered something my father had told me a long time ago. He said that if everybody would stay isolated for a week, the flu would be eradicated...anybody who had it would manage to kill it, and it wouldn't be able to travel to anybody else. This was quite an awe-inspiring thought when I was younger but not so much now, especially since most flu strains can survive on doorknobs for ninety days (why they hang around on doorknobs I don't know).
So assuming we could all stay isolated for NINETY days...what about people who have medical emergencies during that period? Or the people who work at essential services, maintaining hydro and telephones? What about people who live in one-room apartments with a bunch of children? What about the flu strains that cross species barriers, or strains that mutate naturally while within a host?
No answers there, but this got me wondering about the "flu season" in general, and why we tend to get the flu during the winter time. My mother always said it was because we didn't "bundle up" enough outside, therefore compromising our immune systems. But it turns out that mom isn't always right, and that nobody really knows why the flu travels so well in the winter.
In any case, this will be a weekend for much sleep and for catching up on the things I should have done, and also for mourning the fingernail I broke at the grocery store today. Please, I implore you: go out and do something exciting, and then tell me that you had a terrible time so I won't be jealous.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Drag Show: "Lithium"
It suddenly occurred to me: I should perform Ali Milner's version of "Lithium" by Nirvana! I got all excited about this and was halfway through the storyboard before my worst suspicions were realized: like most Nirvana songs, "Lithium" makes no conventional sense and doesn't tell a story, even though it SOUNDS like it does.
And I'm not exactly an "I love you, I kill you" type of person.
So somehow the project morphed into a "crazy housewife" story, and here are the results:
There were supposed to be candles all through the video but my smoke alarm went INSANE and I had to blow them all out. I also experimented with the "low light" setting during the kitchen clips, since my kitchen light is annoyingly dim. I now think of this camera feature as the "turn your kitchen yellow" setting.
A lyric in the song refers to "broken mirrors," and just before I left for Club Abstract that night I broke a REAL mirror, thinking it was made out of cheap metal instead of glass. Judging by the way things turned out at the bar I guess I'll suffer seven years of guys who fart on the dancefloor.
And I'm not exactly an "I love you, I kill you" type of person.
So somehow the project morphed into a "crazy housewife" story, and here are the results:
There were supposed to be candles all through the video but my smoke alarm went INSANE and I had to blow them all out. I also experimented with the "low light" setting during the kitchen clips, since my kitchen light is annoyingly dim. I now think of this camera feature as the "turn your kitchen yellow" setting.
A lyric in the song refers to "broken mirrors," and just before I left for Club Abstract that night I broke a REAL mirror, thinking it was made out of cheap metal instead of glass. Judging by the way things turned out at the bar I guess I'll suffer seven years of guys who fart on the dancefloor.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Active Weekend Reflection (NOT "Weekend Acid Reflux")
On Saturday my mother and I ventured out to buy me a Christmas tree. I'd hoped for something about five feet high, but fake trees apparently come in only two sizes: miniscule or enormous. Fortunately, "miniscule" plus "end table" equals "medium," and the darn thing even has tasteful white lights on it. Some pictures (and nostalgic reflections) soon!
That night, I slogged through the first half of the next "mini-drag show" video. The "Monkeys" video involved just three setups and five scenes; this one has eleven setups and twenty-six scenes, which is a bit much to squeeze between "getting into drag" and "going to the bar." Hopefully I can film the rest of the scenes next weekend.
To make the process more efficient and rewarding I've learned to repeat scenes several times and pick out the best version, reducing how often I need to jump up and down to turn the camera on and off. For that reason I have some pretty strange raw footage. Here's a brief snippet of a Saturday-night repetition, to confuse you, tantalize you, and to prove that I really AM doing something, even if it's creepy:
After that: Club Abstract for drinkin', dancin', and socializin'. Since we were effectively trapped in the bar due to a terrible snowstorm, many of the hornier patrons were palpably desperate, which was entertaining to watch. Best of all: meeting DJ Jeff, briefly back from Japan. Jeff was the "goth night" DJ for many years (long ago), and whenever I hear Front 242 I think of him. Love you, Jeff!
For a few relevant pictures (and a few more "Zsa Zsa Collector's Photos"), plus a shot from Guelph's "Kink 2" night, go to Flickr.
