With the arrival of Pride Weekend this year I was planning on writing a post looking back at my shenanigans during Pride 08. Last year I was helping out Derek’s Two Spirit’s LGBT Native American Group during pride. This year, with Derek out of town, I had no such duties and was planning a relatively low-key weekend.
That was until last night.
But before I get to that, let’s take a walk down memory lane…
Pride 2008
As I mentioned, last year I was helping out Derek’s LGBT group for the Pride Parade. One of their members (the busty lady with the red hair– no not me, the other busty redhead) was crowned something like, “best Charo drag queen look-a-like” or something like that (honestly I don’t see the resemblance), and with such an honor they had a special position in the parade, next to the grand marshall’s car. I was called on to be a safety monitor.
So the Friday before the Parade, I was required to attend a special safety monitor class. They explained what to do if someone got drunk and fell down, how to handle crazy gays running through the parade with used syringes and that we should not touch anything “wet”. Basically, assume everyone at Pride has AIDS and is trying to give it to you.
While at the training I was sitting next to an older gay gentleman, and began chatting with him about his life and at some point just asked completely innocuously if he’d ever been with a woman. (Honestly, don’t ask me why I went there. I was on a roll I guess). Well he seemed to misunderstand my statement and thought I was propositioning him for sex, at which point he responded,
Well she’d have to be positive. I can’t be with something whose not positive.
To which I reply:
Well I only like to surround myself with positive people. Why would you want to hang around any kind of negativity?
This man looks at me, like the idiot that I am and replies,
HIV positive
Oh. So yeah. My bad.
Anyhow, I end up leaving the training session and meet up with Derek’s husband, Lucius, who is on his way to a Native American talent show that Derek is running at the LGBT center. I agree to go, but we both realize that every event Derek’s group puts on is an unmitigated disaster and we can’t show up without have a drink. And that’s where things go horribly wrong.
We stop in at Martunis, and in the course of… oh I dunno, in 20 minutes? have 2 martinis each. With no food. So I, in short, am a complete mess, and with that head across the street to the LGBT center.
When we arrive, they have buffet set out of all kinds of middle eastern food, to which I grab a plate and begin slopping enormous amount of food onto my plate. Like a crazy woman. The MC of the event is the “Charo sortof look-a-like” who I am in awe of. The event begins with some person getting on stage to sing, but the cassette tape they brought to play the accompanying music doesn’t work, or the sound system is broken or no one bothered to put batteries in it. Who knows. In any case, it’s not a good situation.
I get distracted and end up striking up a conversation with a very peculiarly dressed black man who has made his way into the event and has on fatigues and a giant (I mean GIANT) rimmed hat with mesh and grass coming off of it and dangling about his shoulders. (Sidenote: about three months later I saw this guy dancing in circles in a very expensive looking superman costume waiting for the bus at Haight and Fillmore). If I didn’t know better I would have thought he had just come back from fighting in Vietnam. I quickly assess that he is completely insane, and in fact, homeless.
The first act finally ends, and the Charo look-a-like comes back to introduce the next act. I however, am enthralled by her total fabulousness, and before she can continue, I scream out from the back of the room,
You have amazing styrofoam nipples!
It was only a couple minutes later that Derek found me, escorted me outside the room and asked me to go find him a diet coke at a store 10 blocks away. Obviously that was my cue to leave (but not before I found a table filled with condoms and stuffed fistfulls into my pockets, Chrome bag, pants, hoodie, etc etc).
Sunday came, I walked in the parade, monitored for safety and all was good.
End of story, right?
Pride 2009
So this Friday before Pride was much different. I spent the evening being treated to a 90 minute full body massage and made my way through Dolores Park and towards home where I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner and a movie. No Pride preparation, no gays in town, no plans to even attend the Parade on Sunday. Just a nice, relaxing weekend.
As the night winded down, I found myself at home around midnight and tucked myself into bed, looking forward to a very relaxing morning of sleeping in.
Off to sleep I go.
Several hours later (4:30am to be exact), I hear the creak of my bedroom door open. Someone is in my bedroom.
“Arwen” I call out, assuming it’s my roommate who has something to tell me. What do I know? I had been completely asleep and wasn’t really processing what was happening.
“Yes,” she responds. And gets into bed with me.
So imagine my state of mind. I am not awake and my roommate gets into bed with me. This is kindof weird I think, but maybe something happened or there was an accident and she had to talk to me.
And then I realize the woman in bed with me is completely nude and is trying to cuddle with me.
Alright… so I turn around in bed and look at her to see what the heck is going on, and I am so incredibly exhausted that I can’t even tell if I’m looking at Arwen or not. And so I keep staring at her, trying to remember Arwen’s features and voice all while attempting to understand why her hand is on my breast. I realize this is a straight guy’s wet dream come true, but I am beyond confused.
