Latest Suicide Girls article is up. It's on leading, which means I'm anticipating a modicum of controversy in the comments section.
You will find it here.
In other news, I had the good fortune to run into an ex- of mine, Cat in the Hat Girl on the bus (*).
My favorite exchange was while we were talking about how the mind cannot always distinguish between reality and the internet. Cat in the Hat girl mentioned that they often use computer programs and visualizations to train athletes.
DAN: So by that logic XXXX must be a great swordsman from playing all that World of Warcraft.
CAT IN THE HAT GIRL: He's got saddle sores from riding his raptor.
I forgot how clever she is.
I've been lucky to reconnect with a couple exes recently. In addition to seeing Cat in the Hat Girl, The Slayer and I (and her little dog too--the reincarnation of some Tibetan Buddhist Advsior to the Dali Lama) are reconciling as friends, and I'm enjoying it. It's curious seeing both of them and my current girlfriend within short time span, because it's kind of surprising to see how much they have in common.
The thing with exes is, often when I think of them, I don't think of THEM so much as about what I learned or how I grew from the relationship.
I think this is sometimes a problem in ongoing relationships as well, at least some of mine. You and your partner get so got up feeding and watering and tending the Relationship it grows between you into such a enormous thing that you lose sight of each other. You get so caught up working to make The Relationship work, you forget to stop and and appreciate each other.
Seeing my exes brings them back into focus and I can appreciate them as people instead of as a story from my past. I remember the things I like about them and how cool they are. Cat in the Hat Girl's wit, her world-view, and her unique organizational system. The Slayer's way of treating people, courage, and general geekery. You get to see them again as people.
Which is nice.
Another nice thing was the show last night. I was more angry and aggressive on stage. I was able to express a different dimension of myself in front of a roomful of strangers, and they were not only okay with it, they actually liked it.
As the line in American Beauty goes, It's a good feeling knowing you can still surprise yourself.
Upcoming Wrestling Appearances
Saturday, September 26 - OSCW, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Saturday, October 17 - OSCW, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Saturday, November 21 - OSCW, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Dan Brodribb's Geek Love appears every two weeks at www.suicidegirls.com. Current article is here.
More of Dan's musings on dating and relationships can be found on his Hot Chicks & Strangers blog.
(*) I know I've written at least three Journal articles about her, but I'm unsure if she ever made the blog. If you're that interested check in the December 2006-May 2007 range.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Dan Leaves Nookie On The Table
Saturday night, during a routine OSCW post-show triathlon (karaoke, drinking, and woman-charming), a couple of the wrestlers and I found ourselves in one of those uncomfortable two women and three-guys situations. The women invited us back to their van for some free candy, and I ended up the odd man out for the stupid, nitpicky reason that I have a girlfriend I'm madly in love with.
Which is kind of annoying. Granted, in most cases, having a girlfriend would disqualify me from sharing in any shenanigans but in this case I feel there were a couple of extenuating circumstances.
Circumstance One: Both the wrestlers were injured. There was no way they could manage a van orgy, what with one of then nursing a sore arm and the other with a knee that locked into position with every other movement. We in the wrestling business have certain standards to maintain.
Circumstance Two: One of the girls LIKED me.
You know how some people who grow up broke are obsessed with money or people who grew up hungry often have issues around food? I'm like that with women.
Because I was never popular with the ladies growing up, I developed a mental rule that could be best described as "take any woman who likes you whether you feel a connection with them or not."
Or as the voice in my head Puts It, 'Don't Leave Nookie On the Table.'
Tired? Not feeling the connection? Already seeing someone else? Too bad, the voice tells me (in case you're wondering, the voice sounds suspiciously like a well-known African-American stand-up comic). "There are nerds starving in Africa who would be happy with The Nookie. You can't waste The Nookie. You never know when The Nookie will come round again."
I'm sure the voice in my head is well-intentioned, but I'm not convinced of the rightness of its cause, especially when it resorts to such a stock comic device of repeating the word "The Nookie" over and over, hoping that makes the bit funnier.
That was also one of the reasons I've been deeply afraid of committing to one relationship in my life. I was always worried temptation would come along and I wouldn't be able to resist.
Saturday night, I didn't have to resist. The choice was no choice at all, despite the voice's protestations. I found how easily I was able to walk away reassuring. Maybe I can do this commitment thing after all.
I walked to Bastet's house without looking back (although I did make a mental note to check the two wrestler's Facebook pages for any combination of the words "van" and "orgy").
I slipped in the door, rubbed the cat's belly, and went upstairs. I slipped into bed beside my love. She murmured in her sleep and woke up. We exchange pleasantries, and stories about our day (including the one I'm telling right now--I love how honest I feel talking about things like this with her) and she drifted back off to sleep in my arms.
