Good-for-nothing cats, goddesses and headsets, and feeling awful grateful for my senses

Last night I had the dreamiest dream. I was dating Johnny Depp. He was way into me and I was the belle of the Hollywood ball! And then Harry Dean Stanton’s kid fell off some platform we were all on. We were standing in line for something. Julia Roberts was behind me. Anyhow, Harry Dean Stanton didn’t seem too phased that his kid had died. His wife didn’t either. She turned to leave and gave me a “Hollywood kiss” which basically involved her aggressively air kissing me until I had a bruise on my lip. And right as Johnny was about to tell me something really important, Kiki ran across my legs and jolted me wide awake! Cats are good for nothing but ruining perfectly sexy moments.

I have to just note quickly before I forget, that lovely and interesting people (read: freaks!) abound not only in the City, but in the areas outside of the San Francisco Bay Area at large. See, I’m thinking of two recent incidents in particular. Or maybe three, if I count today. Mar and I popped into some breakfast joint in St. Helena not too long ago and sat next to some crunchy-granola types who sat and read the paper and commented on the amusing stories of hard-knock life on the mean streets of wine country. The chick ordered some egg white omelet and fruit salad and hash browns (because, like drinking Diet Pepsi with your #7 Taco Bell value meal, one good meal item offsets all the other crap) and when it came, she actually paused to say, “thank you goddess for this food.” She made the guy pause, too. For some reason this annoyed me to no end. Give me a freakin’ break already! This goddess thing has gone too far. A couple of years ago, I met Grammy’s newlywed friends from L.A. This was the first time anyone was meeting her friend’s wife and we all collectively wondered where the hell one finds a woman like that. She told me that I needed to channel the goddess power within and go to my boss and work and ask for, no–DEMAND!!– a telephone headset, goddammit!…because I am deserving. I don’t know.


And then this guy wants Mar to give him a tattoo, but first, could they both participate in a ceremony? Tattoos are more than just art—they are spiritual! He was almost militant in his 400 words-or-less explanation of what tattoos mean to him. Mar was going to erase the email but I had to know what all was involved in said ceremony. Candle lighting. Chanting. Nothing too involved. And we began to understand why this guy hadn’t found a tattooist yet.

The third story involves more of a conventional-type freak so I am even loathe to explain, but as I was walking to my BART today, I had to pass the Art Institute and some obvious fashion students. You can always tell a fashion student in that crummy neighborhood especially—all the chicks look like really futuristic whores. And the whori-er of the two proclaims: “I have been eye-fucked the SHIT out of today!” Which just really resonated with me. Believe me, it isn’t hard to get looks in that neighborhood—especially if you have your teeth and matching shoes. The alternatives are hardly alternatives at all.

So this eye-fucking business reminded me of this discussion I had with my co-worker not too long ago about poor Helen Keller. Did you know she wanted a boyfriend more than anything else? Maybe not anything, but dammit, I swear, you can’t see, you can’t hear, you at least have your sense of touch. She apparently had a love affair with some guy named Peter Fagan (yes, I did Google all of this), and they were even going to get married but her bitch of a mother wouldn’t allow it. For crying out loud—that’s just plain mean. My friend Kristin doesn’t think she’d have been much fun in bed…I quite disagree. I bet she was a powerhouse of fun. And I don’t mean any disrespect—I just think she’d have been amenable to certain things others might not. Also, she probably had a highly developed tactile ability. And taste and smell as well! All was not lost.

I am grateful for my senses. They allow me to do things like take a City College swing dance class. It’s taught by a wonderful gay guy and his partner. AND you are allowed, regardless of sex, to decide whether you want to be a leader or a follower—terms that I find kinda lame especially since I am the latter. So, there are a couple guys that follow and one lesbian lady leader. She’s actually really good. You have to rotate so you dance with a variety of people and get a real feel for what it’s like out there on the swing dancing circuit where all skill levels meet on the dance floor. We got good enough to learn the “barn dance”–a nice slice of Americana—and I think I whooped it up a little too vigorously because today I had to wear my trusty jumbo back brace and walk around Civic Center feeling fat and disabled. At least my shoes matched.

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