Rugby... It seems so obvious now

In Scotland I roomed with a girl who played rugby for UNC. She was sharp as a tack, cute as a button, kind to animals and the homeless – that sort of thing, and she could drink me under the table on a hangover. Her existence convinced me that rugby was a viable sport for me, and I’ve toyed with the idea of signing up off and on ever since. Last night I went to my first rugby practice with the local team, the Indianapolis Hoydens. I've played different full contact sports such as hockey and tae kwon doe, but there's something about running with a ball in my hands and hitting people in the great outdoors that I really enjoy.

Allow me to offer a brief explanation of rugby from one who only understands it in the briefest of ways. The mechanics of rugby are at once familiar and foreign. American football shares a lot with rugby. The ball is moved up the field towards your team's goal (in football it's an endzone). Points are scored for literally touching the ball down on the ground which scores you a "try", 5 points. After scoring a try you get to kick the ball through uprights for extra points. A player may also kick the ball through the uprights directly, but that's rare. There is tackling in rugby and the team is pretty much divided into two segments, the backs and the forwards or the pack. The backs are small agile, and the top scorers. The forwards, or packees, are burly and do the grunt work of moving the ball forward. If you've ever seen rugby before undoubtedly you've witnessed a bunch of people tightly bound together ramming their bodies into an opposing group of people equally bound. This is called a scrum and is rugby's jump ball or face off. The forwards engage in the scrum while the backs, well, hang back. The idea is to get the ball back to your own team's backs who will advance the ball up the field.

A scrum

So all of this has elements with which I'm at least vaguely comfortable as I can draw comparisons to other sports I've played. But then it gets weird.

Thou shalt not throw the ball forward.

I knew this going into practice, but I didn’t understand the impact until I actually saw it implemented. Because of that little rule the act of moving the ball down the field is totally turned on its ear. Soccer, Football, hockey, basketball. Think of how much different these sports would be if you couldn't send the respective object of play directly forward. In rugby the ball must be thrown backwards and only run or kicked forward. This creates a constant looping pattern whereby the team with possession runs in a diagonal line behind the person with the ball. As the ball is passed backwards the person who had possession peels off from the top of the line back behind the ball and the diagonal looping back to the right or left. Lather, rinse, repeat. I imagine the aerial view resembles a rotating hive moving at angles. This is all happening while the opposing team is coming on in an attempt to gain the ball by brutal means.

Rugby has other idiosyncrasies. When the ball goes out of bounds (out of touch) it is returned into play with a throw-in similar to soccer. However, the reception of the ball is… well, the two teams line up perpendicularly to the touch line. This creates a “tunnel”. The ball is thrown down the middle into the air as burly people raise smaller people up into the air to catch it. This is known as lifting, and it looks totally wild – a celebration that the ball has come back into play.

When we did full field drills I played flanker. I believe this is the position that I've been waiting for all my sporting life. I'm actively encouraged to hit people. I'm not stuck in the front of the scrum. As soon as the scrum's out I peel off lickity split to chase after the ball in support of my team. I hit people after they’ve hit one of my teammates, or I receive the ball and either pass it off smartly or get hit by an opponent when I will hand the ball back to a teammate while I'm on the ground. This running into and tackling of people for forward motion is called a ruck. A ruck is what you’d get if play didn’t stop after the ball was downed in American football.

I’ve heard that soccer is a game for gentlemen played by hooligans and rugby is a game for hooligans played by gentlemen. I know a fair amount of good hearted ruggers, and I’ll say there’s something to that.

Letter to a maybe thief

Some time ago, January '07 to be more precise, I was burgled. Someone broke into my home and stole my old PlayStation2 and newly purchased Wii. The memory card on the ps2 was invaluable as it held about three years worth of gaming on it. At the time I was thankful nothing else was taken and furious and scared. The thief didn't just take my toys and run though. A woman's high school class ring was left behind. Creepy. Discovering the ring scared me more than noticing the lack of possessions. Someone very real and tangible entered my home and left something of, presumably, herself. I have to admit I just assumed the thief was a guy. Perhaps it was a guy who just left someone's class ring behind. But why? Who the hell wears those after high school anyhow? And why bring it to a burglary and then take it off only to leave it behind? So many questions. All I could do was address this embodiment of the thief cast in a stainless steel hunk of metal with a green semi-precious stone shining on the shelf next to where my consoles used to rest.