(For those concerned with my emotional wellbeing, you'll be happy to hear that I think my foundation issues are licked. I'm still working out how much powder I can get away with -- and as a result I look a bit spotty by 2am -- but it's all uphill from here).
Speaking of uphill at 2am: there were no cabs available when the bar let out (basically because there were no roads anymore). I stomped my way home through the frozen, blowing snow, buffeted by gusts and confined to the tire tracks of the few adventurous cars.
Far from being a chore, this was beautiful. No vehicles, nobody outside, no traffic rules. With the snow baffling all the sound, the only things I could hear were the trees bending over in the wind and my own crackling footsteps.
I took a video of my walk but you don't want to see it; it doesn't capture the spirit of the thing and you can mostly just hear me snorting back my cold-weather snot. Some things are best experienced first-hand.
That night, I slogged through the first half of the next "mini-drag show" video. The "Monkeys" video involved just three setups and five scenes; this one has eleven setups and twenty-six scenes, which is a bit much to squeeze between "getting into drag" and "going to the bar." Hopefully I can film the rest of the scenes next weekend.
To make the process more efficient and rewarding I've learned to repeat scenes several times and pick out the best version, reducing how often I need to jump up and down to turn the camera on and off. For that reason I have some pretty strange raw footage. Here's a brief snippet of a Saturday-night repetition, to confuse you, tantalize you, and to prove that I really AM doing something, even if it's creepy:
After that: Club Abstract for drinkin', dancin', and socializin'. Since we were effectively trapped in the bar due to a terrible snowstorm, many of the hornier patrons were palpably desperate, which was entertaining to watch. Best of all: meeting DJ Jeff, briefly back from Japan. Jeff was the "goth night" DJ for many years (long ago), and whenever I hear Front 242 I think of him. Love you, Jeff!
For a few relevant pictures (and a few more "Zsa Zsa Collector's Photos"), plus a shot from Guelph's "Kink 2" night, go to Flickr.
(For those concerned with my emotional wellbeing, you'll be happy to hear that I think my foundation issues are licked. I'm still working out how much powder I can get away with -- and as a result I look a bit spotty by 2am -- but it's all uphill from here).
Speaking of uphill at 2am: there were no cabs available when the bar let out (basically because there were no roads anymore). I stomped my way home through the frozen, blowing snow, buffeted by gusts and confined to the tire tracks of the few adventurous cars.
Far from being a chore, this was beautiful. No vehicles, nobody outside, no traffic rules. With the snow baffling all the sound, the only things I could hear were the trees bending over in the wind and my own crackling footsteps.
I took a video of my walk but you don't want to see it; it doesn't capture the spirit of the thing and you can mostly just hear me snorting back my cold-weather snot. Some things are best experienced first-hand.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Sicko
I just finished watching "Sicko." Here are a few thoughts before I go to bed.
I enjoyed Michael Moore before he started taking himself so seriously. At one time he was a pest that used irony and confrontation to make relevant points about greedy, selfish people. He seemed sort of cavalier and fun, making a difference almost by accident. Sometime around "The Awful Truth," however, he decided he was a combination "celebrity" and "guardian angel," and he became more concerned with his image, and more manipulative in his techniques, than he ever was before. He also stopped being funny. He also developed a sort of embarrassing love of Canada.
Maybe Moore is fighting back against the equally-manipulative conservatives, trying to use their own slick messaging against them. The thing is, most lefties -- like myself -- pride ourselves on LOOKING for truth, as opposed to cynically manipulating people, no matter how grand the cause.
So whenever Moore gets that sad sound in his voice, I squirm nervously. When a woman grieves over her child's death IN A PLAYGROUND, I turn slightly away. And when Moore wraps it all up by bringing in 9/11...well, gag.
But he probably does it because it works. All those Canadian, French, and English people who interject that they "love America" might touch the hearts of swing voters in the USA, but I can't help thinking that Moore's noble goal (universal health care) is being advanced by transparent methods (the French have universal health care AND THEY AREN'T EVIL!)
Anyway, there's no doubt in my mind that the American health care system is a wicked muddle of greedy jackassery, kept in place only by hysterical fear-messaging on the part of politicians and pundits (who are bought off by those who grow fat on the system). We're on the same page there.