It doesn't matter how much Nookie is left on the table. This is the only woman I need.
I dozed and snuggled closer, feeling the familiar warmth of her body, hearing the familar rhythm of her breath. Inside, I was aglow with the warmth of love and the self-satisfaction of moral uprightness. I had faced my insecurities and emerged victorious. Remain on the table, Nookie; I am nookie-obsessed no longer.
Then, as I was fading into slumber, the voice in my head, calling out as if from somewhere far away:
"But she LIKED you."
It never ends.
Which is kind of annoying. Granted, in most cases, having a girlfriend would disqualify me from sharing in any shenanigans but in this case I feel there were a couple of extenuating circumstances.
Circumstance One: Both the wrestlers were injured. There was no way they could manage a van orgy, what with one of then nursing a sore arm and the other with a knee that locked into position with every other movement. We in the wrestling business have certain standards to maintain.
Circumstance Two: One of the girls LIKED me.
You know how some people who grow up broke are obsessed with money or people who grew up hungry often have issues around food? I'm like that with women.
Because I was never popular with the ladies growing up, I developed a mental rule that could be best described as "take any woman who likes you whether you feel a connection with them or not."
Or as the voice in my head Puts It, 'Don't Leave Nookie On the Table.'
Tired? Not feeling the connection? Already seeing someone else? Too bad, the voice tells me (in case you're wondering, the voice sounds suspiciously like a well-known African-American stand-up comic). "There are nerds starving in Africa who would be happy with The Nookie. You can't waste The Nookie. You never know when The Nookie will come round again."
I'm sure the voice in my head is well-intentioned, but I'm not convinced of the rightness of its cause, especially when it resorts to such a stock comic device of repeating the word "The Nookie" over and over, hoping that makes the bit funnier.
That was also one of the reasons I've been deeply afraid of committing to one relationship in my life. I was always worried temptation would come along and I wouldn't be able to resist.
Saturday night, I didn't have to resist. The choice was no choice at all, despite the voice's protestations. I found how easily I was able to walk away reassuring. Maybe I can do this commitment thing after all.
I walked to Bastet's house without looking back (although I did make a mental note to check the two wrestler's Facebook pages for any combination of the words "van" and "orgy").
I slipped in the door, rubbed the cat's belly, and went upstairs. I slipped into bed beside my love. She murmured in her sleep and woke up. We exchange pleasantries, and stories about our day (including the one I'm telling right now--I love how honest I feel talking about things like this with her) and she drifted back off to sleep in my arms.
It doesn't matter how much Nookie is left on the table. This is the only woman I need.
I dozed and snuggled closer, feeling the familiar warmth of her body, hearing the familar rhythm of her breath. Inside, I was aglow with the warmth of love and the self-satisfaction of moral uprightness. I had faced my insecurities and emerged victorious. Remain on the table, Nookie; I am nookie-obsessed no longer.
Then, as I was fading into slumber, the voice in my head, calling out as if from somewhere far away:
"But she LIKED you."
It never ends.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Still Dan Brodribb. Tell Your Family I Said Hi
At the show yesterday, I was telling Sean Lecomber about my new approach to comedy and my frustrations at not always being able to make it work.
DAN: You know, I tell myself each time I go up, I'm going to do stuff differently. I'm going to be high energy and pump up the crowd, and then I get up there..."
SEAN:...and you're still Dan Brodribb.
DAN: Pretty much.
There's a moral in that exchange somewhere.
In other news, This is one of my favorite blogs.
If you enjoy voyeurism into someone's life and sexual dynamics, check it out. She's also a wonderful writer, which helps.
I enjoy reading it. It's been a springboard for some nice discussions with Bastet. I've occasionally wanted to write her a message telling her how much I enjoy her writing (Or worse, give her advice, which is doubly stupid considering what I myself wrote in paragraphs five and six of one of my own articles), but I can't quite figure out how to do it. I always found it disorienting when people who read my articles in the paper would come up to me and start talking about my personal life. Now I'm on the other side of the fence and trying to figure out how to show my appreciation without sounding creepy.
Let's try one out and see how it sounds.
"Hi
My girlfriend and I love your blog. We love deconstructing your personal life and analyzing you in between Scrabble and trips to the Farmer's Market. We especially like it when you try and find your place in the world, so keep up those feelings of alienation. We need the conversational fodder.
Dan
PS - Tell your family I said hi."
Hmm. I don't know.
Of course, I know she reads my blog, so maybe what I could do is write a post saying how much I like her writing but I'm uncertain about how to tell her.
And then she'll read it and send me a message going "I never know you felt that way. I like your blog too."