After the burglary I kept most of what I generously call an entertainment center just the way it was the night it got violated. It took me months before I dusted off the hand prints that were left on the stereo tuner. I told myself that I hadn't really gotten attached to the Wii yet and really the biggest loss was the memory card on the other system since I had so much time logged on it. I was purposefully missing the point. I was stuck. While watching countless hours of television I caught myself staring out my back window subconsciously on guard duty in case the scoundrel should return and I'd have to defend my things or myself. The idea that I had to actively hold my home horrified me. I was in a mild panic most nights. But I ignored it. I couldn't admit to myself that this event had left a mark on me that I would eventually have to accept and process so I focused on the fear of a possible future recurrence.

Of the wounds that can be healed time can heal them all because eventually one has to do the things one did when one was wounded, and in my case this is as simple, (and sometimes infuriatingly difficult) as living my life. And a lot of time has passed since that night. I feel secure in my own home again. I eventually replaced my PS2 with the new slimline version with built-in ethernet adapter and even unlocked a good portion of my old games on a fresh memory card. The summer has left me feeling free to leave my back door open -although I never leave it unlocked and unattended anymore. I feel a lot more like I did when I first purchased the place and just about every day brought some new joyful home related task. It feels good. I have reclaimed. But I still haven't replaced my Wii.

This all came up today as I was doing some virtual e-mail housekeeping and happened upon the e-mail address of my Wii. Each Wii has a hard coded e-mail address - sorta. The Wii has to allow communication to another "account" and the account in turn has to accept the Wii. Since I'm a bit geeky that's one of the first things I did with my console.

So here I have my Wii's unalterable e-mail information, and an e-mail account registered with said device. I have a hard time imagining the person who is currently enjoying my console has kept the original information on the Wii, but it's very easy to wish for it. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time I've seen someone behave -ahem- carelessly. These days I'm in a strong place - strong enough to address the person who now has my stuff. So, today I sent an e-mail to my old Wii. I did, after all, stay in line overnight outside of a Best Buy with a thermos, blanket, and a chair. That was a great time and I wanted to reconnect with it in some way. I am claiming that Wii even if I don't currently possess it.

I won't retype it all here. That's between me and the current possessor of the console. I have no idea what the relationship between the current holder of the Wii and my thief may be. I am getting more and more curious about this ring, though. So I'll part with a message to the original owner:

Beth, graduate of Martinsville High School Class of 1984 who participated in gymnastics, your ring was left in my home. Would you care to have it back? I'd be happy to trade.

Work and Dvorak

I set off on a mad dash to make it to the whole foods grocer prior to their closing this evening and wound up with something to say. Prior to hopping in the car I was pooped. A little about my job. I have an on-call rotation with four others which involves taking every problem great and small that comes our way and fixing it. Immediately. For 168 hours. I work with network infrastructure which means that every little problem appears enormous to our corporate customers who in some cases have created the problem from the start. Essentially, it's like throwing someone out of the city gates for a week to fight off, placate, or confound the Mongol hordes and repair the damage they wreak upon said walls while the rest of the troops focus on designing better walls and weapons ostensibly to make guard duty easier. There are sweet times when very little is happening, but this week isn't shaping up that way. I couldn't even describe how I felt I was so worn out from ten hours of non-stop multi-tasking, troubleshooting, and downright arguing with a little bit of line-in-the-sand drawing for emphasis. I looked at my cat and said, "I have nothing of interest to report." and decided to do some shopping chores.

As I was pulling out of my garage the gentle voice of a WFYI announcer was describing the beginnings of the serious pursuit of formal music education in the US which was the lead-in for Dvorak's 9th symphony. In the past I have described my ear as unsophisticated and immature. I rarely linger on the 2nd and 3rd movements of any orchestral work as they are -slow- which has always meant -boring- to me. Few first movements light me on fire (although I can listen to the first five notes of Eroica and turn off the stereo), but tonight I was in the car and it was on the radio. I enjoy D's Ninth quite a bit although the piece definitely falls into the category of skip to the fourth movement.