As I continue to gaze at her, trying to wrack my brain and understand whose face I am looking at, she begins to ask frantically, “Are you OK, Are you OK, Are you OK, Are you OK, ARE YOU OK, ARE YOU OK”, over and over and over, the stale smell of alcohol on her breathe. And I say that yes I am OK.
I am just too asleep and too confused to figure this out.
So I close my eyes and think about it and finally begin to wake up and realize this makes ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING SENSE. And that, in fact, this can’t be Arwen. This has to be someone else.
So I begin to calmly ask her about herself: What’s you name? How much have you had to drink? What drugs have you taken? Where were you last sleeping? She responds to all my questions, though her answers don’t make any sense really, other than learning her name.
I get out of bed, throw on my robe (because yes, I too was completely naked) and begin walking around the apartment trying to understand where she came from.
Finally I realize that Arwen was going to have a friend staying with us over the weekend and this girl must be her friend. I wake Arwen, who upon learning what’s happened is beyond embarrassed for her friend and we begin to try to rouse the girl from my bed. She doesn’t want to leave and when we finally cajole her from my sheets, she tries to carry them with her. A moment of clarity finally overcomes her and she says, “I’m so sorry”, and extends her hand as if to greet me.
I shake her hand and reply, “It’s nice to meet you too; you better get some rest.”
And that, my friends, has turned my completely innocuous Pride 09 into one of the strangest and most hilarity filled events of the weekend.
Always up for an adventure, I was thrilled to hear that the local dungeon had a monthly knitting group. Tired of meeting women in other groups that just weren’t moving at the same speed as me, I thought this could be a good way to get my knit on, meet some interesting ladies and probably come out with a good story.
And boy did I ever.
I show up at the dungeon, knitting gear in hand, meet April, the woman who puts on this knitting circle and am introduced in rapid succession to about a half a dozen other ladies.
So I sit down at the knitting table and get my knit on. Mind you, this wasn’t actually a knitting circle–everyone is actually crocheting. Fending of my disappointment at realizing this, I figure there must be some conversation I can at least feign from the experience.
Come to find out that everyone at the circle is very well acquainted. It becomes apparent that April is a Domme and many of the other ladies (if not all?) were her submissives.
Okay… kinda weird…
They begin talking about a recent event they’d attended for the opening of another dungeon. As part of the deal, April’s dungeon did an objectification scene at the opening party.
And here’s where things get funky.
Turns out that the objectification scene was done with two of the subs at the table, being dommed by April. Of the various conversation threads, I pulled together two vital pieces of information:
1. The subs were dressed at ladybugs
2. The domme ripped out the tampon of one of the subs and smeared it in her face.
Wait. What was that? The dom ripped out the tampon of one of the subs and smeared it in her face?
That’s right. So imagine my surprise/revulsion/confusion over this. I am at this point, brought to complete silence, because really, what the fuck do you say after someone tells you they smeared menstrual blood all over a woman dressed as a ladybug.
Somehow I keep knitting. The ladies keep talking and laughing it up at which point April turns to me and says:
Now I don’t want you to judge me, but I almost did acid while I was at that party.
Ok, so now you’re blowing my mind. Did you see that? That was my brain exploding.
Because in the scheme of things, acid would have been the most normal thing you could have done that evening. That would have at least signaled to me that you had some shred of godonlyknowswhat in your core. So no, no judgement passed.
At this point I have no choice BUT to go back to the knitting group next month. Unless of course they get wind of this post and try to impale me with a pineapple or something.
But even that would make a good story.
Back in October, Per (my German “work-hubby”) and I spent two weeks going city to city (Toronto, NYC, Berlin), meeting with customers, speaking at events and just hanging out.
So one night we decided to go to this bar in the lower east side, Milk and Honey. Regaled for its top notch drinks, I was intrigued and before leaving SF made a point of marking it in my moleskin. After must confusion and misdirection, we finally arrive at the address I’d marked down, only to find ourselves in a sort of dodgy alleyway staring at a nondescript steel door.
We’d come so far to find this bar, only to be confronted with a totally baffling situation. Was this really the right address? At my behest, Per went to open the door. It didn’t budge. After some rather insistent knocking, we heard the lock click, and a moment later the door opened, and we walked into another world.
Milk and Honey is Manhattan’s equivalent to Bourbon and Branch. The only difference being that it’s much more low key and much tinier. We took our seats at the bar and were offered the most delightful libations.
And after a while, the gentleman sitting next to me, nudged me and commanded me to try his drink. I obeyed. He was right, it did in fact taste like perfection.
Toby introduced himself and then began to wax poetic on this particular bar, why it was so wonderful and in no uncertain terms, “the best bar in the world”. I, of course took issue with such a statement, and therein began our discussion. Toby also liked to make this really loud grunting noise to express a plethora of emotions approximately every two minutes. Happy? “UGH” (clenching his fists and thrusting his hips into the air), Mad? “UGH!!”, Enthused? You get the idea. However, through it all, it was clear Toby had extensive knowledge of the bar cultures in most cities around the world, which led me to believe he was a either: a raging psychopath, off his mind on cocaine, a high powered world traveling executive or… a raging alcoholic.
