Coping Mechanisms

"Did you know," called out a gnarled, homeless-looking guy with a cigarette, causing me to break stride and reluctantly take out my earbuds, "did you know that seven thousand... minus two thousand... equals five thousand?" He held up five fingers.

Um. "Yes?" I ventured, smiling.

"That's correct!" he crowed, and strode away, guffawing loudly. "Thank you!" I called after him, and put my earbuds back in and resumed my walk.

I see random people.

Walking, pacing, biking, dancing - just to keep moving, is the best cure I've ever come across for heartache. It isn't good enough, but I guess it'll have to do.

Mind you, when I say dancing, I mean dancing to music that other people can hear; I don't care how cool those old iPod commercials were, dancing to yours will only make you look like a spaz. And word to that chick on the hike-and-bike trail last week: that goes double for singing along! You know who you are.

It's also helpful to whinge to the exact same friends who have been telling me for two years that I was acting like a complete idiot and really needed to give it up and walk away already. These friends are remarkably patient with me, considering. Still, it's always nice to make new friends, if only to give the old ones a break; we wouldn't want them to get bored.

Felicia and I met through Tony a few weeks ago, and hit it off grandly. Last night I met up with her and some of her friends at the Parish for an 80's dance party. And did we dance!

Considering the theme of the evening, I was a little surprised to see so many youngsters - who were also the ones who dressed for the occasion, albeit not always with complete accuracy. There was a free intermingling of spandex with leg warmers, black lace fingerless gloves, and sequins - the 80's being represented as a big mishmash of Michael Jackson, Madonna, the Cure, Depeche Mode, AC/DC, and wait, wasn't that Fergie?! On the one hand, I was there, and the 80's were really not very much like last night. On the other hand, last night was a lot more fun.

I ache all over today. The ache inside is still worse. Distract and wait, distract and wait; keep moving, keep going, and have random conversations with questionable strangers. It has to get better eventually.

Meanwhile, put on some spandex and dance!

Clean It Like You Mean It

Think - Hey! I'm talking to you, here - think about how much more orderly your life would be if you were the kind of person who thought, as your eyes swept the kitchen (oh and as a corollary, this would also not be the only sweeping your kitchen ever received), "Hey. That faucet could be shinier!"

You aren't, are you? That's okay, I'm not either. My mother-in-law is. She cleans reflexively, like coughing. She's just sort of in the kitchen or the living room and she's talking or watching TV and her body is moving of its own volition and everything is getting clean, or cleaner, I should say, because it never actually was dirty to begin with. She raised seven children that way. Those genes turned out to be recessive.

I'm not like that either, unfortunately, because I have my mother's extremly untidy genes, which are dominant. Go figure! But about once a year I get a serious bug up my butt and clean the place like a madwoman. I mean, I wouldn't go opening the cabinets if I were you, because come on. There's, like, roach legs and shit in there, and nobody's going to clean that up. But the floors are swept and mopped, the plumbing and the furniture are shining, the appliances are free of spatters, the upholstery on the sofa is scrubbed, and the whole house gives off an aroma remarkably unreminiscent of cat pee. You should be impressed! God knows I am.

What gets you in a cleaning frame of mind? There's always the panicked sensation that company's coming and, if they see how you normally live, not only will they not like you any more, but the health department might have to get involved. But that's involuntary cleaning, and yields mediocre results at best. What is it, then, if there is such a thing, that makes you really want to clean, so that you cheerfully scrub the finger smudges off from the kitchen cabinet doors, or wipe congealed chicken juice out of the bottom of the refrigerator, or actually notice such normally unquestioned clutter as - just an example here - an eyeliner pencil and a combination lock, squirreled away behind the coffeemaker?

Me, I have to have the place to myself. It becomes, only once a year or so, all my own and only mine; so I plug my iPod into the stereo, and invite friends over (who apparently know better and don't come), and, for a brief moment in time, I channel my mother-in-law: I'm just hangin', just dancing around the house listening to my music, and somehow there are a broom and dustpan and mop and brush and sponge and cloth and a bottle of spray cleaner in my hands, and things get put away, and everything gets unbelievably clean. It's a miracle!

I'm sure there's some perfectly reasonable scientific explanation. And I bet if a team of scientists studied the phenomenon, they'd be able to produce a pharmaceutical that would replicate the effect and turn me, and you, and anyone else into a domestic goddess like my mother-in-law. Would you take it? I know it's a bit Stepford-esque. But think how shiny your kitchen faucet would be.

On the Scene

Generally speaking, you go to the gay bar for people-watching. You don't go to dance - or you could; but the set I hang with rarely does. You're not there for the music, with generic song after song after song underlaid by an unchanging heavy bass beat. You're not there for conversation: man, it's so loud in here! And you certainly aren't there for the elbow room. After about an hour and a half I start having difficulty breathing, but unfortunately I still have to fight my way to the thronged bar to close out my tab. Twenty minutes of pushing forward until I can get the attention of a bartender, and he tells me the guy down at the other hand has my tab, go stand down there.