The weather was warm, the sun was thinking about setting, and I was listening to some of the most beautiful music ever written serving the double purpose of a sonic mirror for a young nation which wrote its own rules still simple in so many principles and of a driving overture for the most tumultuous, historically significant, scientifically advancing, catapult ride that has been the 20th century. For a brief moment I thought it would be a pity to get out of the car to hit a grocery store. Chance kept rolling sevens, and as it turned out the store was closed. I would continue my listening.

Indiana is at its most beautiful in the late summer at sunset. For reasons I don't comprehend the sky can light up with every color of the spectrum between dusk and twilight. At the point the 2nd movement intoned through my speakers with clear opening chords the evening had large patches of pinkish red against light blue streaked with wisps of clouds.

I turned back to my street telling myself I'll listen to this when I'm not working on something else. I have a good copy of it. Now I can listen to the whole thing. But I'll probably hold off until next week.

Happy happy happy birthday - a belated blog entry

I've been rather sick of late - nasty congestion and all - just in time for my vacation leading up to my big 3-0 birthday! My continued neglect of this blog hasn't had a chance to bother me too much I've been so busy. Where do I begin?

I took a few days off from work since my birthday was upon me and taking vacation worked out pretty well with my work schedule. I spent that time going out mingling in smokey bars which proved to be my downfall. I got hit with a sinus infection Thursday which I ignored. I was too busy with birthday affairs to be inconvenienced with a cold. I told myself to eat a lot of spicy food and see if that helps anything. Perhaps it will go away... Right. In any case, Thursday I spent with the fam. My younger sister and her beau paid me a surprise visit for dinner. They've been on a whirlwind tour of the midwest prior to their moving to Florida. I thought they would be unable to celebrate, but they pulled it out for the big day. I received motorcycle themed presents from my parents and some cherry jam from Michigan.

Friday was the actual anniversary of my birth, and I celebrated with a facial at an Aveda salon. My facial expert was highly informed she herself reported often and a bit shrill. However, I can't argue with results. And really, a facial that starts with me hopping into a bath robe and receiving a foot bath can't be all that bad. I ended up buying a boatload of essential facial products and pledged to go on a regimen that surprisingly enough includes repeat trips to the spa for more facials. My inner cynic is telling me that this is just a scam to get me to buy expensive soap and "sonic treatments", but I'm letting go of that voice in an effort to combat my adult acne which I'm told should be totally clear within 6 months. I can give it that much time and money. The proof is in the pudding, so to speak. I'm excited to go back when I'm not so congested to enjoy the aroma therapy.

Since my massage was cancelled the prior day I decided to finally scratch an itch I've had since I was young and do something wild with my hair. I had called a few hair salons to see if they could fit me in for an appointment Friday afternoon and if anyone on their staff knew how to create a faux-hawk. That's right. I lopped off my locks for a spikey ridge down the middle. Shockingly, all the stylists I spoke to asked me to describe the fauxhawk which left me a little concerned for my hair. Especially, since I ended up making an appointment at a salon that had never seen me or my hair. I had a moment of panic prior to the procedure when I perceived my stylist's reaction to my new hair cut was less than warm. Her shoulders slumped, her face fell, and she quickly asked for a photograph. Apparently, the receptionist had not clued her into what was going down. While I was sitting at the head sink to get a shampoo I was thinking "I can end this right now. This isn't such a good idea." But I stuck it out, and I'm glad for it. I now have crazy short hair that can be sculpted into all sorts of different ways. At times I look like Yunsung from Soul Calibur 2.

I was a little concerned about how I could pull this look off at my fairly conservative office, but my concerns were unfounded. I can sculpt this just about anyway I wish, and for the office I'm going for a slightly edgier version of Annette Benning circa the American President. But as far as Friday was concerned I was straightup coxcombing it with a little punk 'tude in tight blue jeans and girly Honda motorcylce T with red shoulders and red sneakers. I hopped on my gixxer and rolled off to the Rathskellar to meet up with friends HR, sister, beau, and A for Beer-biddly beer and brats. After the Rathskellar - where I had a fabulous run-in with an old college prof we were off to the Metro to meet up with more people and meet some new ones along the way. I met some fabulous guys through the nurse who just happened to be at the Metro. And DeeDee showed up with her latest project in hand. It was time to go off to the Ten.