And then I'll be like "Will you be friends with me and my girlfriend?"
And she'll be like, "Yes, of course. I love your blog and your girlfriend's, which I magically found and identified, even though I have know way of knowing who she is or where I could find her blog because you feel it's intrusive to post anything that would allow anyone to identify your romantic interests to the casual reader. I like her. You two are a wonderful couple. I only wish I could somehow find the peace, happiness, and sagacity you two have found over the winding course of your life journey together."
And I'll modestly go. "Well, it's important to understand that these things take time. You can't rush them. Bastet and I have a special connection, true, but it's been forged in the fires of our--let's see what's the date today?--three months together."
And she'll be like. "Wow. Do you have any advice for me?"
And I'll be like: Well, I DO hate to give advice, but...(insert pearls of glorious golden wisdom here)
And she'll go: "God, of course. How could I have been so blind? Thank you Dan Brodribb. You are wise AND hilarious."
And she'll go on to be one of our closest friends and we'll get letters from her (REAL letters in flowing feminine script) updating us on her life and how much happiness she's found since she took my words to heart. And each year for the rest of our lives she'll send us a Christmas card from her, and Bastet and I will read them together, our eyes twinkling in our aged, weathered faces while a fire crackles warmly behind us in our cozy little house and then I will put my arm around Bastet and hold her close and I will be filled with a warm contented glow right up to the point I remember that NOTHING I WROTE IN THE LAST EIGHT PARAGRAPHS HAS ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
Yep. Still Dan Brodribb.
That's "Pretty Decent" Dan Brodribb to you.
I wouldn't be anyone else for the world.
DAN: You know, I tell myself each time I go up, I'm going to do stuff differently. I'm going to be high energy and pump up the crowd, and then I get up there..."
SEAN:...and you're still Dan Brodribb.
DAN: Pretty much.
There's a moral in that exchange somewhere.
In other news, This is one of my favorite blogs.
If you enjoy voyeurism into someone's life and sexual dynamics, check it out. She's also a wonderful writer, which helps.
I enjoy reading it. It's been a springboard for some nice discussions with Bastet. I've occasionally wanted to write her a message telling her how much I enjoy her writing (Or worse, give her advice, which is doubly stupid considering what I myself wrote in paragraphs five and six of one of my own articles), but I can't quite figure out how to do it. I always found it disorienting when people who read my articles in the paper would come up to me and start talking about my personal life. Now I'm on the other side of the fence and trying to figure out how to show my appreciation without sounding creepy.
Let's try one out and see how it sounds.
"Hi
My girlfriend and I love your blog. We love deconstructing your personal life and analyzing you in between Scrabble and trips to the Farmer's Market. We especially like it when you try and find your place in the world, so keep up those feelings of alienation. We need the conversational fodder.
Dan
PS - Tell your family I said hi."
Hmm. I don't know.
Of course, I know she reads my blog, so maybe what I could do is write a post saying how much I like her writing but I'm uncertain about how to tell her.
And then she'll read it and send me a message going "I never know you felt that way. I like your blog too."
And then I'll be like "Will you be friends with me and my girlfriend?"
And she'll be like, "Yes, of course. I love your blog and your girlfriend's, which I magically found and identified, even though I have know way of knowing who she is or where I could find her blog because you feel it's intrusive to post anything that would allow anyone to identify your romantic interests to the casual reader. I like her. You two are a wonderful couple. I only wish I could somehow find the peace, happiness, and sagacity you two have found over the winding course of your life journey together."
And I'll modestly go. "Well, it's important to understand that these things take time. You can't rush them. Bastet and I have a special connection, true, but it's been forged in the fires of our--let's see what's the date today?--three months together."
And she'll be like. "Wow. Do you have any advice for me?"
And I'll be like: Well, I DO hate to give advice, but...(insert pearls of glorious golden wisdom here)
And she'll go: "God, of course. How could I have been so blind? Thank you Dan Brodribb. You are wise AND hilarious."
And she'll go on to be one of our closest friends and we'll get letters from her (REAL letters in flowing feminine script) updating us on her life and how much happiness she's found since she took my words to heart. And each year for the rest of our lives she'll send us a Christmas card from her, and Bastet and I will read them together, our eyes twinkling in our aged, weathered faces while a fire crackles warmly behind us in our cozy little house and then I will put my arm around Bastet and hold her close and I will be filled with a warm contented glow right up to the point I remember that NOTHING I WROTE IN THE LAST EIGHT PARAGRAPHS HAS ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
Yep. Still Dan Brodribb.
That's "Pretty Decent" Dan Brodribb to you.
