Bus Antics:
1) Man with plastic fork in his mouth. He sucked on that fork the entire trip. It stuck out of his mouth like a plastic tongue.
2) Crazy chattering man with two suitcases, a box of clothes, and no teeth. He rode the bus for one block.
3) My bus buddy and I have been reduced to sitting far away, rarely together, and only on several occasions have we sat in mutual silence. Bus Buddy and I have, perhaps, broken up.
4) There is a school up the road from where I live. I know this because five or so kids ride my morning bus and get off two stops after mine. Now these kids love sitting by themselves with their backpacks and ipods strewn all over the seats. I have no patience for this, especially since I know they’re getting off soon and I can covet a window seat after they leave. I’ve become a bully. I go after the quiet kids with the headphones on, their backpack resting on the empty seat next to them. “CAN I SIT HERE?” I say, more as a formality than as an actual question. I have sat on backpacks before–probably squashed a few science projects with my ass. What are they gonna say, NO? Two stops later the kid is gone and I have a window seat.
In other news, we saw Sin City and I….hated it. This is tough for me to admit, since I like to consider myself a comic fan. Perhaps I like my violence confined to well drawn pages…or maybe I just got sick of seeing prostitutes beaten on screen, cracking jaws crunching from blows, all combined with wispy, pathetic dialogue coming out of Brittney Murphy (or Jessica Alba for that matter). I admit I liked the “Old Town” part the best, watching the girls hold their own, wearing cool clothes with long earrings…and I thought the Bruce Willis saga was kinda, sorta, sweet. Of course the cinematography was fabulous, the color choices very cool, the make-up, all of it was stunning and surreal. But, I guess when it comes down to it I would have preferred more sex and less violence. I’ll let this reviewer from the Apollo Guide sum it up for me: “A movie so cool you’re not supposed to be concerned about its total lack of moral grounding. Nor its profound sexism. Nor its misanthropic nihilism. “- Brian Webster
I have officially written off modern dance at a particular studio. This actually makes me sad, considering I spent three good years in Ft. Collins taking modern from an excellent teacher. I prefer modern, I enjoy it, I like walking out of a class and thinking: “This is it, this is why I am living today, nothing could bother me, I’m free!” It’s very hard to recreate that feeling–it typically comes with working really hard, expending a lot of energy, and feeling creative while getting the heart rate up. The fact that I can’t seem to find it at this particular, high ranked, local studio is still bumming me out. Of course there are other studios, there are other teachers, and there is always ballet. (It’s hard to really screw up ballet, although it can be done). I just can’t handle the modern, aloof, camaraderie that surrounds me and yet alienates me entirely. There are all these announcements before the class, like, “Come see so-and-so’s show, she’s amazing…oh and than there’s this other show, and this film, and it’s so cool…” and everyone nods in approval, like, yeah, it’s the bomb. I’m so jealous, honestly, that so-and-so has a show and I’m on the very last wrung of the modern dance totem pole. On Monday I wore a tank top that read: “If Dance Were Any Easier It Would Be Football.” This usually get’s some sort of reaction; I got one: “What does your shirt say? Oh…nice.” But it wasn’t heartfelt or genuine–not even a laugh or a guffaw. I got the feelings she thought I was a freak. Perhaps that’s why I wore it: To alienate myself further. (God, I sound so thirteen). In hindsight everyone was probably so self-indulgent they couldn’t be bothered with reading my shirt. Which might be good considering I am constantly worried people are looking at me and thinking: She sucks. What is she doing? She’s not even in a show.
To combat my feelings of insecurity and depression I spent quality time with my dear friend, Sam, and his bf, Ian. They have recently decided to co-habitat and I am thrilled for them. Everything is fabulous when I am with them. Sam and I start talking fast and sweating and waving our hands around and jumping up and down. Ian acts as the quiet audience member to our antics. Sam and I used to have a production company and we amuse ourselves with past shows, who screwed who, and how we’re “just looking for the right project” to start our company back up. We bought drumsticks and slurped them on Ian’s roof. We had candid penis talk–the kind you can only have with gay men. Sam showed me multiple pages of his latest comic (see I am a comic fan!) as well as a sample of his past foray into gay comic porno–which was nicely drawn despite my unattraction to gay male sex.
On a related note, last night was spent taking pictures of Ryan covered with whipcream and birthday cake. His new Canadian bride has no idea what she got herself into. Their long distance relationship has finally come to a head, and Ryan, in desperation decided to celebrate her 24th with wild abandon. Apparently it is a Canadian custom to smear whipcream all over oneself in satin boxer shorts for birthdays (and than send the pictures one by one in fifteen minute increments via email). I must say I haven’t laughed this hard in years. (Check out his site for behind the scenes pics and further cake smearing antics).

(Yeah, that’s my shower).