And yes, thank goodness for the Canadian medical system, which guarantees that I will never go without treatment, will never pay money for necessary treatment, and will always be able to go for free checkups.
But the day I walk into a hospital emergency ward and only wait a few minutes for treatment is the day I'm...well, being interviewed by Michael Moore, perhaps. Emergency room treatment here will rarely take less than four hours and hospitals are quite full. Family doctors are scarce. Even so, however, I have never waited more than 90 minutes in an "urgent care clinic" (though they aren't open all night).
Anecdotes:
I enjoyed Michael Moore before he started taking himself so seriously. At one time he was a pest that used irony and confrontation to make relevant points about greedy, selfish people. He seemed sort of cavalier and fun, making a difference almost by accident. Sometime around "The Awful Truth," however, he decided he was a combination "celebrity" and "guardian angel," and he became more concerned with his image, and more manipulative in his techniques, than he ever was before. He also stopped being funny. He also developed a sort of embarrassing love of Canada.
Maybe Moore is fighting back against the equally-manipulative conservatives, trying to use their own slick messaging against them. The thing is, most lefties -- like myself -- pride ourselves on LOOKING for truth, as opposed to cynically manipulating people, no matter how grand the cause.
So whenever Moore gets that sad sound in his voice, I squirm nervously. When a woman grieves over her child's death IN A PLAYGROUND, I turn slightly away. And when Moore wraps it all up by bringing in 9/11...well, gag.
But he probably does it because it works. All those Canadian, French, and English people who interject that they "love America" might touch the hearts of swing voters in the USA, but I can't help thinking that Moore's noble goal (universal health care) is being advanced by transparent methods (the French have universal health care AND THEY AREN'T EVIL!)
Anyway, there's no doubt in my mind that the American health care system is a wicked muddle of greedy jackassery, kept in place only by hysterical fear-messaging on the part of politicians and pundits (who are bought off by those who grow fat on the system). We're on the same page there.
And yes, thank goodness for the Canadian medical system, which guarantees that I will never go without treatment, will never pay money for necessary treatment, and will always be able to go for free checkups.
But the day I walk into a hospital emergency ward and only wait a few minutes for treatment is the day I'm...well, being interviewed by Michael Moore, perhaps. Emergency room treatment here will rarely take less than four hours and hospitals are quite full. Family doctors are scarce. Even so, however, I have never waited more than 90 minutes in an "urgent care clinic" (though they aren't open all night).
Anecdotes:
- Many years ago I dropped a glass at Club Abstract and cut my hand open. I was driven -- in drag -- to the emergency ward at 2am, and I got out of there at around 6am. Most of that time was spent pressing a towel to my hand and waiting for the doctor to see me. Granted, my injury was not that serious, four hours is not long (considering that 2am is the busiest time at a hospital), and I didn't need to get any sort of approval or pay any money for my treatment. And the nurse liked my outfit.
- It takes at least two weeks for me to get an appointment with my "hand doctor" (regarding my tendonitis), but he's always ready for the appointment when I arrive and -- as usual -- no approval or payment is involved.
- I did need to pay for my "hand cast."
- My diabetes supplies -- insulin, pentips, blood-testing strips -- are not covered (at least they weren't last time I checked, seven years ago). I don't know WHY they aren't covered, and they're VERY expensive. Fortunately my company's benefits pay 80% (though they get bitchy about the "usual and reasonable" thing).
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday! Happy...err...Hallowe'en!
I'm typing like a gimp because I actually managed to bruise a finger on somebody's can of gray hairspray. I might look like a fearless zombie killer in this picture but I'm actually a pussycat with sensitive skin.
First off, a few pictures from Hallowe'en at Club Abstract. As much fun as it was, I really must relocate MY birthday night because I don't think Hallowe'en is budging. There are too many people out and about and the lines for the bathrooms are too long; I literally left early because I didn't want to cross my legs for half an hour. But the girl dressed as Marie Antoinette was one of my favourites, as was Jodi Brown (above), who actually does my hair.
Besides all that, here's the surprise I've been dropping hints about: an extremely rushed and way-too-sober "mini drag show" recorded just before I left the apartment:
I'm still experimenting with so many elements in this process -- lighting, location, camera settings, frame rates, codecs, conversion, editing -- so I can only say that they'll get better. I hope. In this case the show is DEFINITELY stolen by Zsa Zsa, who decided to sit in and watch me make a fool out of myself.