Well I was wrong on all accounts. Toby is actually, Toby Maloney, as I Iater came to find out, one of the most renowned mixologists in the world. Through the course of the evening, Toby took
Per and I to bars in the Lower East Side, having us try particular drinks on each menu, asking us to really challenge our palette to recognize the notes and tone of each drink.
We drank at the best bars in Manhattan and never paid a dime. Toby was like a god and we were the chosen people. Everywhere we went, people knew Toby and refused to charge him, or his friends.
At the end of the evening, I made a deal with Toby, a native of SF. We agreed that in a month from our meeting, when he would be in town, I’d take him to my favorite bar (he’s never been to Bourbon and Branch).
He’ll be hearing from me, and maybe we’ll go for a drink– assuming Toby remembers any of what happened that evening; when we met him he was already on his 8th or 9th bar of the evening and when we left him he was still going for more.
And that’s New York.
I read a fascinating article the June’s The Atlantic entitled What Makes Us Happy. The author, Joshua Wolf Shenk , explains in the introduction:
Is there a formula—some mix of love, work, and psychological adaptation—for a good life? For 72 years, researchers at Harvard have been examining this question, following 268 men who entered college in the late 1930s through war, career, marriage and divorce, parenthood and grandparenthood, and old age. Here, for the first time, a journalist gains access to the archive of one of the most comprehensive longitudinal studies in history. Its contents, as much literature as science, offer profound insight into the human condition—and into the brilliant, complex mind of the study’s longtime director, George Vaillant.
And so the story goes: Shenk speaks with Vaillant about his research and while it becomes clear that leading a healthy lifestyle tends to extend longevity, there’s very little insight into what makes for “the good life”.
Shenk uncovers and shares with his readers quite a few letters written by the men that participated in this study recounting their lives in their old age. Factors such as wealth, power and success don’t seem to have any effect on leading “the good life”. One man who led a rather successful life, from outward appearances, ended up killing himself. Another, who lived as more of a hustler, always looking for his next meal, reports being quite content.
And really, what becomes clear, is that despite outside appearances, it is up to us, individually, to determine if we’re living the good life. Ultimately, our experiences and how ‘happy’ our lives are has to do with our frame of mind and how we confront and deal with conflict more than the conflicts we face.
There’s no magic pill, there’s no self-help book. If you think you’re leading ‘the good life’, then you probably are.
Another takeaway from the article that I found particularly poignant is Vaillant’s analysis of emotions. He concludes, quite rightly I believe, that positive emotions make us more vulnerable than negative ones.
Fear and sadness have immediate payoffs—protecting us from attack or attracting resources at times of distress. Gratitude and joy, over time, will yield better health and deeper connections—but in the short term actually put us at risk. That’s because, while negative emotions tend to be insulating, positive emotions expose us to the common elements of rejection and heartbreak.
To illustrate the example, Vaillant speaks of one of the men who originally founded the Harvard research project, and that for his 70th birthday, his wife had found a list of his patients and collected letters of love and gratitude from them. She displayed them in a beautifully bound box and presented it to him. He never opened the box. And as he explained to Vaillant on his 78th birthday:
It’s very hard for most of us to tolerate being loved.
And this really strung a chord with me. I’ve witnessed this firsthand and I have to say that: yes, it’s hard to give and accept the love of others, but fuck it. Sometimes it’s easy to just go hide in a corner because it feels safe. I get that. But aren’t our most precious memories made up of times when we’ve jumped off the proverbial cliff? Sometimes we’ll fall and other times we’ll fly. Either way, we’ll always land on our feet and how we get there is the whole adventure.
You know I think more people don’t go to book reading because frankly, they can be boring as hell. I went to one of my first readings last Fall during Litquake when I heard about an event called the Literary Death Match (LDM). Surely anything that ends in some sort of gladiator style smackdown can’t be bad!
And I was right.
As explained on LDM’s website:
Each episode of this competitive, humor-centric reading series features a thrilling mix of four famous and emerging authors (all representing a literary publication, press or concern–either online or in print) who perform their most electric writing (in eight minutes or less) before a lively audience and a panel of three all-star judges. After each pair of readings, the judges–focused on literary merit, performance and intangibles–take turns spouting hilarious, off-the-wall commentary about each story, then select their favorite to advance to the finals.
The two finalists then compete in the Literary Death Match finale, which trades in the show’s literary sensibility for an absurd and comical climax to determine who takes home the Literary Death Match crown.
True to form, the first LDM I saw involved some really fantastic readings and in the end the two finalists laser gunning each other for the title of champion. It was a riot, and I was hooked.
LDM is actually the brainchild of Todd Zuniga, founder of Opium Magazine. Looking for a way to liven up the literary scene, Todd has been running LDM’s all over the country (and the world), with monthly events occurring in San Francisco and New York.