I wouldn't be anyone else for the world.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Happy Anniversary to Me
I just realized that this summer marks(*) the 20 year anniversary of my pro-wrestling fandom.
That's longer than all but two of my closest friendships and almost ten times longer than every committed romantic relationship I've ever been in COMBINED(**).
As Ron Simmons would say..."DAMN!"
I don't know how I will celebrate this. Definitely tonight ring-announcing at the OSCW show at the Hazeldean Dome. Maybe I'll treat myself to this DVD from Jim Cornette's website.
I've been watching the PPV from 1989 that started it all for me, SummerSlam 89 and trying to notice little things I didn't see the first time such as when the Red Rooster injured his knee in the match against Mr. Perfect, forcing them to improvise the rest of it on the fly (***) or trying to figure out where Michaels and Santana were during the 6 man tag that left them unable to break up the pin on Marty Jannetty (****)
Weird seeing a guy in a wrestling match laid out by a basic punch, but that's the Rockers for you. Glass-jawed and stupid. Hard to believe they were my favorite tag team at the time.
What was I talking about?
A mark of my fandom is there are certain matches, events, or storylines that bring me back to certain periods of my life, the same way hearing "Stairway to Heaven" reminds most people of my generation of their first grope at the end of a high school dance. I won't say wrestling is my music--music is my music, and always will be--but it's interesting.
The Wrestlemania X ladder match reminds me of working at Pizza Hut, because I was told about it before I saw it by a morbidly obese co-worker. I even remember exactly where I was standing (In front of a counter, with a knife in my hand).
My relationship with Cat in the Hat girl was inextricably tied to wrestling. One of our first dates was at an MPW show headlined by Heavy Metal and Nite where she sewed a button onto my coat--a coat that was later stolen at an Ace Frehley concert that I went to with Heavy Metal, Slammer, and Ace Davidson. Shortly before we broke up, I remember reading about a one hour match between Shawn Michaels and John Cena on her laptop after she left for work while the back of my mind was thinking, 'this isn't working the way I thought it would.'
There are others. Some involve close friends. Some involve my brother. Happiness, heartache, and everything in between...Four-sevenths of my life has taken place in front of a backdrop of bodyslams and spandex.
Weird.
Hope to see you at the show tonight.
You know, I'll be there.
Upcoming Comedy
Sunday, August 30 - The Comic Strip - Edmonton
Tuesday, August 4 - New City - Edmonton
Upcoming Wrestling Appearances
Saturday, August 22 - OSCW August Action, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Dan Brodribb's Geek Love appears every two weeks at www.suicidegirls.com. Current article is here.
More of Dan's musings on dating and relationships can be found on his Hot Chicks & Strangers blog.
(*) Pun intended. For those who know such things.
(**)Depending on your math and what you count as a commited romantic relationship
(***) It's earlier than I thought--when he scoops Perfect for a bodyslam (I think). He actually tries to hobble through quite a bit, before they decide to go home. Too bad about that injury. It was shaping up to be a nice little match.
(****) Here we go (Deep breath) Shawn is brawling with Raymond. Santana is originally chasing Martel, but gets caught arguing with the ref (idiot) allowing Martel to slip away and nail Jannetty, who is originally fighting Jacques but has his attention caught by manager Jimmy Hart allowing Jacques to roll him up from behind. Jannetty reverses, and that's when Martel makes his move. Shawn is caught up by Raymond and Santana is too far away (though it doesn't help that he drops to the floor to come help instead of rolling into the ring) to get there in time. You're welcome.
That's longer than all but two of my closest friendships and almost ten times longer than every committed romantic relationship I've ever been in COMBINED(**).
As Ron Simmons would say..."DAMN!"
I don't know how I will celebrate this. Definitely tonight ring-announcing at the OSCW show at the Hazeldean Dome. Maybe I'll treat myself to this DVD from Jim Cornette's website.
I've been watching the PPV from 1989 that started it all for me, SummerSlam 89 and trying to notice little things I didn't see the first time such as when the Red Rooster injured his knee in the match against Mr. Perfect, forcing them to improvise the rest of it on the fly (***) or trying to figure out where Michaels and Santana were during the 6 man tag that left them unable to break up the pin on Marty Jannetty (****)
Weird seeing a guy in a wrestling match laid out by a basic punch, but that's the Rockers for you. Glass-jawed and stupid. Hard to believe they were my favorite tag team at the time.
What was I talking about?
A mark of my fandom is there are certain matches, events, or storylines that bring me back to certain periods of my life, the same way hearing "Stairway to Heaven" reminds most people of my generation of their first grope at the end of a high school dance. I won't say wrestling is my music--music is my music, and always will be--but it's interesting.