My birthday present to myself was a new digital camera, a tiny little thing with a million settings. During my experiments I have digitized some old Canadiana off of quarter-century-old videotapes, and I've turned up some real gems (with more to come).
By far the brightest, most sparkly gem is this footage from "As You Like It," a mid-'80s Rogers community cable program starring Wilf and Donna, consummate Mennonites. Every week they'd take telephone requests, and EVERYBODY wanted to hear them do this signature tune. Wilf and Donna are a real treat and I'm proud to bring their brilliance to the world.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Your Sexual Antics Make Me Puke
Warning! Rash generalizations and social stereotypes ahead!
For years I have been trying to put my finger on something: why do horny people in nightclubs tend to annoy me? On Saturday night, as occasionally happens, Club Abstract was invaded early by a sextet of hootchie girls who spun around me on the otherwise empty dancefloor, hooting, grinding together, attempting a line-dance choreography that simply wasn't working out.
As always in these situations I go through my "anti-mysanthropy thought exercise," to try to see through whatever's bothering me and recognize the antagonist's human traits. But it wasn't working. Plus I was standing next to a friend who expressed great attraction for the hootchies, and who viewed my rising gorge as a sign of my personal bitterness and/or unfounded elitism.
Maybe he's right! Or maybe that's part of it. But over the last few days I've done my best to pick apart what annoys me about the hootchie girls, and what annoys me about bar-sexuality in general, and I think I've finally figured it out.
First, I have a personal beef about people who are disconnected from their environments; people who see the world as catering entirely to their own social group, no matter where they happen to be at the time; people who think they're projecting a certain impression while they're really projecting a different one; people who are, in a word, clueless about others.
What bothers me about the hootchies is not that they're trying to be SEXY (though I'll get to that angle shortly). What bothers me is that they are being blatantly self-centered -- "This is our dancefloor and everybody is here to see US!" -- while expressing sexual antics (the grinding, the choreography) that THEY think of as "edgy, transgressive, alternative" but are in fact perceived as "typical, desperate, sleazy." Sure, my friend was TURNED ON by their behaviour, but not because they were in any way "edgy." He was turned on because they were exactly what he likes: slutty and attention-seeking. There's a difference.
This "lesbo routine" that girls do in bars is always presented by them as a form of extreme sexuality, when it's actually the most white-bread, overexposed form of dancefloor sexuality around. That's what bothers me: not that they're slutty or average, but because they think they're NOT slutty or average.
Before you accuse me of PICKING ON some concept of "mainstream culture," let me say that I am equally annoyed by counter-culture people whose perceptions are out-of-sync with the rest of the world. There's a gothy-girl at Abstract, for instance, who we call "Stompy Flamingo." She and her way-too-serious boyfriend do an exceptionally uncoordinated tango around the dancefloor, and then she'll break into a random collection of loud foot-stomps that could only be an attempt at "flamenco." It's probably the funniest thing you'll ever see.
But it's not funny because of her dance itself...if somebody wants to do a clumsy flamenco imitation, that alone is not silly. What's silly is that she SERIOUSLY BELIEVES THAT SHE APPEARS TO BE AN ACCOMPLISHED DANCER, but she's not, and nobody thinks she is. And while it's always dangerous to ascribe motivations for people's behaviour, you can usually tell by body language or facial expression when somebody is self-serious.
(As an aside, people like Stompy Flamingo are "Boodles." I keep promising to define the Boodles, and I eventually will. Curiously, the "hootchies" are generally NOT Boodles).
So what bugs me about the hootchies is their belief that they are being "extreme," while the rest of the world sees them as "average." They're the "look at my extreme tongue piercing" people. They're similar to people who actually think that publically displaying their cel phone puts them into a higher social class. They're disconnected in so many ways.
For years I have been trying to put my finger on something: why do horny people in nightclubs tend to annoy me? On Saturday night, as occasionally happens, Club Abstract was invaded early by a sextet of hootchie girls who spun around me on the otherwise empty dancefloor, hooting, grinding together, attempting a line-dance choreography that simply wasn't working out.
As always in these situations I go through my "anti-mysanthropy thought exercise," to try to see through whatever's bothering me and recognize the antagonist's human traits. But it wasn't working. Plus I was standing next to a friend who expressed great attraction for the hootchies, and who viewed my rising gorge as a sign of my personal bitterness and/or unfounded elitism.
