Sober apes and lesbians
2005-03-13 @ 11:33 a.m.
I went out last night and it was a conversation pit of an evening. Not a magic evening quite, because it lacked effortlessness and perfect costuming, but I get bonus points for spontaneity and hauling my tortoise shell out onto the dance floor.
It was of course the burlesque show, (which was delightfully well attended) and then we popped down the block for a lesbian dance party. That's right. Dyke disco a go go.
When I left the house I had been cast in the role of babysitter,so I wasn't at the height of my powers since my superhero costume is always a skirt, and I was sad later when dancing with lesbians all around that I had changed out of my "I heart Irish boys" baby tee. It would have contrasted so delightfully with the shirt proclaiming "I heart vaginas" .
Dancing without irony to music that you don't love is harder when sober, yet can still worthwhile. Dancing while laughing might be an undiscovered art form, especially when you go the distance and keep dancing as song after song leaves you dry. Later when we switched venues again I danced to better music while eating a sandwich, but that was just silly. It also was not my brainchild, but doesn't the old saying go "dance with the sandwich the man was good enough to buy you"? No?
One of my friends had somehow transmogrified into MCA last night, he must have had the Bhudda in his pocket- and as he danced to the bad rap music I swear his arms grew longer. "I KNOW. It's like I'm a GORILLA" .
As we warmed in our awkward sobriety onto the dance floor, one of my companions who used to wear a gorilla suit most Saturday nights, and is now newly sober and looked last night like an adorable Lebanese undertaker remarked "I feel like Robert Crumb."
I ask you, how can you not fall in love with men like this?
To further compound the hilarious(to me) factor of secret geek squad on the town the undertaker (who is a prop designer among other strange talents) was carrying an extremely grotesque mummy prop he used in the show. I wouldn't go near it, it was that realistic. He had it under a blanket type tarp that made it appear that he was carrying a sleeping 6 year old. The crypt keeper didn't make it to the dance floor luckily.
I think the most interesting question that I will meet in my new trevails is "How does one fall into the lust-in-passing pot when sober?"
Where do we find the courage or silliness to kiss again in spite of the sobriety? I'm telling you, I'm not interested in any serious kissing. But cigarettes and coffee are not the fuel for anything but too much inner dialogue.
Tune in next week when all these questions and more will probably merely be discarded and never considered again.
OR WILL THEY?