Like hell I will. But, for future reference, you should always pay cash at the gay bar. Those bartenders are some snippy little bitches.

But people to watch there are, lots of them, all kinds. My set consists of highly attractive, fit, healthy, well-groomed, courtly young men who introduce me to everybody and smell really nice. Still they have no mercy for many others in the crowd: the lesbians and the drag queens fare especially badly.

I chime in, because a few giggling college girls are trying out the pole in the cage in the corner, and they really don't know what they're doing: they're drunk, self-conscious and overcompensating for it, with no fluidity or sensuality to their movements. My friends follow my cue and shake their heads and cluck disapprovingly. "Amateurs," we say to one another.

They can't dance for shit, but they're very pretty. Straight men would probably be a bit more charitable.

Also on the scene is a solemn-looking older gentleman, pairing a neat Stetson, suit jacket, perfectly ironed dress shirt and tie with a flirty little black chiffon skirt. It's a bold look; I couldn't really decide if he was pulling it off or not. Then again, nobody bats an eye at spiked neon hair, extensive tats, or multiple face piercings; if you're going to be nonconformist, it seems silly to be conformist about it.

There was a trio of muscular, shirtless Miller Chill boys passing out free samples and Mardi Gras beads. I was bemused. I didn't get a chance to find out if they were passionate about their product, because no one near me told them it tasted like lime-infused swill. But they weren't working the crowd at all; they seemed a little overwhelmed, and kept mostly to the corner behind the pool table. "I bet they're straight," muttered one of my companions in disgust.

But not long after that, the oxygen started to run out and I had to go, get out, NOW; hugging my friends goodbye, walking outside into the wonderful free air, and making room for the next person in the line that now snaked around the block; for the next aromatic hottie or heavily-made up drag queen or cheerful fag hag or tipsy novelty-seeker to go in and be part of that glittering throng.

Hope they like swill.

Truth Hurts

There's a reason you usually have happy hours for people who are leaving a job, rather than starting one. It's because employers tend to frown on a new employee asking to work from home after only two days.

My cheeks are still tingling from the smack Robbie gave me last night, and he didn't slap me in the face. And Tony! Who'd have thought the guy had so many hands?! Come to think of it, maybe I'm the one who needs to be working from home.

True friends are the people who tell you what you don't want to hear, but need to face, and who wipe up your tears afterwards. And if they then get you falling-down drunk, tenderly minister to the resultant injuries, and cap the evening by dirty-dancing with you, well, what more could a girl ask for?

I was going to post a picture of what I did to my knee last night, but it's really gross. My toe is all bloody, too. That's nothing compared to how barked up my heart is, and oh, this morning, my head... But time, friends, sleep, Tylenol, coffee, extensive therapy, and Neosporin heal most wounds.

Hopefully Tony will show up to work Monday.

As Brittle As It Is Beautiful

"Floozies are friendly for free," I explained to the two guys sitting on either side of me on the sidewalk in front of L_M_N_L last night, red plastic cups of cheap beer in our hands. "Whores cost you more."

You know the evening's going downhill when you start popping out mnemonic devices about prostitution.

I was too tired for much conversation. Eric had played his first gig earlier at Club 115. He mixes electronic music, and as far as live performance goes it doesn't look very interesting, since it's just him standing there with a laptop. So he brought his cousin, Little Morgan (about 6'4" and 225 pounds), to sit on stage next to him, draped in an American flag and eating three Big Macs stacked together into one hellish sandwich.

But this wasn't quite enough visual interest, Eric felt, to hold the audience's attention. He wanted people to dance. What's a loving mother to do? I danced, and so did Margie. The laptop didn't need any further attention, so Eric and a friend of his danced as well. I thought the activity on the dance floor made a nice contrast to the gluttony being showcased on stage, but felt we all should have been draped in flags. I think I still have a Scottish one, packed up in a box somewhere. I don't know what Scotsmen look like when dancing to electronica, but I bet they do the White Guy Bite.

And at the end of about a one-hour set, Little Morgan finished the last bite of his burger. We stopped dancing and cheered. The onlookers cheered. Somebody held up a lighter.

When Eric's show was over, Margie and I walked over to L_M_N_L for her friend's art opening. The space has been gutted of all the steps, levels, cubbyholes and platforms that the guys built last year, and looks rather stark: it's only a small, high-ceilinged room after all. I hope they build something else. It's kind of sad. So I spent most of the evening outside with the smokers. Why do all those bohemian artsy types have to smoke? Some of them could really use a shower, too.

I got up and went upstairs to the print shop to use the bathroom, and when I came back down, I found one of the two guys - who hadn't noticed my return - whispering at length to the other, who was looking hard at me, a knowing smile on his face.

There is a little bit of a story there, and I won't tell it. But I definitely don't have enough fun to deserve a reputation. I went home.