Maybe he's right! Or maybe that's part of it. But over the last few days I've done my best to pick apart what annoys me about the hootchie girls, and what annoys me about bar-sexuality in general, and I think I've finally figured it out.
* * *
First, I have a personal beef about people who are disconnected from their environments; people who see the world as catering entirely to their own social group, no matter where they happen to be at the time; people who think they're projecting a certain impression while they're really projecting a different one; people who are, in a word, clueless about others.
What bothers me about the hootchies is not that they're trying to be SEXY (though I'll get to that angle shortly). What bothers me is that they are being blatantly self-centered -- "This is our dancefloor and everybody is here to see US!" -- while expressing sexual antics (the grinding, the choreography) that THEY think of as "edgy, transgressive, alternative" but are in fact perceived as "typical, desperate, sleazy." Sure, my friend was TURNED ON by their behaviour, but not because they were in any way "edgy." He was turned on because they were exactly what he likes: slutty and attention-seeking. There's a difference.
This "lesbo routine" that girls do in bars is always presented by them as a form of extreme sexuality, when it's actually the most white-bread, overexposed form of dancefloor sexuality around. That's what bothers me: not that they're slutty or average, but because they think they're NOT slutty or average.
Before you accuse me of PICKING ON some concept of "mainstream culture," let me say that I am equally annoyed by counter-culture people whose perceptions are out-of-sync with the rest of the world. There's a gothy-girl at Abstract, for instance, who we call "Stompy Flamingo." She and her way-too-serious boyfriend do an exceptionally uncoordinated tango around the dancefloor, and then she'll break into a random collection of loud foot-stomps that could only be an attempt at "flamenco." It's probably the funniest thing you'll ever see.
But it's not funny because of her dance itself...if somebody wants to do a clumsy flamenco imitation, that alone is not silly. What's silly is that she SERIOUSLY BELIEVES THAT SHE APPEARS TO BE AN ACCOMPLISHED DANCER, but she's not, and nobody thinks she is. And while it's always dangerous to ascribe motivations for people's behaviour, you can usually tell by body language or facial expression when somebody is self-serious.
(As an aside, people like Stompy Flamingo are "Boodles." I keep promising to define the Boodles, and I eventually will. Curiously, the "hootchies" are generally NOT Boodles).
So what bugs me about the hootchies is their belief that they are being "extreme," while the rest of the world sees them as "average." They're the "look at my extreme tongue piercing" people. They're similar to people who actually think that publically displaying their cel phone puts them into a higher social class. They're disconnected in so many ways.
* * *
My second point is that sex is, generally, a pretty boring thing to be around. There's a reason why pornos rarely have a higher concept: when people are horny -- or when they're actually HAVING sex -- they almost always regress to a bundle of need-gratifying cliches. Likewise, when people have sex in movies and books, they either say the same old boring, time-worn phrases, or they talk in a way that nobody EVER talks.
So when people are horny, the part of them that makes them interesting -- their personality -- becomes thinner, because the sex-crazed, primitive animal is rising to the surface and displacing their distinguishing characteristics. That's perfectly natural, but it makes a person a dull boy or girl.
To make the situation worse, however, we tend to replace our REAL personalities with a "sexy routine," one we've learned over the years or -- if we have more than one -- whichever seems to be the most appropriate or advantageous in the current situation. If we pick a totally dull and average routine -- which the hootchies do -- we'll not only be suffering from the lack of personality that sex ALREADY tends to bring, but we'll be REPLACING that personality with something that we saw on Jerry Springer.
The final blow comes when the hootchies, as I said, THINK their Springer routine is something, but it's actually something totally different. Three strikes, you're out, I puke.
Some people certainly DO maintain their personalities when they're horny, which most others probably consider to be confusing and off-putting.
I'd like to point out that people tend to homogenize when they dance, as well. As a final example, on Saturday night there was a guy on the edge of the dancefloor who danced like a tree: his feet were firmly rooted in one spot, he moved his torso back and forth, he waved his arms, and he kept his eyes closed. But unlike Stompy Flamingo or the hootchies, he didn't seem to care about the rest of the world, which precludes him suffering the aforementioned disconnected impression (that he's super-cool but everybody else thinks he looks silly).