By the time we got there my voice had already dropped an octave due to cold weather and smokey conditions. I was feeling a bit wretched, but I was determined to sally forth! Afterall, what's Saturday for if not recovery? I got into some line dancing for the first time ever, and of course, lil sis was down for that. And was I glad to have stuck around. Instead of the booty shaking contest this Friday had a wet T-shirt contest. And my oh my the hottest straight girl in the bar decided to kick up her heels and disrobe - quite literally. She changed at our table, and was given a talking to by a staff heavy. She claimed that she had never stripped before, but she was a natural. Vicky, the MC queen, had to remind her often to watch it as she was nearly tearing her tank top right off. And after she won the contest she gave me a birthday lap dance. How sweet. Straight girls slay me. I'm not particularly attracted to them in any meaningful way, but I'm not above the titillation they provide.

In a rare turn of events I drove HR home because he was trashed. I was glad to do it. My voice was then at frog levels and I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. I paid for it Saturday, and well, I'm still paying for it, but I had a great time.

Market Days - Saturday

So one thing has led to another and now I'm confronted with the neglect of my blog. I have this feeling of accountability for my online presence like it's some electronic pet that will die if I don't "feed" it. Worse yet, I've experienced plenty of bloggable events since this weekend and I see the tales piling up before me.

This past weekend was spent in Chicago exclusively along the L red line. I went up for Market Days, an enormous GLBT festival held in Boys' town. Halsted St. is closed to vehicular traffic for six blocks from Belmont up to Addison and is lined with tents selling all kinds of goods from t-shirts to tequila (frozen with fruit juice served on a stick!). And the mad swarm of people filling the street is breathtaking - literally. Saturday afternoon people were packed in so close there were times when I couldn't move in any direction. All I could do was wait for traffic a few feet over to clear and make my way through. It was glorious! To be in the eye of a pink storm is a wonderful experience for many reasons, but the vibe alone is worth it. I haven't been called baby, honey and sweetie so many times in my life. Events like these are powerful affirmations, and seemingly everyone in attendance feels friendlier. I know I did.

I only wished there were more ladies out. There were clusters of women running around, but they had places to be. They were going somewhere or doing something that wasn't whatever it was they were doing at that precise moment in time. I needed information on where the girls party in Chicago and my attempts to approach these fleeting ladies left me feeling like an interloper. I was informed that I was in the place to be for women, too. Looking around that didn't seem to be the case. Don't get me wrong. Boys are beautiful. I enjoy a ripped chest as much as the next gal, but when it comes to a dance partner I want to get down with a member of the fairer sex. Perhaps, they were afraid I was trying to crash their group. Perhaps, I need to work on my approach. Perhaps perhaps perhaps.

More and more I feel groups of lesbians are like groups of nymphs; world weary, quicker than lightning in their own element, and protected by a powerful deity. In many ways I feel like an insecure version of Pan with cloven hooves, bare breasted and twigs in my hair approaching the handmaidens of Artemis and fearing they will light off and report my behavior as a grievous recrimination to their lady. I need to get whatever mojo that ugly fucker had going for him because this self-doubt thing is cramping my style.

But this is about Chicago - not my insecurities - well OK. It's about whatever comes out of my head. Back to the windy city, I met up with the gang at Sidetrack. Men were flirting and drinking and carousing and having a grand old time shoulder to shoulder in a sea of humanity with music blaring and videos playing on flat screens around the bar. Again, all wonderful to see. FN, HR, Blanche, Romeo, and Mom were all at the front of the house strapped with fans compliments of gAyT&T. There were also a couple others from Indy whom I've met before, but I've not yet come up with blog names for them. Fitness Nerd informed us all that the crowd was comprised almost exclusively of people from the Midwest and perhaps most of the locals were simply taking the day off to avoid the crazies.

Mom and I ended up taking a leave in search of water and a little breathing room when we came upon Beatnix, a store where even the tallest drag queen can find a pair of ruby red slippers or a silk kimono in her size. My next trip to Chicago is going to involve a credit card and a shopping frenzy. The t-shirts are so funny how can I refuse? And seriously, I've not found another location where I actually want to accessorize - a talent I've not nurtured. I picked up a shirt from a street vendor that states, "The best way to get over him is to get under me." with a silhouette of a hot lady in repose in the middle. Faboo.

Eventually we all wandered back to their hotel south of the party site for naps and workouts. I got to reunite myself with my favorite institution, Jamba Juice and talked with Romeo for a while. Eventually, I made it back to my own accommodations to meet up with DeeDee at the Chicago International Hostel. shudder.