SF is in for a treat this Friday, June 12th, as Todd will be in town to co-host the latest Death Match taking place at the Elbo Room with doors opening at 6:30pm and the show beginning at 7:15pm.
(In full disclosure, I am a sometimes advisor to LDM, so yes, I am shilling my own stuff, but bear in mind I wouldn’t advise you to go see anything that was less than spectacular. So just deal with it.)
I spoke with Todd about Literary Death Match and here’s what he had to say:
Todd Zuniga, Opium and LDM Founder
Me: Why did you start Literary Death Match?
So yeah, I almost died on the 22 last night. No biggie. The bus was creeping up Fillmore, just past Haight when it began to move at a slow lurch. Then we started rolling backwards down the hill. Seriously.
Long story short, I’m alive and well and the driver was able to eventually take control of things. But that got me thinking about all the other crazy experiences I’ve had on Muni. Frankly, we all have crazy public transportation stories, no matter the city, but I always feel like San Francisco is so much worse.
And that’s why this is the best event EVER: this Friday evening starting at 7:30pm, munidiaries.com is holding “Riders with Drinks” at the Make Out Room (no cover!!). This is the chance to hear and tell all the best stories people have collected about Muni. As they explain on their website, “In the fine tradition of spoken word, your fellow Muni riders will read their stories, recite Muni-related haikus, re-enact some funny Muni scenes (finger puppets, anyone?), and everything in between”. Seriously, this is going to be amazing.
I don’t plan on missing it, especially after interviewing Muni Diaries co-founder, Jeff Hunt.
Jeff Hunt -- co-founder, Muni Diaries
Me: What prompted you to start Munidiaries.com?
Jeff: Muni+a love of storytelling and journalism prompted us to start Muni Diaries. Eugenia first had the idea for a concept-magazine project at SF state journalism school years ago. it was the one idea that had legs, and as we noticed print journalism going the way of the dodo, we thought, why not launch a site? It’s all about storytelling, and a love of public transit.
The most outrageous story on the site, I’d say, is Penis In Public (which, it’s rumored, will be “performed” at Riders With Drinks using sock puppets). it’s still our number 1 post as far as traffic is concerned. I wonder why …
Me: What can attendees expect this Friday at Riders with Drinks?
Jeff: Attendees can expect laughter and poignancy this Friday at Riders With Drinks. They can also expect the event to be colored by the attitude they bring with them. kinda like riding Muni … no, but we hope people enjoy themselves, and ultimately, it’s a celebration of Muni (which comes inherently with a celebration of life in SF).
Me: Worst bus line and why?
Jeff: Worst line? 19-Polk. No question. Sorry everyone!
***
I’m sorry, but the 22 is the worst, Jeff (see story below).
My only other points of reference for public transit are Montreal and France, where I NEVER saw anything remotely like what I’ve experienced in this town. I’ve lost track of all the crazy stories, but these are certainly the three most memorable that I’d like to share with you:
Story #1: Hoes and bitches on the 21 -June 2009
Last week I was riding the 21 back from work and there was this extremely obnoxious black chick screaming (and yes, I do mean screaming) into her cell phone. She appeared to be in an heated debate with another woman. I was really not in the mood to deal with this, so I pumped up the volume on my iPod, but there were a couple times when the yelling became so intense I was able to pick up pieces of the conversation. Lucky me.
“WHY YOU THINK I LIKE THAT, BIAAATCH. I ONLY HAD TWO DICKS IN ME OVER THE LAST TWO YEARS. TWO DICKS. WHAT YOU TALKING ABOUT ME LIKE THAT BITCH”
Lovely. Just lovely.
And another gem (before I ran off the bus):
“YOU HAD MORE ABORTIONS THAN ME. WHY HE TELLING YOU THAT. YOU ARE MORE A HOE THAN ME BITCH”
Story #2: My parents ride the #71 – December 2007
Shortly after I moved to San Francisco my parents came to visit from midwestern suburbia. My dad, being a total cheapskate, found out that seniors ride the bus for 50 cents and that was enought convince him to never set foot in a cab. Mind you, my parents haven’t set foot on a bus (maybe, ever?) in at least 35 years. This is all quite novel for them.
On one such ride on the 71, my mom, who is usually quite bubbly and friendly looked sullen and stricken. As I came to understand, the homeless man who was sitting next to her, who had dragged on a bag of trash (?) had defecated in his pants. I have never seen such a look of horror on her face.
Of course, they continued to ride the bus after this incident (it was a such a deal!), but my mom felt the need to send me a can of mace the moment she returned home. I’m not sure how that would have helped the man stop pooping his pants, but it certainly would be useful on the now three instances I have been nearly physically attacked in the Tenderloin (that story, my friends, will have to wait for another post).
Story #3 Testicles on 22 – November 2007
I was brand new to the city and new NOTHING about the 22 or Muni in general. In Canadia, normal, respectable people rode the bus. You never saw the displays of poverty, mental illness or just general rudeness that I’ve found on Muni. See, I think Canadians actually treat mental illness instead of throwing those people onto the streets.