The Tree-Dancer actually made me HAPPY, because I believed he was dancing FOR HIMSELF, and that while he was aware enough of his surroundings to not be inconsiderate to others, he was not particularly concerned about how others viewed him...AND he had a pretty good idea of how they really DO view him, as illustrated by the two jocky guys who stood next to him and obnoxiously mocked him.
This gives me a final segue. I realize in my earlier description of my Saturday confrontation that it might sound like my attack of track-suit guy was unprovoked. Nope: he was one of the guys making aggressive fun of the tree dancer, so I automatically assumed he was moving on to making fun of me, which he probably was until I called him on it (at which time he brilliantly switched to victim-mode). Just so you know.
So when people are horny, the part of them that makes them interesting -- their personality -- becomes thinner, because the sex-crazed, primitive animal is rising to the surface and displacing their distinguishing characteristics. That's perfectly natural, but it makes a person a dull boy or girl.
To make the situation worse, however, we tend to replace our REAL personalities with a "sexy routine," one we've learned over the years or -- if we have more than one -- whichever seems to be the most appropriate or advantageous in the current situation. If we pick a totally dull and average routine -- which the hootchies do -- we'll not only be suffering from the lack of personality that sex ALREADY tends to bring, but we'll be REPLACING that personality with something that we saw on Jerry Springer.
The final blow comes when the hootchies, as I said, THINK their Springer routine is something, but it's actually something totally different. Three strikes, you're out, I puke.
Some people certainly DO maintain their personalities when they're horny, which most others probably consider to be confusing and off-putting.
I'd like to point out that people tend to homogenize when they dance, as well. As a final example, on Saturday night there was a guy on the edge of the dancefloor who danced like a tree: his feet were firmly rooted in one spot, he moved his torso back and forth, he waved his arms, and he kept his eyes closed. But unlike Stompy Flamingo or the hootchies, he didn't seem to care about the rest of the world, which precludes him suffering the aforementioned disconnected impression (that he's super-cool but everybody else thinks he looks silly).
The Tree-Dancer actually made me HAPPY, because I believed he was dancing FOR HIMSELF, and that while he was aware enough of his surroundings to not be inconsiderate to others, he was not particularly concerned about how others viewed him...AND he had a pretty good idea of how they really DO view him, as illustrated by the two jocky guys who stood next to him and obnoxiously mocked him.
This gives me a final segue. I realize in my earlier description of my Saturday confrontation that it might sound like my attack of track-suit guy was unprovoked. Nope: he was one of the guys making aggressive fun of the tree dancer, so I automatically assumed he was moving on to making fun of me, which he probably was until I called him on it (at which time he brilliantly switched to victim-mode). Just so you know.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Queens, Fog, and Foggy Queens
More pictures! Drag night back rooms, foggy nights, and more "Ilsa on Ice" than you can shake a beer stein at!
In this picture with me is Noir (the "Asian Sensation") and Gina (reigning Miss Renaissance). I'm the one in the dirndl.
Uncertain Wisdom of a Saturday Night
Yes, so I often come home after a Saturday night and spout my alcohol-tinged thoughts. This may not be an admirable thing to do, but at least I don't delete these blog entries afterwards -- which would be worse, I think. As though I were ashamed that I drink booze, I come home, I think, and I crash.
I can't even begin to put "tonight's thoughts" into a convenient package. Suffice it to say that it was the last weekend of Oktoberfest, shortly before Hallowe'en, and me expecting -- at any moment -- the yearly "explosion" that tends to happen when somebody doesn't like me. An aggressive attack. Something nasty. The last one happened a year ago and I find myself waiting for the next occurrence.
So there I am in my "Ilsa on Ice" outfit, playing into the Oktoberfest-ish-ness which I outwardly disdain but inwardly understand. Drunken boys are picking up drunken girls. I'm at Club Abstract, MY safe place, MY dancing place, and as always a part of me is wondering: why do you people have to come HERE? Aren't there OTHER places you'd rather slum? I end up yelling insults at a guy in a tracksuit who is quite gracious, and who turns out to be PERHAPS a nice person (or a very good actor) as other people (not me) yell "NICE TRACKSUIT!"
