7.15 Wrap

Freak me and die by eiddy

I don't particularly enjoy typing this, as it makes me sound like my mother, but I just don't understand kids on the dance floor today. Me? I'm a lone dancer. Sure, I'll dance by and around my friends, and occasionally I'll cuddle up with one on the dance floor when a troll won't leave me alone, or you know, after that fifth shot. But generally speaking, unless I'm ballroom dancing, I like to be left alone. I enjoy dancing alone. Unfortunately, a girl dancing alone on the dance floor seems to be a homing beacon to some--they assume that if I'm dancing alone I am some socially inept loser who needs a pity dance. Sometimes it's cute, as in the case of the very gay man who couldn't stand to see me alone and therefore stuck by me for two songs before informing me he was gay, so as not to string me along. Sometimes it borders on sexual assault, as in the case of the young man at R Place the other night who acted like I was a stripper pole and he was a $2 ho.

And here I get to the crux of my rant: freaking. People, do not freak me. I do not know you, do not assume that I want to know you, and please do not assume that I want your pelvis all over me. If you do make the above mistakes, please understand that when I look away and even move away from you, that means I do not want to dance with you. It does not mean, "chase me." It does not mean follow me around the dance floor and keep attempting to dance with me. Also, if a girl does not look at you? Not a good sign. It means leave her alone.

I don't even know where to look when getting a pity dance. The floor? The ceiling? My friends, who are pretending they can't see me but who are really laughing at my pain? I certainly can't look at you, because then I'll start laughing, and injuring a man's ego is something I never like to do. You're too fragile.

And also, don't grab me. Don't paw at me and pull me closer, because I swear to god, I will cause you pain.

I'm not anti-social, I am not a dance snob, I just know what I enjoy--and being molested by drunken strangers under the pretense of dancing is not it.


John Mayer and Counting Crows, Shoreline Amphitheater, July 10 by willa

Counting Crows are my number three, in terms of how many times I've seen various bands in concert. (*NSYNC is number one, and Indigo Girls is number two, if you must know.) Since moving to the San Francisco Bay Area I've seen them three times, and let me tell you, nothing quite beats a hometown show. Everybody's mom and brother and niece shows up, and it's like going to a fourth of July barbeque at your uncle's house. This particular show was no exception, except that Shoreline is a huge venue. So it was like going to the barbeque where everyone brings a date, and half the people get the inside jokes and half the people don't. The food's still good, though.

What I really want to talk about here is John Mayer. I understand that he's cute and all. Tall, clumsy-looking and totally dorky. His shirts are always too short, and I can appreciate the appeal in that. Plus, he writes some lyrics that make the girl in me go all gooey. I'm speaking, of course, of two lines from "Your Body is a Wonderland": I like the shape you make when crawling toward the pillowcase and I'll never let your head hit the bed without my hand behind it.

I gotta tell you though, his stage presence SUCKS. Aside from the bizarre facial expressions (caught on the Jumbotron in all their strange contortions), he isn't funny to anyone but himself. He is strange and off-putting. He rambles and mumbles and should stick to playing the guitar. It was so painful to watch that we left after he played his three hits, which thankfully occurred within the first thirty minutes.

Also. He was wearing ugly shoes.


In Praise of Manual Labor by lunec

I graduated from an Ivy-league school, and despite choosing a profession where I'm called upon to use my body as much as my intellect, I have spent the better part of my adult years in office jobs. It has come as something of a surprise to not only me, but those around me, therefore, to have spent much of last week staining siding, and to have begun this week prepping for the eventual staining of three decks. I'm nearly certain, in fact, that my parents never counted on this, not least of which because it's their decks and siding.

The second surprise, then, is that I've been happier these last two weeks than for much of the previous months. Manual labor, you see, takes time. Entire days can be filled with setting up sawhorses, mixing bleach and water, sweeping, scrubbing, scrubbing some more, scrubbing even more, avoiding insect life, and spreading stain around with a variety of utensils. Then there's clean-up: paint cans to be closed, brushes to be cleaned, tools to be put away. There's nothing like manual labor for necessitating the use, and moving around, of a lot of stuff. Not only is the equipment tangible, but you are also able to see and touch what you've accomplished. For someone whose usual work disappears as soon as it's complete, a tangible result that sticks around (at least for a couple of years) is fascinating. And nothing produces a feeling of accomplishment like going inside at the end of the day, stripping off filthy, spattered clothing, and washing off layers of dirt, sweat and sunscreen, while your muscles begin to protest vaguely whenever you lift your arms above your head.

Also, to be honest, it gives me a little thrill, as a girl, to be able to off-handedly mention to my male friends that I've spent the last six hours working with large pieces of wood. I feel capable and independent and a little surprising, in a way that I never do after, say, filling out income tax forms. Add to this the fact that these two weeks contain the sum total of the earnings I've been able to amass this summer, and you've got one satisfied gurl on your hands--as long as they don't start forecasting rain.

Ain't That the Way by loki

I was going to write about The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, except the more I researched it, the less qualified I felt to write. I've never read the graphic novel (although I plan to), so I don't quite understand the disgust that many reviewers had for the flick. Personally, I enjoyed it just fine. The action was good, the sets were gorgeous, the CGI was fine. And I'll take any Peta Wilson that I can get. She's hot, yo.

But what's been on my mind lately is the dance that two people find themselves in after their relationship is over. A male friend told me that once his relationship is over with a girl, he doesn't want to hear from her ever again. Or hear about her, even. He basically wants to ignore that she ever existed. This, to me, is incredibly bizarre. Next week, when I go visit lunec, I will see an ex-boyfriend. The boy who has been my best friend for the past ten years, and my boyfriend for the first five of those. He now has a girlfriend who doesn't understand why he still talks to me - it is odd to her that he would remain friends with an ex-girlfriend. And "odd" is putting it lightly.

This all makes me wonder - have I gotten this all wrong? Should I stop talking to someone just because we're no longer romantically linked? Because, see, I've pretty much tried to remain friends with all my exes, even when it was not the best idea and ended up being fairly detrimental to my mental well-being. Even when it felt more like salt in my wounds than cathartic friendship. But in general, especially after time has passed, I've been able to maintain a lovely balance with these boys - I may not talk to them on a daily basis, but we certainly touch base from time to time. I simply can't get past the idea of caring about someone so deeply one day and, well, acting like they're dead to you the next.

Because, unless someone went out of their way to completely destroy my life, I can't just shut off that part of me that cares. If I loved someone enough to be with them, then they've got to be a fairly kick-ass person - I'm quite picky, as my lack of a lovelife will illustrate. I think I'd rather do it my way. It may be unfashionable or untraditional, but anything else would feel unlivable; anything else would feel so, so wrong.

2003-07-18