The Wrestlemania X ladder match reminds me of working at Pizza Hut, because I was told about it before I saw it by a morbidly obese co-worker. I even remember exactly where I was standing (In front of a counter, with a knife in my hand).
My relationship with Cat in the Hat girl was inextricably tied to wrestling. One of our first dates was at an MPW show headlined by Heavy Metal and Nite where she sewed a button onto my coat--a coat that was later stolen at an Ace Frehley concert that I went to with Heavy Metal, Slammer, and Ace Davidson. Shortly before we broke up, I remember reading about a one hour match between Shawn Michaels and John Cena on her laptop after she left for work while the back of my mind was thinking, 'this isn't working the way I thought it would.'
There are others. Some involve close friends. Some involve my brother. Happiness, heartache, and everything in between...Four-sevenths of my life has taken place in front of a backdrop of bodyslams and spandex.
Weird.
Hope to see you at the show tonight.
You know, I'll be there.
Upcoming Comedy
Sunday, August 30 - The Comic Strip - Edmonton
Tuesday, August 4 - New City - Edmonton
Upcoming Wrestling Appearances
Saturday, August 22 - OSCW August Action, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Dan Brodribb's Geek Love appears every two weeks at www.suicidegirls.com. Current article is here.
More of Dan's musings on dating and relationships can be found on his Hot Chicks & Strangers blog.
(*) Pun intended. For those who know such things.
(**)Depending on your math and what you count as a commited romantic relationship
(***) It's earlier than I thought--when he scoops Perfect for a bodyslam (I think). He actually tries to hobble through quite a bit, before they decide to go home. Too bad about that injury. It was shaping up to be a nice little match.
(****) Here we go (Deep breath) Shawn is brawling with Raymond. Santana is originally chasing Martel, but gets caught arguing with the ref (idiot) allowing Martel to slip away and nail Jannetty, who is originally fighting Jacques but has his attention caught by manager Jimmy Hart allowing Jacques to roll him up from behind. Jannetty reverses, and that's when Martel makes his move. Shawn is caught up by Raymond and Santana is too far away (though it doesn't help that he drops to the floor to come help instead of rolling into the ring) to get there in time. You're welcome.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
"Man, I Wish There Were More Fat Chicks Here Tonight"
It would be a lie to say every bad decision I've made recently has started with a phone call from Heavy Metal, but it seems like a significant number of my misadventures are marked with the fingerprints of the reigning OSCW champion.
Last night, I was feeling very smug, self-satisfied, and proud of how responsible and mature I was being by going to bed early on a weeknight when at 11:11pm, the phone rang.
HEAVY METAL: Hey man, Boris (aka '1') and I are on Whyte avenue and it's dead. Where's a good bar to find women on Tuesdays?
As it happens, I know of one, within walking distance of my house, and relayed the information to Mrs. Metal's handsome son.
HEAVY METAL: You should come out with us, brother.
ME: Sorry, I'm going to bed. Next time, for sure.
HEAVY METAL: Come on, it will be fun.
ME: I work tomorrow. Have a great time.
HEAVY METAL: Come on. It will give you a story for your blog.
Say what you will, Heavy Metal knows the right buttons to push.
I justified my decision to go by thinking, "Well, maybe I'll have an awful time like the last couple bar visits and it will reinforce my decision to stop doing this to myself."
I arrived at the bar late and was confronted with an impossible line. For a moment, I thought fate had decreed I should go home-- "Pretty Decent" waits in line for no man--but one of the bouncers recognized me and waved me through.
Heavy Metal was there. Boris was there. A number of pretty girls and cool guys I remember from my bar-hopping days so many months ago were there and greeted me enthusiastically.
Damn it, I remember thinking. I'm supposed to be growing beyond this. The last thing I want to do is have fun tonight.
Unfortunately, I had fun anyway, even if The Work Countdown was going on in my head: "If I leave right now, I'll get to bed at 1 and have seven hours of sleep...If I leave right NOW, I'll get to bed at 1:45 and have six hours and fifteen minutes of sleep...If I leave right NOW...etc.
Heavy Metal taught me how to reverse a hammerlock on the dance floor, Boris started doing Boris things (jumping up and down, "accidentally" blocking women trying to walk past, and vanishing into the Phantom Zone), and the night was on.
I soon became painfully aware my social skills have been badly eroded by weeks of not going out and meeting strangers. I'm not too bothered--thank you, newfound Buddhist equanimity--but I find it hard to be a good wingman when I'm standing around smiling politely not saying anything and wondering if anyone notices me hemmoraghing game from a social sucking chest wound.
One does what one can. Heavy Metal became smitten with a rubinesque young woman, and I went in make the necessary introductions. That's how I met Brent, a handsome young man who makes a habit of hitting on overweight women in bars so he can get free drinks.