Case in point:
One evening coming back from work, I was minding my own business on the 22 when an extremely overweight gay man, probably in his 50′s got on board. He was wearing flip flops, extremely tight hot pants and a scarf. That’s it. It was 50 degrees out.
So I’m thinking, ok, sit wherever you want, but just don’t sit in front of me. And so he does just that. And as he sits down, KERPLOP!, go his balls right of the hotpants. Of course, these pants were so undersized that adjusting didn’t even seem like an option under consideration. No, instead he ever so gracefully draped his scarf over his manhood and rode in peace.
Umm… yeah.
After that incident I bought my bike.
***
Have you got a great Muni story (come on, I know you do). Throw it in the comment section or come on out this Friday and let’s hear it!
So remember that blog post I did last winter where I was looking to buy a book I couldn’t remember the name of and instead ended up visually ass raping the bookseller and asking her if she sold anal plugs? You know the one.
So believe it or not, that book was actually Infinite Jest. If you haven’t heard of it, well… you’re an uncultured idiot (and I mean that in the most loving and supportive way possible). But you shouldn’t feel too bad about that, because most people that pick up this 1079 page book never actually finish it. We all talk about it and lament just getting stuck, and wah wah wah, it never happens.
But Infinite Jest is worth us reading. I’ve only gotten about 100 pages in and I can tell you that. If you need more proof, talk to your friends (I guarantee one of them has read it) or check out these reviews.
Fortunately, there’s a group called Infinite Summer which is encouraging people to start reading IJ over the Summer (from June 21 – September 22). That comes out to a very manageable 75 pages a week and if you do it with friends, it’s a breeze! Infinite Summer is also having guest bloggers and writers help coach us readers through the process and cheer us on!
So that’s what I’m doing. But I’m taking it a step further. I am forming a book club to read Infinite Jest with my wonderful friend Kara. And we want YOU to get involved. We’re going to meet every two weeks at a new bar in the Mission and talk about our progress on the book and then get our drink on. That’s fun, right?
So here’s my proposal:
Every other Tuesday, starting June 23rd we get together and talk and drink and laugh and drink and so forth. If you want to get involved, email me or call me or throw something in the comment section (I know there are only like only 100 of you reading this… and I know who you are).
This is going to be a great way to meet new people, make new friends and read a book that we really shouldn’t miss out on.
I’ll post details of the first meetup a day or two prior.
UPDATE: Our first get together will take place on June 23rd at Shotwell’s at 6:30pm. Shotwell’s is at 20th and Shotwell. To stay up to date with upcoming meetups, please subscribe to our Google Group, Infinite Summer SF.
Me giving the camera my best sexy look. That's all I got folks.
So yeah, pole dancing FAIL. Let me give you a breakdown of the situation. A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine had organized a bunch of us ladies to go to take some pole dancing classes at the S Factor in the Marina.
Sure, pole dancing sounds like fun, and why not add more sexy dances to my repetoire, but there were a couple red flags:
1. What in the name of christ is an S Factor? I honestly don’t know. All I know is this screams marketing lame-o talk and I can spot it a mile away.
2. The class was held in the Marina. Say no more.
Ok, so despite my skepticism about the location and the way they’ve branded this place, I brave the throngs of douchbags on the 22 to get there (they were in overabundance today as it’s also the SF douchebag fair Union Street Fair). But seriously, this should be fun, right? Me and a bunch of friends… how could this go wrong?
Well let me tell you.
So we get all set up and sign a 6 page release form (I may have handed over an unborn child. Honestly it was ridiculous) and enter into a dimly lit room with a couple lights at either end, draped in red sheer fabric, two stripper poles in the center and a bunch of yoga mats lying about.
Our instructor, an extremely exhuberant woman enters the room with literally 200+ pounds of sass to throw about and begins to tell us that this is a place of love and acceptance. We are all beautiful woman (blah blah blah) and there are no judgements here. There are no mirrors, as well. So far, I’m ok with this woman. I like that she’s not a skinny bitch, I like that she’s got some personality and while I’m not big on the whole woman empowerment “you are a blossoming beam of light in the world” thing (which generally rings phoney to me), whatever. I can deal.
So before we get stripper poling, or whatever it is we’re supposed to do, she asks if anyone has injuries. Of course on the tome of paperwork I’d signed prior I did mention that I have achilles tendonitis due to a past life as a somewhat overzealous tennis player:
So I mention this, and my friend Hadessa mentions some rather serious issues she has with her knee caps just randomly popping out of place.
And with that out of the way we begin. The lights are dimmed even further to the point where I can barely see anything and we are instructed to close our eyes (because we don’t want to judge the other woman as they warm up or work out — seriously??) and for the next 45 minutes are, literally, blindly instructed on a variety of stretching and pilates moves.