The CIH is the first hostel I've stayed in State side so I don't have any North American frame of reference, but I know bad when I see it. I have to say after reading reviews of the place I wasn't all that surprised when the gentleman behind the counter couldn't find the reservation DeeDee had placed online. I did what I could to remove my own corporate mindset and personal ideals of service as the kind middle-aged man doddered about behind the counter trying to find the reservation. I didn't get the impression he knew where to look to begin with. I mentioned he was kind, and it is somewhat accurate. He somewhat owned responsibility for losing the reservation and offered me a bed in a dorm room which was the original arrangement at the start. I was alright with this.

Charitable reviews of the CIH mention the "fun and funky decor". This is code for mismatched mishmash of smelly items purchased from various estate sales of old ladies who have passed away. Turning the corner from the front desk selling an assortment of instant foods such as mac and cheese and ramen noodles one encounters a Mediterranean scene painted on the wall behind a plaster cast sculpture of a woman holding a water jug. I got the impression that at one point in time water flowed through the sculpture, but now it was dry and still. There are two sets of track lighting above the sculpture one of which works. The common area is painted in blue and the furniture therein is covered with white sheets. On the south wall hangs a combination world map and international clock that no longer works. It's about eight feet wide, three feet tall, and looks to have been made in the 60s. Everyone in the common area appeared to be silent and glass eyed from traveling. The front stoop was far more hopping, but to my own loss I was trying to either get going or get to bed whenever I passed through. When DeeDee and I had changed for the evening we were out of there lickity split.

Dinner was pizza at Renaldi's - wonderful - followed by a caffeine stop and the whole gang was off to Sidetrack. The line to get in was long, but that allowed us to watch the unfolding of a street drama starring a fat, drunk, belligerent man and a couple police officers armed with hand cuffs and a golf cart. We had a good time at his expense led by Fitness Nerd. I kept switching from joining in with quips of my own and voicing my distaste at calls for the tazer. I am inconstant and often I fail to get jokes when my own seriousness gets in the way. On a trip to find an ATM (the line was so long we had ample time to walk off and look for banking options) DeeDee spied women going into Spin and suggested we go there. I refused stating that Sidetrack should have women, too, andthat I wanted to hang with the group for a bit. And I did enjoy chilling with my posse, but she had the right idea as I would soon find out. We returned to the line and eventually entered the club.

As the day continued the crowds got bigger and the space got tighter. That trend was not broken at Sidetrack at night. However, bar service was really speedy. I wonder what kind of bank the bartenders made that day. Ugh, I can't even imagine working a shift though. The group broke up, wandered about and mingled, reunited and repeated. When we're all out and about we expand and contract like heavenly bodies, each individual a planet with his or her own specific gravity. Eventually, we all make it back to the group's own solar system huddled around a star of familiarity and common experiences. Romeo was the first to cut out followed by Blanche, H, and Mom. I was buzzing on Red Bull and ready to go shake my booty. H gave me directions to Charlie's and FN, DeeDee and I set out for the after hours dance club.

Charlie's is a lot like Gregg's in Indy. They even have line dancing until 2am. Rather than naked men on the video screens Charlie's has a text message board. One can send a text to a number where it is then sent to the video screens throughout the bar. Oh yes, all the different combinations of good and bad you can imagine came out. This club was the most packed to date. Dancers on the floor were topless, sweaty, and gropey. Occasionally, a smoke machine would fill the floor to such degree that visibility was 0. I could not see my hand in front of my face, and the air was filled with white. The white outs were created to encourage more groping I'm sure, but unfortunately, I was not to participate in such matters. The ladies who were at Charlie's were most definitely straight. I actually approached one lady in particular offering to buy her a drink and received a confused look followed by a pity smile. sigh. Getting off the dance floor proved to be difficult. Imagine a car wash only substitute men's chests for brushes and sweat for soapy water. DeeDee described it as a re-birth. It was a tidge icky.

This is all just day one. I need to stop for now. More later.