"I'm a terrible person, but I'm hammered and I've only paid for one drink all night!" he crowed to me, before saying words I've never heard an 18-22 year old male utter in a nightclub before. "Man, I really wish there were more fat chicks here tonight."
Brent demonstrated his method on a nearby overweight woman. I lacked both the heart and the balls to be a part of this but Heavy Metal played wingman, distracting the more attractive of the two so Brent could do his thing (another sentence I don't think I've ever written before).
Heavy Metal drew his woman onto the dance floor and began dancing with her from behind (*). By now Brent had lost interest and wandered off, so Heavy Metal's girl grabbed her zaftig friend and pulled her onto the dance floor. The result was a rather odd dancing formation: Heavy Metal with his arms wrapped around the woman from behind while she simultaneously held her friends hands with her own.
I wonder who leads in that situation.
I made a couple attempts to join in and entertain the friend so Heavy Metal could work his air guitar magic, but my heart wasn't in it, and everyone (except Heavy Metal, who was busy neck-nuzzling his new love) knew it.
I begged off and went to look for Boris, who had ninja-vanished, as is his custom. (I expected to see him clinging to the ceiling with a katana between his teeth, but no luck)
Meanwhile, Heavy Metal's vertical threesome continued for a while until a better man than me stepped in and peeled the friend away so Heavy Metal could grind in peace.
Heavy Metal tried to get the girl's number, but she faked him out with the "Oh-let-me-get-YOUR-number-instead-and-I'll-call-you-sometime" move that I once used on a gay guy (**)
Heavy Metal was despondent. As the three of us left the bar (Boris had rejoined us, doubtless after assassinating the busboy with his laser-guided throwing stars dipped in rattlesnake venom), he would not shut up about his lost love--a love that he had known for approximately forty minutes.
Fortunately, we saw the girls getting into a car. Even more fortunately, I devised an elaborate plan that involved me stepping out into the road in front of the car to stop them and then either a) faking being hit to provide a distraction or b) being pulled out of the way by Heavy Metal.
It was a brilliant plan and would have worked great...if we were in Europe. I stepped out into the wrong lane and the car puttered merrily past us while I got honked at by taxicabs coming from the opposite direction.
I have a rule. One near death experience per outing (three if Big Jess is driving)
It was time to go. The last I saw of Boris and Heavy Metal, they were sitting on the curb trying to figure out how they were going to get home with no money and houses on the opposite sides of the city.
Hope they made it. I wouldn't have a blog without them.
(*) I love watching drunk grinding couples when the guy is dancing behind the girl They can't see each other's facial expressions but you can see both of them. It's just a kaleidoscope of emotion: lust, boredom, resignation, oh-shit-is-this-the-best-I-can-do-what-will-my-friends-think? I will miss the club scene for that alone.
(**) Have I shared that story? It seems like something I would have written down, and yet I can never remember if I've ever put it in writing anywhere or not. Plus, I'm too lazy to look through the archives.
Last night, I was feeling very smug, self-satisfied, and proud of how responsible and mature I was being by going to bed early on a weeknight when at 11:11pm, the phone rang.
HEAVY METAL: Hey man, Boris (aka '1') and I are on Whyte avenue and it's dead. Where's a good bar to find women on Tuesdays?
As it happens, I know of one, within walking distance of my house, and relayed the information to Mrs. Metal's handsome son.
HEAVY METAL: You should come out with us, brother.
ME: Sorry, I'm going to bed. Next time, for sure.
HEAVY METAL: Come on, it will be fun.
ME: I work tomorrow. Have a great time.
HEAVY METAL: Come on. It will give you a story for your blog.
Say what you will, Heavy Metal knows the right buttons to push.
I justified my decision to go by thinking, "Well, maybe I'll have an awful time like the last couple bar visits and it will reinforce my decision to stop doing this to myself."
I arrived at the bar late and was confronted with an impossible line. For a moment, I thought fate had decreed I should go home-- "Pretty Decent" waits in line for no man--but one of the bouncers recognized me and waved me through.
Heavy Metal was there. Boris was there. A number of pretty girls and cool guys I remember from my bar-hopping days so many months ago were there and greeted me enthusiastically.
Damn it, I remember thinking. I'm supposed to be growing beyond this. The last thing I want to do is have fun tonight.
Unfortunately, I had fun anyway, even if The Work Countdown was going on in my head: "If I leave right now, I'll get to bed at 1 and have seven hours of sleep...If I leave right NOW, I'll get to bed at 1:45 and have six hours and fifteen minutes of sleep...If I leave right NOW...etc.
