Well hello there, boys and girls! Maybe just girls. I sometimes
wonder what my reader demographic actually is. Any fellas out there? These are
the things that keep me up at night. Blog readership and the perpetual
expansion of the universe into more universe.
My sun-sodden brain has decided to go
stream-of-consciousness on you. Not to mention the fact that I’m Stripparoake bound in t-minus 30 minutes. I still haven’t bothered to put on pants, therefore
editing is most definitely out of the question. Today was totes amazing, you guys.
I woke up at the crack of noon, walked to Trader Joe’s for eggs, yogurt and
free samples (some sort of BBQ pork and a cube of gouda cheese) and sprung for
a latte at the coffee shop around the corner. I think the barista liked me. She
gave me an extra shot fo’ free. The rest of the day I chased the sun around in
my backyard and refused to wear a shirt. All in all, it’s been an exceptionally
good Sunday to cap off a phenomenal weekend.
I finally braved downtown Portland this weekend. For those
of you back home, I know how that sounds. Going downtown is easy, right? No.
Downtown is an entirely different world. Or at least plausibly an entirely different
city. Coming over the Burnside bridge into Southwest reminds me that I actually live in a city at all.
I gravitated downtown because of an overwhelming desire to dance. Not the standard ass shaking I do every morning in my bedroom. I
needed a dance floor and strobe lights and a seizure-inducing techno beat and
at least 100 sweaty bodies jostling around me. I was willing to fly solo for
this experience. Luckily, I didn't have to. The planets aligned and my
friends were already planning some dance party mayhem. Naturally we hit up CC
Slaughters, because if you can’t find good dancing at a gay dance club where
the hell will you find it? Answer: nowhere.
I have to admit, this was perhaps the first time I’ve ever
gone dancing sober. Sobriety is this new thing I’m trying. It's part of this whole Self Love Plan I've fashioned, along with yoga and vitamins and accepting compliments graciously. But goddamn alcohol is such an effective
crutch when you’re trying to do ridiculous things with your body. Like scale
fences, or jog home at 2am, or dance. Soda water with lime just didn't have the
same effect.
Drinks in hand, we hovered at the edge of the pulsating mess of human limbs and torsos (AKA the “dance floor”). After 20 minutes of awkward head bobbing, I arrived at
a conclusion. Dancing is a lot like swimming. The first time you go to the
river or the lake every summer you can try to ease yourself in slowly. You can let
your feet acclimate, then your shins, then your knees. Eventually you’ll be
waist deep, which works. That’s totally laudable. You go, Glen Coco! Or you can
take a running leap and fling yourself off that dock.
So I took a deep breath, tucked my elbows and barreled
straight into the middle of the crowd. Once you’re in there you can’t help but dance.
Because if you stand still too long someone is going to wreck your shit with excessive arm thrashing. I don’t know how you all dance, but I’m
definitely not a bumper or a grinder. I do a lot of jumping. I close my eyes and
throw my 80s-ballad-rockfist in the air. I lose myself entirely; let my body
take full control. It’s like therapy. It’s like entering a time warp. Next
thing I know it’s 2:30am and they’re kicking us out into the cold before the back
sweat has even dried.
I wanted to give you guys something really profound before Maggotfest, but I think this is about what you’re going to get from me
tonight. I’m toying with the idea of real-time blog updates throughout Fest
weekend. What do you think? Things could get interesting.
I love you all more than you know.
-b
P.S. I think this is the fastest post I’ve ever written, so
don’t judge it too severely. It’s just a tiny baby.
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