Gay debates and the ultimate POTUS

The gay debates have just come to a close. Tonight, the Human Rights Campaign and Logo, a gay themed MTV station, put on a gay oriented debate for presidential candidates. It ended up being a Democrats only gathering as all Republican candidates declined the opportunity. I'm not a fan of politicians in general, and most "electable" candidates have concentrated doses of all the qualities I dislike. They strike me as liars who change their answers according to their audience. The increased pace of media coverage and more over the accessibility of said coverage the Internet has driven evens things out and holds individuals accountable for what they say even when they have the illusion of a home field advantage as Mr. Lott and more recently Ms. Coulter have found. What do we get as a result of this total coverage? Candidates who drone on with an innocuous, boring, base-shoring message. The candidate who can repeat him or herself the most times, doesn't anger anyone, looks attractive, and not suffer brain fade at the end of the race wins. Useless.

Tonight, the usual happened. Obama, Clinton, and Edwards were strong, charismatic, and didn't say anything to rock the boat. They are taking the tactic of attacking Don't Ask Don't Tell which is totally safe for Republican leaning swing voters and it shows some support for the gay community. The military can't be all too choosey right now. And DADT is really just about the lamest piece of playground legislature available. Kucinich and Gravel (I didn't even know he was running) were honest and open. I'm sure they are viewed as radical although they're really just comfortable with humanity. In my eyes Kucinich is a loon only because he wants non-profit health care. Not because he espouses the notion that love conquers all. And Bill Richardson - one of my favorite politicians prior to tonight - just flopped. I'll have to give him a pass. He's a hard working guy. He has a strong record. I don't know why he performed feebly tonight, but he did.

Perhaps I'm a dreamer. The candidates that try to stick to the middle drive me nuts. I know I see issues as being right or wrong. Good or bad. I'm told that this is an unrealistic ideal (phooey). So candidates that have something on their minds and share it really appeal. Of course, these candidates tend to be viewed as unelectable. I say viewed as because that's all it is. If everyone who said, "I'd vote for so-and-so but so-and-so can't win" actually voted for so-and-so the odds would certainly tip. But even after locating a dark horse, enlightened candidate it's most likely that I won't agree with all of his or her platform. Even candidates who are wonderfully genuine, such as Dennis Kucinich, may not punch all my buttons. Kucinich wants non-profit health care. This drives me crazy. Oh Dennis, I love love, too, but I'm a capitalist. I won't be calling you the morning after so don't come a calling tonight.

In the spirit of the debates (entitled The Visible Vote '08) I'm going to write up my dream candidate.

My dream candidate would be a bastion for reducing government and increasing individual freedoms like Ron Paul almost is (he's against gay marriage and abortion rights. I can't let that go.)

Like Paul and Kucinich my dream candidate would bring focus on the United States and not the United jihadist front. I'm not saying we ignore those who would do us harm, but let's try to focus on defense. Further, as distasteful, immoral, and wrong as terrorists are they are not human rats to be exterminated.

My candidate would be real about personal liberty like Dennis Kucinich. Senator K was the only candidate who handled the gay question perfectly. Really it's one question framed many ways: Do you recognize homosexuals as human beings with inalienable rights? The question is answered in the telling (homosexuals are humans so duh). It's a non-issue. The people who would like it to be an issue - and have created this issue - do so against the rights of others and should, by all constitutional accounts, not be allowed to continue. Seriously, I want to ask why are we still talking about this? Oh yeah. There are a lot of misguided individuals in this country who don't understand what it is to have personal freedoms and how that doesn't only extend to their personal in-group. Unfortunately, many of those misguided individuals appear to have a lot of power.

My dream candidate would answer all questions directly - even ones that put him or her in a bad light. Again, this is something that needs to be put in the forefront. We ask presidential hopefuls a question concerning subject x and they respond with a pat response about subject y. A person can't run a Burger King that way. How do we think they can run a country with that kind of verbal smoke and mirrors?

My dream candidate would be viewed as electable - mostly because the majority of US citizens would embrace this bold leadership style. The majority of US citizens would recognize that personal freedoms are to the benefit of all. A community is made of individuals. That which benefits the individual will benefit a community. One can't ask the individual to sacrifice for the community. That makes no sense. And a community can't sacrifice for an individual since it's all comprised of individuals.

Someday we'll recognize that the "give and take" between the people and the government is just robbing Peter to pay Paul in circles with interest. Until then, I guess we'll just keep throwing darts at the board or worse, pick the person most likely to win.