Red Flag #1: There are a lot of wrong ways to stretch and do pilates. Not looking at the instructor is the absolute HEIGHT OF STUPIDITY. To suggest that I have to close my eyes to do these exercises because I might judge or be judged by the other women there further emphasizes how shallow this whole “women empowerment b.s” really is. I don’t need to close my eyes to be supportive or feel supported by other women. Honestly, this is dangerous and very poor form.
So after our 45 minutes of blindly and presumably improperly stretching to phrases such as:
Clear your mind, open your arms and let them flow around your body the same way a fisherman casts his net into the deep blue lake of your soul.
WHAT? What kind of stretch is that? What does it mean?
And, my personal favorite:
Feel your vagina with your hands as you lie down and let your hands slowly caress your body as you move from the birthplace of the goddess to fondle your breasts.
Honestly it felt like a group masturbation circle. Especially when in this process we were instructed to lie on our sides, rub our asses and on the count of three spank ourselves. Honestly, I can’t make this shit up (and no, in case some of you are wondering, the class isn’t open to men).
So finally after all this stretching we’re ready for some sexy moves. We start learning some move to make us pounce like a cat. The instructor mentions that we should use this to distract our boyfriends when they’re watching football (which, incidentally, if I ever do date someone that watches football and isn’t naturally distracted by my sexual prowess, please shoot me). So we practice this move for a bit and then go onto sexy walking, which is kindof like coordinated drunk walking, slinking one foot in front of the other while thrusting our hips to and fro.
But there’s a problem, Hadessa’s knees are in pain from the 45 minutes of improper stretching and then overexerting herself while doing the cat move “entice your p.o.s. football watching boyfriend” thing. So she moves to the side of the room and takes a break. At which point, 200 pounds of sass comes walking up to ask her why she’s not doing the sexy drunk walk. Hadessa explains that she’s in pain and need a break to which ‘sassy’ responds:
There are no breaks in this class. If you’re not going to participate you have to leave the room.
So Hadessa gets kicked out.
Shortly thereafter, we are taught how to swing around the poll. This move is dependent on placing all your weight on one ankle as you slither down the pole. Immediately another red flag goes off. I spent a month in physical therapy trying to un-fuck my achilles tendonitis two years ago and have no desire for a flare up. But I give it a shot and sure enough the pain returns. I tell the teacher I can’t do that again and she shrugs it off and says I should just try on the other ankle.
But I can’t. See achilles tendonitis is recurring and can be debilitating. So I leave, unprompted by the teacher, though feeling dejected and certain she’ll kick me out when she realizes that I won’t risk injuring the one ankle that isn’t in pain.
I walk outside and see Hadessa, who looks like she’s just been punched in the face and she immediately starts crying. We leave, but not before I read the manager the riot act and get us a refund.
I wish there was a happy ending to this story; I did find the moves, the new age hypocrisy and the personal molestation rather amusing. I just wish we could’ve ended the class actually feeling accepted for who we are and not on such a low note.
At the very least I’ve learned how to slink around the floor like a sex kitten and I’m sure one of these days that’ll come in rather handy.
So yeah, breakups suck. I’m slowly coming to grips, though I feel my emotions cycling from feelings of being totally OK, to wondering if all is lost and I should try and find a mail order Russian groom. Well that’s bit dramatic. I’m sure there are a lot of Russians in the city looking for a green card. So I guess I could just hang out somewhere around Civic Center (I don’t know why, but this seems like a place where I could easily procure some indigent to be my lawfully wedded hobo… and give me chlamydia. Or whatever.)
ANYHOW, the point of this post is to explain exactly what music you should never listen to in a breakup. Having been my own guinea pig, I can tell you under no uncertain terms, that this is all very caustic stuff.
Drum roll please….. (tatatatatata)…..
In no particular order:
1. Anything by Tori Amos, but in particular, all her music pre-1998 and certainly not the album, Boys for Pele, unless you want to experience total emotional collapse, in which case I wholeheartedly recommend track 2, “Blood Roses”
2. All French music, especially if you understand the language, but even if you don’t, you could extrapolate and basically everything sounds like death, dying, heartbreak and loneliness. That’s just the French way. Trust me on this one. Case in point:
3. Ace of Base. Ok, I actually didn’t listen to this, but I still think it merits a place on any “do not listen or you will explode” list. Kill it with fire. And if that doesn’t work, kill it with more fire!
4. Any singer/songwriter whose name is Nick. That’s right. I am castigating an entire group of people based on their first name. But I have good reason. Case in point:
Nick Drake – depressing as fuck. For god’s sake the guy even committed suicide at 26 years old after writing all those songs.
Nick Cave — have we ever seen him do anything but melancholic songs? (Honestly, I’m not the best judge of this as I’m not really a fan of his. For all I know he probably has an album of children’s lullabies). But I have a hunch about this one. And from the couple love songs I’ve heard, I know this is bad news:
No dear reader, those aren’t for me. I prefer to stick with the bootie popping kinds of stuff that R&B videos are made out of (that sounds so wrong to say. SO WRONG). But it’s true. Sometimes you just need something upbeat and aimless to help you pick yourself up and shake it all out.