Heavy Metal taught me how to reverse a hammerlock on the dance floor, Boris started doing Boris things (jumping up and down, "accidentally" blocking women trying to walk past, and vanishing into the Phantom Zone), and the night was on.
I soon became painfully aware my social skills have been badly eroded by weeks of not going out and meeting strangers. I'm not too bothered--thank you, newfound Buddhist equanimity--but I find it hard to be a good wingman when I'm standing around smiling politely not saying anything and wondering if anyone notices me hemmoraghing game from a social sucking chest wound.
One does what one can. Heavy Metal became smitten with a rubinesque young woman, and I went in make the necessary introductions. That's how I met Brent, a handsome young man who makes a habit of hitting on overweight women in bars so he can get free drinks.
"I'm a terrible person, but I'm hammered and I've only paid for one drink all night!" he crowed to me, before saying words I've never heard an 18-22 year old male utter in a nightclub before. "Man, I really wish there were more fat chicks here tonight."
Brent demonstrated his method on a nearby overweight woman. I lacked both the heart and the balls to be a part of this but Heavy Metal played wingman, distracting the more attractive of the two so Brent could do his thing (another sentence I don't think I've ever written before).
Heavy Metal drew his woman onto the dance floor and began dancing with her from behind (*). By now Brent had lost interest and wandered off, so Heavy Metal's girl grabbed her zaftig friend and pulled her onto the dance floor. The result was a rather odd dancing formation: Heavy Metal with his arms wrapped around the woman from behind while she simultaneously held her friends hands with her own.
I wonder who leads in that situation.
I made a couple attempts to join in and entertain the friend so Heavy Metal could work his air guitar magic, but my heart wasn't in it, and everyone (except Heavy Metal, who was busy neck-nuzzling his new love) knew it.
I begged off and went to look for Boris, who had ninja-vanished, as is his custom. (I expected to see him clinging to the ceiling with a katana between his teeth, but no luck)
Meanwhile, Heavy Metal's vertical threesome continued for a while until a better man than me stepped in and peeled the friend away so Heavy Metal could grind in peace.
Heavy Metal tried to get the girl's number, but she faked him out with the "Oh-let-me-get-YOUR-number-instead-and-I'll-call-you-sometime" move that I once used on a gay guy (**)
Heavy Metal was despondent. As the three of us left the bar (Boris had rejoined us, doubtless after assassinating the busboy with his laser-guided throwing stars dipped in rattlesnake venom), he would not shut up about his lost love--a love that he had known for approximately forty minutes.
Fortunately, we saw the girls getting into a car. Even more fortunately, I devised an elaborate plan that involved me stepping out into the road in front of the car to stop them and then either a) faking being hit to provide a distraction or b) being pulled out of the way by Heavy Metal.
It was a brilliant plan and would have worked great...if we were in Europe. I stepped out into the wrong lane and the car puttered merrily past us while I got honked at by taxicabs coming from the opposite direction.
I have a rule. One near death experience per outing (three if Big Jess is driving)
It was time to go. The last I saw of Boris and Heavy Metal, they were sitting on the curb trying to figure out how they were going to get home with no money and houses on the opposite sides of the city.
Hope they made it. I wouldn't have a blog without them.
(*) I love watching drunk grinding couples when the guy is dancing behind the girl They can't see each other's facial expressions but you can see both of them. It's just a kaleidoscope of emotion: lust, boredom, resignation, oh-shit-is-this-the-best-I-can-do-what-will-my-friends-think? I will miss the club scene for that alone.
(**) Have I shared that story? It seems like something I would have written down, and yet I can never remember if I've ever put it in writing anywhere or not. Plus, I'm too lazy to look through the archives.
Upcoming Fringe Shows By People I Know
Ryan Ash is the mad genius behind The Dr. Kevin DuBrau Variety Hour. It is about luchadores and Kevin Dubrow is also the name of the lead singer from Quiet Riot. Which may be completely irrelevant.
Lars Callieou, Andrew Iwanyk, and Sean Lecomber are coming back for their third consecutive Fringe show. It's stand-up comedy. I've worked with all of them, and they are fun to watch. Check-check-check-it out, as the Beastie Boys would say.
Lars Callieou, Andrew Iwanyk, and Sean Lecomber are coming back for their third consecutive Fringe show. It's stand-up comedy. I've worked with all of them, and they are fun to watch. Check-check-check-it out, as the Beastie Boys would say.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Damn It Feels Good To Be A Hipster
Spent all weekend at the FolkFest with Bastet. I suppose I should talk about the music, but what really stood out for me was the fact that FolkFest security all wore red shirts.
If you're a Star Trek geek (or any kind of geek at all) I don't have to explain this further. If you aren't...well, that's why I left you a link.