All activity must be indoors for the next couple days. It is sweat-down-your-ass-crack hot out there. I decided to cool off by doing some essential shopping prior to this weekend's trip to Market Days on Halstead Street in Chicago this weekend. I'm so excited I went out and bought a 40 dollar t-shirt simply because it screams sex. Part of me balked at that price tag for a t-shirt, but I then asked myself what price would I pay for a t-shirt that was guaranteed to get me laid? I didn't have to imagine a number since my feet had already walked me up to the register. I also picked up a sling bag from Eddie Bauer and a pair of clam digger jeans. The clam diggers -heh- were a little disappointing when I got them home. They are not cut for a woman of my ample thighs and ass and relatively small waistline. That's the last time I try to play beat the clock in a fitting room. I wish I wasn't so quick to take off the tag.

The weather is unfortunate at the moment, but it's going to be cooler in the windy city. I've located what is reportedly the girls' town which is Andersonville located around Clark and Foster. Anyone who knows where to go please send me in the right direction. I'm planning on hitting some clubs with DeeDee and perhaps her friend on Saturday night. Although the main event looks to be the following Friday at Circuit for a ChixMix production. I don't know if I'll make it out, but it's a goal.

Basic Bach

I read on a friend's blog today a quote from George Eliot: "It's never too late to be what you could have been." I was so touched that I had to go out and buy Middlemarch at Borders today at lunch. It helped that work wasn't really holding my attention. While I was there I picked up Glen Gould playing the Bach Goldberg Variations and Solti conducting selections from Matthaus Passion. Perhaps the heat is getting to me. I've never enjoyed Bach, but today I thought I should give it a go. I've undergone a total detoxification of all chemicals stronger than coffee and I reasoned that my new found sobriety would help me appreciate the composer I've always seen as a little simple. I am told by numerous Bach fans that it is his clarity that makes him so endearing and really with all the linear motion Bach is far from simple. Whatever, I'd shrug. I prefer more turmoil and tension making that resolution all the sweeter. I prefer Liszt and Chopin and Tchaikovsky. Swoopy. Brooding. Triumphant. Emotional. I told people that my ear was too immature for Bach and that was fine by me.

I listened to the Goldberg Variations on my way back to the office, and found myself rather pleased with my purchase. There's probably something to the context: driving on a sunny day with heavy puffy clouds hanging in the sky like enormous air cows, surrounded by trees on either side of a small road, and the crisp sound of Gould's treatment of music that for me has always conjured images of hiking. I imagine Darwin listened to Bach in his head as he was going about his scientific research. Bach is musical lemonade, and on a day like today with a heat index hovering around 106 degrees Farenheit every possible relief counts. And Glen Gould really is a monster. He tears through the piece and when his left hand starts moving on a separate line it's such a treat.

I still haven't cracked Middlemarch (but that will soon be rectified) and the Passion remains unheard today. I'm happy to be enjoying a piece of music that I've merely endured in the past. The switch has been flipped.

Sweet sweat!

Last night was a blast starting with three wonderful women I had just met through my buddy DeeDee. We fell in a wide spectrum of personalities on the social and fun side of things. One woman had a great deal of resort style vacation experience with an appreciation for pampering (and really who doesn't?) and another was getting ready to shave her hair short for a hiking trip through Peru. I ran into the other tech geek (there is, thankfully, generally another person in any given group of four or five who groks I.T.) while the rest assembled had to eventually wrench the conversation back into the human world. And it was such a treat to run into a nurse with ER experience. Throwing a party blending a bunch of people who haven't met before? Be sure to have a nurse on the guest list. The stories are priceless.

Oh so different and yet we all ordered the chicken tika masala of varying degrees of spiciness.

After dinner was duckpin bowling, the beautiful love child between contemporary bowling and skee-ball. (I'm conveniently ignoring that duckpin predates the big pin variety.) The lanes in town are super retro. The decor is blonde wood furniture with green vinyl trim. Heavy ceramic ashtrays are built into the ball return system, and the lanes are a bit warped with seems in the floor sticking up a tidge here and there amidst patches of dirt. Due to its antique nature it's not the kind of sport for the fiercely competitive, and it comes highly recommended for hang out time prior to shaking your groove thing on a Saturday night. DeeDee, who took much abuse for her Chaplinesque bowling style, blew the rest of us out of the water with a score of 63.