And that’s what I’m doing. I’m shaking it all off.
{This story has been sitting in my queue, nearly finished, for four months. I’m FINALLY pushing it out there!}
From February 2009:
Would you believe that the gays left me in charge of their cats AGAIN on their most recent trip out of town? I thought after the last incident they would have banned me from entering hearth and home in their absence.
I overestimated them.
Before I explain the prank itself, I need to take a bit a detour in the story to round things out. You see, the gays have this completely bizarre homemade poster in their bedroom called, “The Race to the Cock”. It is comprised of various magazine cutouts of naked, fully erect men, on some sort of shoots and ladders type path… to the cock. Perhaps the most disturbing element of this poster is that in the middle there are the faces of Sally Struthers and Rue McLanahan. Honestly I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just WEIRD and kindof looks like this:
(that diagram, btw, was so traumatic for me to actually sketch out, that I think my computer may be trying to file a battered spouse suit with the SFPD)
//backstory complete
So there I found myself, taking care of the cats, Dotty and Rhubarb, and planning my next prank. I knew they’d be expecting to come home and find something altered in the house, so I had to up the ante.
I enlisted my roommate extraordinaire, Arwen, who enthusiastically agreed to take some rather humorous photos of us in their bed and create a more feminine poster for them, because CLEARLY we had to bring some balance into the penix-overload.
Now I do imagine you could speculate about what kinds of photos we took, but I can assure they were all (kindof) tasteful and left EVERYTHING to the imagination… because you know, gay men are positively terrified of a naked woman. (Well there is one involving our heads cut out and replaced with monkey stickers with “monkey” Arwen pointing to her nipple. But that’s the only bad one. Really.)
And so with the help of Arwen’s gay, Mike, we got to work taking those pictures and left the apartment exactly as it appeared when we entered. No sign of the prank to be found.
A couple days later, Derek and Lucius came back into town and called to take me out to dinner for all my troubles. So off I went to meet them later that evening at their apartment. From there we headed out to dinner a couple blocks away at Borobudur.
Once we got seated, Derek asked my for the keys. I responded:
Crap! Would you believe I’d forgotten the keys to the apartment at my house? Fortunately I remembered to call Arwen on my way over and she’ll bring them along and meet us for dinner.
Of course little did he know that Arwen had actually come with me to their hood, and was crouched outside their apartment between two cars holding the giant posterboard of our nudie photos while she waited for the three of us to go to dinner.
Arwen met us for dinner and things proceeded exactly according to schedule. We invited ourselves over for a nightcap and the reveal finally took place.
The reveal brought much hilarity and shock from both Derek and Lucius who then mentioned how disappointed they were when they’d arrived home from vacation and realized I did NOTHING unusual to their place (they’ve taken to tearing the house apart now that they know I like to play pranks on them when they’re away). Little did they know that the poster was not the only thing we’d left behind for them…
Revisiting this story (May 2009):
It’s been nearly four months since we executed this prank and there have been a number of developments.
1. Back in March Derek was on a flight back from D.C. and opened up his book, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, to see a nudie photo of us come flying out from between the pages and into the lap of the elderly man sitting next to him. Yeah, we made wallet sized photos and littered them through their books.
2. About a month ago I received a call that they were “dusting” the inside cases of their DVD porn collection and happened to uncover another photo of us inside the celebrated film, “28 Gays Later”.
3. The poster we’d created has been moved from their bedroom into the closet, where Derek is forcing his gay brother to sleep for the 7 weeks that he’s visiting SF. You heard me. The gay brother is being forced back into the closet, with pictures of naked women, for 7 weeks.
It’s the gift that just on keeps giving.
When I started this blog in November of last year, I was reaching the tale end of my “crazy period” (to be defined as the period after my marriage collapsed) — by no means was it over, but my focus had shifted from cheap, short lived thrills to just starting to yearn for something more lasting.
Mind you I was still terrified of commitment. I totally freaked out in January when Arwen, my completely amazing roommate, made a comment as to how close she felt to me as a result of our amazing friendship. I could barely handle the affection of a friend. Relationships proved even more of a challenge.
I wasn’t ready to give of myself, and so I went along, dating people, however kind, that I knew I couldn’t have a lasting relationship with (the stripper and the 20 year old both come to mind).
…
And then I met him.
Going out on what I thought to be “just another date”, turned out to be the pivotal changing point in my life. I had met a man, that for the first time since the end of the marriage, I could envision a future with. And that future didn’t look scary and wasn’t something I ran away from. It was a future I embraced.
I’ve never believed in love at first sight. I thought the concept was foolhardy and naive. I still can’t say it was love at first sight, that first night that we met, but what I can say is that I’ve never felt so full of emotion and affection for someone after just one week. If you’ve ever had that feeling, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, consider this a cautionary tale. I’ve never flown so high and fell so low before. I’ve never totally given myself up to love, and in doing so, to the ensuing pain that comes with rejection.