This led to a discussion about Red Shirts. I think it would be a funny in-joke if one of these unnamed, unmourned, silent characters standing awkwardly in the background actually survived every episode. Everybody would be tuning in constantly to see when he met his demise...which would occur in the series finale, just when everybody thought he was finally safe.
Bastet and I also talked about hipsters. Apparently--and I had no idea--being a hipster is a BAD thing. Apparently it's an epithet roughly on par with "douchebag" or "Celine Dion Fan." Darn it. I thought being a hipster was cool. I WANTED to be a hipster.
Instead, according to Bastet, I am a "nerd." I thought that was bad, but she insists that being a nerd is trendy and cool, and I don't think she was just saying that to make me feel better.
The funny thing is, I'm not much of a nerd either. I have nerd friends, and most of them regard me as kind of a faux-nerd. I can usually fool the masses by mentioning X-Men, Buffy, or Lord of the Rings in a blog post, but once I start to get grilled about the finer points of anime or gaming, I am instantly revealed to be a nerd poseur.
Sigh. I guess I'm a man without a label. Doomed to walk alone, like the guy in the lyrics of Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again. (*)" The nice thing about being labelled 'Pretty Decent' is you always know where you stand.
In other Bastet news, she wrote some really nice things about me on her blog. My first reaction was to be charmed and embarassed. My second thought was to print it out and send it to every woman that's ever rejected me with certain parts emphasized with a colored highlighter pen.
In other news, I have recently updated a blog I'm embarrassed to publicly admit I'm writing. It's called Robot Therapist and combines two of my favorite subjects, counselling and giant transforming robots. Anyone not intimately familiar with the 1980s Transformers(the Michael Bay movies won't help you here, my pretties)--will understand a word of it.
Maybe I'm a nerd after all.
(*) Maybe my label is 80s metalhead throwback. Except that I constantly mis-hear the "going down the only road I've ever known" as "Going down the only road on Lebanon" so that's out too. Like a gypsy, I was born to walk alone I guess. Though I though Gypsies travelled in caravans as opposed to being solitary vagabonds like Conan or the guy from Kung Fu or the Littlest Hobo.
If you're a Star Trek geek (or any kind of geek at all) I don't have to explain this further. If you aren't...well, that's why I left you a link.
This led to a discussion about Red Shirts. I think it would be a funny in-joke if one of these unnamed, unmourned, silent characters standing awkwardly in the background actually survived every episode. Everybody would be tuning in constantly to see when he met his demise...which would occur in the series finale, just when everybody thought he was finally safe.
Bastet and I also talked about hipsters. Apparently--and I had no idea--being a hipster is a BAD thing. Apparently it's an epithet roughly on par with "douchebag" or "Celine Dion Fan." Darn it. I thought being a hipster was cool. I WANTED to be a hipster.
Instead, according to Bastet, I am a "nerd." I thought that was bad, but she insists that being a nerd is trendy and cool, and I don't think she was just saying that to make me feel better.
The funny thing is, I'm not much of a nerd either. I have nerd friends, and most of them regard me as kind of a faux-nerd. I can usually fool the masses by mentioning X-Men, Buffy, or Lord of the Rings in a blog post, but once I start to get grilled about the finer points of anime or gaming, I am instantly revealed to be a nerd poseur.
Sigh. I guess I'm a man without a label. Doomed to walk alone, like the guy in the lyrics of Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again. (*)" The nice thing about being labelled 'Pretty Decent' is you always know where you stand.
In other Bastet news, she wrote some really nice things about me on her blog. My first reaction was to be charmed and embarassed. My second thought was to print it out and send it to every woman that's ever rejected me with certain parts emphasized with a colored highlighter pen.
In other news, I have recently updated a blog I'm embarrassed to publicly admit I'm writing. It's called Robot Therapist and combines two of my favorite subjects, counselling and giant transforming robots. Anyone not intimately familiar with the 1980s Transformers(the Michael Bay movies won't help you here, my pretties)--will understand a word of it.
Maybe I'm a nerd after all.
(*) Maybe my label is 80s metalhead throwback. Except that I constantly mis-hear the "going down the only road I've ever known" as "Going down the only road on Lebanon" so that's out too. Like a gypsy, I was born to walk alone I guess. Though I though Gypsies travelled in caravans as opposed to being solitary vagabonds like Conan or the guy from Kung Fu or the Littlest Hobo.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Immovable Object Meets Unstoppable Trainwreck
A penitent sinner pays her respects to Powermann at the New City Relgious Theme Show
"Pretty Decent" (The Topless Tuesday Bible Hour)
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Saturday, August 01, 2009
Upcoming Shows and Book Recommendation
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