After a shuffling of cars, a general thinning of our numbers, and a meeting of new people - all young men off to the leather bar - we headed for Talbott St. I don't even know how to categorize this place any longer. Groups of straight girls have shown up in the past, but they seem to have brought their straight mens now as well. It's owned by a lesbian, but not a lot are present although I'm assured that it is otherwise on evenings when I'm not there. Saturday night is drag night on the side Legends stage, and the main dance floor was crammed with sweaty, topless men gyrating with blinkers to thumping techno. There were a few power bottoms displaying some serious ab work under paper thin twinks on boxes dispersed towards the DJ booth setup on the stage at the head of the floor. I wasn't drinking, but I had guzzled a double latte at 10pm and followed that with a red bull around midnight. After the 12:30 drag show, which naturally started at 1, I had pushed through the caffeinated edginess and was simply wired. The nurse and I were dancing with such abandon that someone asked DeeDee if we were rolling. My shirt was drenched and my jeans were sticky by the time we headed out into the relative relief of the muggy morning. Mission accomplished!

DeeDee's boys arrived back at the "Gay Ghetto" around the same time we did and were off for some food. What night out is complete without a trip to Peppy Grill? I couldn't refuse, but I should have chosen something other than a BLT and OJ. (I'll blame my I.T. job for my predilection for initialized foodstuffs) Ugh. It's still sitting in my tummy funny. Again, I got to meet new people who were much fun.

Cutting this off, the sun is shining in earnest for the first time in days. I must go out and get some of that.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the blog

Now I too shall blog. I've decided to get with the times and start posting. Yes, I'm in between gen X and Y and still this is my first blog entry outside of that medium known as myspace. I even work in the tech sector and have for years. The way I initially experienced blogging set me off in a negative way. When I first came across the concept of blogging I thought it was a crap idea thinking of it as an online journal. Who posts ones most secret thoughts for the entire world to sift through and consume? Furthermore, would I want to read the fruit of what I assumed to be an extreme exhibitionist mind? I had caught glimpses of the web during its wild west phase reading the products of rolling eyed lunatics with their conspiracies, the gentle helpful geeks with their measured explanations, the humorists whose comedic style could not be tolerated on late night cable, the brilliant and socially backward all assembled in this electronic frontier. I was happy to laugh at their hijinks or learn from their help pages but I didn't actually want to read their diaries.

When my first friend fell to blogging I couldn't even bring myself to read it. The process felt invasive, like sifting through her garbage in a hotel room after spring break. I didn't need to know. Eventually, more and more of my friends - excellent writers all - started blogging. Still I resisted. The mechanism seemed bizarre. This is a broadcast sent out to all and sundry. I'm not all and sundry. I'm an individual and perhaps my communication with said friends should be more on a personal level. Feeling a bit miffed (you'd tell *anyone* that? I thought I was special!) I chose not to read. Anyhow, I was already getting the inside scoop actually hearing my friends recount these stories over the phone. I read a few posts here and there, but that voyeuristic feeling lingered. The transition from interlocutor to narrator was driving me a little batty. I have a sister who blogs on extended travels. It's an excellent read. I've always thought that was what blogging was all about - Can't talk now. This is what I'm up to. Catch up with you later. My life simply isn't that interesting.

Eventually, it was vanity that brought me around. Last night at a birthday party another friend told me that he had given me a blog name of Xena lesbian princess or something to that effect. I was flattered not just because I love the idea of being associated with Lucy Lawless, but that he had written about me. I had to see what he said. This morning after a slew of offline journalling I read his blog over a cup of tea looking for traces of myself. I either couldn't find it or he hadn't written the entry yet, but I was absorbed by the entries. I found them funny and honest and well - refreshing. It was like reading a magazine published for and by a specific clique. He has light entries and entries with plenty of sturm und drang, and at the end of it all I didn't think any less of him or think he was an exhibitionist. I was glad he had written it, and I was glad to have read it.

So, now I have a better appreciation for the blogosphere. It doesn't replace any dearly held communication mechanics. It doesn't aggrandize idiocy anymore than the reader allows. Really it adds to personal interaction giving people a chance to catch up with each other - and oh how helpful when it comes to the shifting schedule.

So now I'm off to hit the road and enjoy the day.