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Sunday, Jun. 22, 2003 / 2:02 p.m. ~Cross-Posted~ I went out and about yesterday, and I had a fairly exciting time... Well, exciting for me anyway. First, I must comment on the weather. I don't need a weatherman to tell me we have a big "H" sitting on top of our region, major high pressure causing a break in the humidity, not just no rain, but no humidity, it's DRY, and it's CLEAR, and it's SUNNY, and the sky is BLUE after all. How more perfect could it be for the M-F people than to have rain all week and this, THIS all weekend? I ask you, quite rhetorically, because it could not, be any more perfect. Thusly, I am up earlier than yesterday. I went to see "Capturing the Friedmans" last night, and it was heavy, it was hard to watch, it was hard to sit still. The man in front of me kept checking the time on his green glowing cell phone readout, along with a man down my row. GREEN, distracting, it would light up and I would know they wanted OUT of there. After it was over I was really craving a discussion - which reminds me, there was a showing of "Donnie Darko" at Madstone on Friday, the writer/director in attendance, but alas, I did not attend - so I went to the bar at my favorite little bistro, expecting a crowd at 9:30 on a Saturday night, but it was dead, and the bartenders were gay, not very interested in a single woman sitting to drink a couple Bass Ales, in huge fat glasses I could barely get my hand around. The bartender got me a pen (why don't I ALWAYS carry a notebook and pen, regardless of purse size?) and a long piece of register tape so I could sit and write some immediate feelings about the film. Here is a little: "What coincidence, what Karmic joke, for a pedophilic homosexual to marry a controlling woman and through sex with her produce three boys! To be constantly tempted, constantly forced to repress his most natual unnatural desires. And finally, perhaps NOT be able to, ruining his entire life, finally because his own guilt and self hatred could not allow him to proceed in his own lie of a life. And taking his son with him. Could he not rest until he was caught? Is it like Dostoyevsky wrote, one cannot commit a perfect crime - one must pay, one must suffer consequences, retribution, justice, punishment??" I went on and on, writing on my register tape, drinking my beers, wanting food only because I thought I should eat it, but not eating, listening to the chef, off-duty, talk to the woman who sat next to me, the one there to meet her sister, "Tatum" (who is named Tatum, other than Ms O'Neal?) and her new Italian stallion, er, fiance, but she was two hours late, sat drinking Johnny Walker on ice instead, chatting up the chef, who could not stop talking, seemed wired, or tired, or unable overall to head home to his child, and apparently a woman, or girlfriend who must be the child's mother. I digress. But it's all part of my story, and when one is alone, and out and about, one observes, one's senses are heightened, they tingle, every sound is heard, every conversation, every perfume, powder, deodorant is smelled, and every sip of beer is tasted, and every dark corner is lightened. My favorite bistro is dark and the DJ plays excellent music on Saturdays. The owner hovered, it was too slow, it was odd slow, it was weird slow. I left for my favorite dance club, purchased the obligatory drink, my third Bass, still with no food, this my last drink of the night, and stood by the DJ booth, candles lit along the edge of the wall, and watched a man dance on his hands on the empty dance floor. I told him I loved to watch him move, and he said he was sorry to be the only one on the floor. I went on the other side of the dance floor, just past a cozy sitting area, and just before the raised platform sometimes used for live music, for actual bands, but on this night for exhibitionistic dancers (later taken over, and under the lighting guy's obvious spotlight placed just on them, by a dark skinned man with open shirt and six pack abs, white briefs visible above his low slung jeans held up by a belt, but obviously left loose to hang just so low, and his light skinned dance/fuck partner, a woman in tight short black dress with thin straps to hold it on her shoulders, and he writhed, oh so sexually, exposing that perfect abdomen he works so hard to perfect in proportion, while she writhed, oh so sexually, moving her body lower to the floor, her head closer to his crotch, his arms in the air, hers around his legs - after awhile I paid them no attention, because it was what they wanted, too much, and I was there to move as I move), just to the side of that, and danced by myself. I couldn't stop, and I didn't stop, but to get water from the bartender, shoving dollar bills at him so he'd notice me sooner, and to tip him, because I was feeling generous, no, I didn't stop, for about three hours. This club is urban, and in the original sense, inner city, and it's underground, in the literal and otherwise sense. No signs outside, and it's underground, an old garage, quite literally under the ground, it's a lair, a cave, and it gets smoky, and on Saturday nights, it gets crowded, they come, slowly, sometimes all at once, and you never know when or how many, or whom, but there they are, and I'm always into my own mad dance groove when they show up. I look up, sweaty, wishing I'd brought something to hold my hair off my back, my neck, and there they are. Last night the dance floor was given to spontaneous bouts of break dancing, people standing back, dancing still, but making room, young men, black and white, dancing on their hands, their heads, their asses, and their feet, taking turns, occasional coolness erupting into shouts of praise or applause. I've never seen so many beautiful black men in my life. And dancing alone mostly. One in the ubiquitous Summertime apparel, the 'wifebeater', with taut muscles bulging beneath, and I prodded him, you get out and do that too, yes?, No, no, not me. But he could have. He could move. And later, skinny white boys with beers in hand, leaning up against the wall, wallflowers, holding the wall, barely a foot tapping. And me, little attention paid at all to what I must look like, only moving, only barely unable to stop moving, and the DJ must've changed, this was different music, we went from House to R&B, to some reggae, to some rap, to some disco, to some late '60s psyhedelia, and my body moved differently to all of it, craving some consistency. It was 3:30 a.m. when the music became something I couldn't move to, I can't describe it, but it wasn't for me, not at all, and I sat at the bar, a man playing with my hair on my way to a seat, calling me 'pretty lady', for only a moment, before I stumbled up the ramp and out, and managed to drive myself home at highway speeds. I got the movie out of my system, and I think that is what I needed to do. I also needed to go dancing, to be out, under the control of a DJ, and to see people, to be surrounded by strangers, with little contact. It served its purpose. It was fun, I had to keep telling myself when I became egotistically disappointed that no one had hit on me, except for a very drunk woman who offered to get me water when she saw me eating ice (I love to eat ice when I'm dancing). I was trying to figure out what the problem was. I wasn't too desperate, I wasn't looking, I was aloof, I was available, I was SO very available, but no part of me illustrated that fact. Then I thought it might be pheromones, maybe mine are too old. Maybe the pheromones of a young woman in her 20s are different from those of a 42 year old. Maybe all those beautiful black men don't like white women, maybe they were all GAY! Even the one who shared his joint with me? Possible. Maybe my breasts are too small... But it didn't matter, I was there to release, and I released, and I'm not a terrible mess today, I feel okay, I need to eat more food, I'm neglecting very basic body functions, like ingestion of nutrients for proper body management, but I did lift weights yesterday. And the weather, I mustn't forget the weathe Cost of the War in Iraq
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