The point is not the tracksuit. The point is the desire to have a GOOD place to drink and relax and have fun, without some jerk being...well, a JERK. This, I think, is the theme of my life: trying to find a place, some place, any place. And I can be nasty if I feel my place is invaded.
But anyway, fast-forward the hours through many WONDERFUL experiences to me coming home, and discovering that my suspicions were true: with windows closed and vents open, my neighbour's cigarette smoking is very much obvious. The first floor of my apartment smells like her f*cking ashtray.
So what do I do? The SECOND floor smells okay (in fact, better than it used to), and since I SLEEP on the second floor -- and she tends to smoke at night -- that's not such a bad situation. But again, I want the "good place," a place where I don't need to worry, a "nest," a happy spot.
Then it occurs to me: a person can CHOOSE not to be upset about a situation, right? I can DECIDE not to let this bother me. I mean, that may be unrealistic, but MAYBE I can sit here and DECIDE that my neighbour's inconsiderate behaviour is just...human, right? And that *I* bother her in other ways -- by listening to Electric Light Orchestra while getting ready to go out -- and that SHE might be tolerating ME, right? Because this is my pseudo-resolution: to acknowledge that all people (including me) are thoughtless, and to RESIGN myself to that fact, and just get on with my life...right?
Oh, it's so sad. Now I can smell the smoke upstairs too. I'm breathing her second-hand smoke and there's no way to get around it. I dunno. I need Out. I need Thomas Dolby. And for that reason, I'm posting one of the most beautiful songs ever written: "Airwaves."
I can't even begin to put "tonight's thoughts" into a convenient package. Suffice it to say that it was the last weekend of Oktoberfest, shortly before Hallowe'en, and me expecting -- at any moment -- the yearly "explosion" that tends to happen when somebody doesn't like me. An aggressive attack. Something nasty. The last one happened a year ago and I find myself waiting for the next occurrence.
So there I am in my "Ilsa on Ice" outfit, playing into the Oktoberfest-ish-ness which I outwardly disdain but inwardly understand. Drunken boys are picking up drunken girls. I'm at Club Abstract, MY safe place, MY dancing place, and as always a part of me is wondering: why do you people have to come HERE? Aren't there OTHER places you'd rather slum? I end up yelling insults at a guy in a tracksuit who is quite gracious, and who turns out to be PERHAPS a nice person (or a very good actor) as other people (not me) yell "NICE TRACKSUIT!"
The point is not the tracksuit. The point is the desire to have a GOOD place to drink and relax and have fun, without some jerk being...well, a JERK. This, I think, is the theme of my life: trying to find a place, some place, any place. And I can be nasty if I feel my place is invaded.
But anyway, fast-forward the hours through many WONDERFUL experiences to me coming home, and discovering that my suspicions were true: with windows closed and vents open, my neighbour's cigarette smoking is very much obvious. The first floor of my apartment smells like her f*cking ashtray.
So what do I do? The SECOND floor smells okay (in fact, better than it used to), and since I SLEEP on the second floor -- and she tends to smoke at night -- that's not such a bad situation. But again, I want the "good place," a place where I don't need to worry, a "nest," a happy spot.
Then it occurs to me: a person can CHOOSE not to be upset about a situation, right? I can DECIDE not to let this bother me. I mean, that may be unrealistic, but MAYBE I can sit here and DECIDE that my neighbour's inconsiderate behaviour is just...human, right? And that *I* bother her in other ways -- by listening to Electric Light Orchestra while getting ready to go out -- and that SHE might be tolerating ME, right? Because this is my pseudo-resolution: to acknowledge that all people (including me) are thoughtless, and to RESIGN myself to that fact, and just get on with my life...right?
Oh, it's so sad. Now I can smell the smoke upstairs too. I'm breathing her second-hand smoke and there's no way to get around it. I dunno. I need Out. I need Thomas Dolby. And for that reason, I'm posting one of the most beautiful songs ever written: "Airwaves."
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Shakin' the Blues Away!
Last year, Lydia of Delirium Clothing made me a FABULOUS replica of Ann Miller's "Shakin' the Blues Away" outfit (from "Easter Parade"). I've never been able to get a picture of it that does it justice, but last night...
Click to see the dress that we affectionately call "The Bumblebee." And I'm the lucky person in it!
Click to see the dress that we affectionately call "The Bumblebee." And I'm the lucky person in it!
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