We spent a wonderful two weeks together, made plans for the future — plans which actually excited me and didn’t drive me screaming!! — and shared a connection with each other that was more than just physical. Emotionally and intellectually we were right on track.
Slowly though the relationship started to fall. His attention shifted and his affection diminished, leaving me, still in the “honeymoon” phase of the relationship, confused and hurt. It was a pain so terrible, and so unreal, that I am surprised I held on for so long. I clung onto a memory and a hope that what we told each other those first couple weeks was true.
After four weeks of dwindling affection from him we talked. It wouldn’t work out. He was emotionally barren, having been wrung dry by a relationship he recently ended. There was nothing left for me. And as much as he cared about me, he couldn’t offer me what I needed. I knew exactly what that felt like, and while I’d never let myself enter a relationship in that state of mind, I can relate.
That was last night.
I don’t tell this tale as a sob story, though believe me it does help to write it down, but rather as a way of marking a distinct change in my behavior and a shift in Sexistential Crisis. I started this blog to recount the dating tales that people kept telling me I needed to write down because they were too funny or outrageous to be lost. Many of them aren’t told here: there was the drug dealer, the white pimp, more bisexuals than I can shake a fist at, a guy living out of his car, an astro biologist, the foot fetishist, a man who made pot lollipops for a living, the dude who started the Valentine’s day pillow fight… and the list goes on. Those were incredibly fun times, and I’m friends with a few of those guys (in particular, “pot lollipop”, “my little pony” and “the guy living in his van”).
Dating used to be my hobby, and that’s shifted significantly to working on other, healthier projects. I’m learning to write Python, I’m rediscovering my love of astronomy, I have found a joy again in reading and the arts. Sorry to say, dear reader, that these hobbies are often coming in the place of blogging. And perhaps those topics will replace the ones I’ve written about prior (though don’t worry, I’m still crazy… I have a couple tricks up my sleeve, yet!).
But to get back to my earlier story, I’ve turned a corner. And it’s very exciting. Through all the heartache I’m going through now, I’ve finally realized that I can love again and that I am finally ready for a real committed relationship. It’s been nearly two years since my marriage ended and I hardly imagined the day I’d be able to commit to someone. But that day has finally arrived. And it feels really great.
I guess I just wanted you to know where I’m at. I’m being brutally honest with you, spilling my thoughts and feelings onto the page. So be gentle with me.
Peace.
(From December 2007)
You’ve probably never heard of Tiny Jesus.
I hadn’t.
Mytinyjesus.com is this site that aggregates tweets and spits them out from a tiny jesus statue. Like this:
As most people know, I’m endlessly intrigued by crazy, random shit so in that spirit, I decided to send tiny jesus and e-mail. Here’s what I wrote:
“Look for the Jeebus hands”
(and if you’re wondering what the Jeebus hands are, this is a Simpson’s reference)
I pressed send, and forgot all about it. And then a couple days later I got a response. Here’s what he wrote:
Dear Laura,
The Jebus hands are hidden in an old salt mine south of border,
guarded by a cranky norwegian blacksmith and his dog, Max. I hope
this secret is safe with you.Your lucky number is 7.
Your invisible pal,
Tiny Jesus
OMG. Tiny Jesus is the man… and has left me totally intrigued. So I wrote back:
Tiny Jesus,
You intrigue me.
Your host.
So perfect and round.
Hits my tongue.
And melts.
Into me.
Onto me.
And in my intestines.
Click edit, to answer your questions.
Call me, biznatch
Thinking that was the end of that. But no. A couple days later, Tiny Jesus responded. That dirty bastard, here’s what he had to say:
Dear Laura,
Bless my holy soul if that’s not the most erotic poem about wafers that I have ever read (and believe me, it’s a genre of which I consider myself to be a connoisseur). I can only respond in kind, answering poetry with poetry. Or, to quote my favourite angel up here, “Eat haiku, tiny human”
Sweet baby marmots
dance, wide blue eyes laugh. For fun,
hit them with a stickYour lucky number remains 7.
Your invisible pal,
Tiny Jesus
Tiny Jesus is one sick man. But I’m into that. My last letter to tiny jesus:
Dear Tiny Jesus,
I’m aroused by your mastery of haiku, and your in rambling non-sequitors. I now understand how you swayed the masses and all I can say is:
Turn your water into wine.
And fill me.
With your alcoholic rage.Bring your marmots
to my shore
And beach them
on my milky love moons.WWJD?
Call me, Tiny, call me.
Well Tiny didn’t call. So I got down to business and found out who the domain mytinyjesus.com was registered to. That led me to the man behind Tiny, and possibly one of the funniest twitterers around:
@gilfer
I haven’t heard from Tiny now in over a year now, but I do have the pleasure of reading his creator’s mumblings, grumblings and hilarious rantings which is more than I could ever have asked for.
