Mumbling Madly

Anyone who knows me fairly well knows that I LOVE PARADES. You can’t imagine my excitement over the annual Gay Pride Parade on Broadway. The last parade I attended was the Homecoming parade in F.C., so you can imagine the vast difference between that parade and this one. Josh and I missed our bus, tried to drive to the parade, tried to park, couldn’t find a spot to save our life, went back home, caught the bus and showed up 45 minutes late. Despite a shaky start, we had a roaring good time. The highlight was having my picture taken with two gay storm troopers:

These fellows were members of the Teddy Bear Club:

Staff and Patrons from local club, Neighbors:

Probably one of the funniest floats in the parade. They also passed out hilarious little comic books filled with cartoon penises strolling around avoiding syphilis:

Member of the Latin LGBT finishing up a photo opp. with a very perplexed and fixated little boy. I tried to get Josh to pose with her earlier, but he chickened out.

I thought it was interesting that this was the running theme in the parade:

Incredible costumes abound:

My all time favorite place, Cupcake Royale, had a float in the parade. They were passing out cupcakes to the crowd. I rushed over to them, eager to get in on the free cupcake action. The girls shouted, “Show us your cupcakes!” They pulled up their shirts and revealed frosting covered nipples. I pulled up my shirt and received a cupcake in reward. YES!
I managed to finagle a free shirt from the gay rugby team, on the back of the shirt it reads: Fabulously Butch.
The religious nuts stood on the corner of Pike and Broadway with bullhorns and a loud speaker. They tried to break our spirits by screaming the gospel into their microphones. I watched many parade goers engage in heated debate with the small Christian crowd. It seemed to end with someone screaming: “That’s bullshit!” Followed by the retort: “Read your bible!”
I’ve never seen so many gay supporting dogs and puppies.
Despite the parking debacle, Pride Parade receives two thumbs up!

I have started a new category: Metro Transit Musings
1.) I hear a loud thud behind me, a woman has dropped her purse and it has landed on the bus floor. The man next to her assists her as she struggles to reach down and get it. She laughs and says, “My stomach is in the way.” She is pregnant. The man takes notice and congratulates her, asks her what the gender is, she says she doesn’t know, it will be a surprise. He says, “You know as a Christian, I really admire that, I really admire you bringing another life into the world.” The pregnant woman says, “Yes, it’s really exciting.” He continues, “You know God said go forth, be fruitful and multiply and I really believe that. People who don’t have babies, they’re just being selfish.” I can hear the shift in the conversation, the pregnant woman and I are both thinking the same thing: “Uh-oh…this guy is a little crazy.” The man continues on: See, he has a daughter…and the mother of his daughter didn’t even tell him she was pregnant. They were going out, she disappears, and nine months later she calls him from Denver to tell him about the baby. Well, than the mother goes crazy, turns out she’s a bi-polar, manic-depressive type and she’s admitted to a mental hospital. They took the baby away and put her up for adoption. He feels that’s the right thing to do, give the baby two parents…what does she think? What does she think? I exit the bus before I hear the pregnant woman’s reply.
2) I’m heading home after a full nine hour day, I’m excited because I caught the #8 during peak traveling time. Instead of waiting every 1/2 hour the bus comes every 15 minutes. Turns out this particular bus only goes to Capitol Hill, dropping me off at the Group Health Medical Center on 15th Ave. I hike back to the bus stop, sulking, feeling slightly stranded. A gigantic drunk man is passed out on the only bench at the bus stop. He is stretched out, arms dangling over the edge of the bench, legs splayed wide apart. He is snoring in wild, drunken, abandon People are walking by, they point at him, make comments. I wonder if I should be worried: I don’t find it all that unusual.
3) On my birthday, only yesterday, I took my favorite ballet class in the morning. Before every class I evaluate how I feel so I know how far I can push it. Last week I didn’t feel well, so I mentally made the decision before class that I would live ten minutes early–right before the dreaded petite allegro my most hated part of class. The petite allegro involves short, quick, beating steps at an insane speed. A year ago a local choreographer in F.C. made the comment: “Tall people are inherently slow, they just can’t move very fast and are usually a step behind in choreography.” It really offended me…I should have said, “Actually your choreography is really uninspiring and it’s everything I can do to keep up–what with being bored stiff and all.” Anyway, the only time I can hear this comment ring in my ears is when I’m struggling to beat my legs in the air super, duper fast. It rarely happens. And this has always been the case, even in my teenage prime, I despise the petite allegro–in the past I usually feigned a mild injury that meant sitting out for a few minutes until we could get to my real love: jumping. Anyway, on my birthday I decided I would go all out–who cares if I’m 28, I’m still spry! So I had this fantastic class, worked so hard I almost puked. I came out of the class buzzing with that kind of cardio rush you can only get when you’ve been gasping for breath. I boarded the bus, humming, my face bright red and sweaty. I looked like a crazy person trying to hold it together. The bus got so warm I got off the bus early and strolled into downtown on foot. Walking felt better anyway.
4) Early Saturday morning, I am transferring to the #5 from the #3, and it’s cold. Somehow I ended up in Belltown at the bus stop in front of the YWCA. People stagger in and out, an ambulance pulls away–probably hauling off a travesty of the street. An overweight teenager in pink terry cloth sweats, flip flops, g-string hanging out, is walking towards the YWCA. She is holding a baby. The kid looks nervous, like he knows something is up. His Mom is talking to him, convincing him of something, trying to coax the hint of smile he has cautiously spreading across his face. All the baby is wearing is a diaper. I watch them enter the YWCA. Than a drunk, angry, staggering man locks eyes with me. He stumbles over to me, I try and stand my ground…I realize it’s a losing battle and anger him even further when I move away. I gain some distance, the bus shelter is long and covered and spacious. I think about earlier this morning, when I was approaching the bus stop by my house, there were two police cars on the corner. The police were frisking a skinny lady, asking her questions, putting handcuffs on her. When the #3 swooped up, I was relieved to be removed from The Scene. A woman on the bus asked me: “What happened?” “I don’t know, they’re interviewing this lady, I tried to give them space.” “Oh, well, I like to know what’s going on…I’m nosy.” I thought: I’m kinda nosy too…but I’m still not immune to people being arrested on my street, ambulances parked in front of the apartments on the corner, cracked out people climbing onto the bus stop next to my house. I guess I just don’t want to know.

Christy P., Courtney E., and Mara S., showing off a 6th grade Halloween project.

Dance belts are something one must become familiar with when becoming acquainted with dance retail. I typically describe them as “a jock strap for dancers…only softer.” When I first starting handing them over to men, it was for the local beginning ballet class offered at CSU. This was back when outside majors were still allowed to take dance classes, (the department had to close the doors on everyone but Dance majors after budget cuts). I allowed guys to try on the belt over their boxers so they could get an idea of what they were in for. This usually resulted in quite a few exclamations of “Oh My God!” through the dressing room curtain. Simply put, the dance belt is like a tight pair of briefs with a little extra padding for support. Trust me, fellahs, you want to be wearing one while executing multiple jumps across the dance floor. Below is a picture of a full seated dance belt, (typically professionals are required to wear thong belts under their tights):

Notice the seam in front? This usually indicates a good dance belt…also the quality of the cotton mixed with a touch of lycra. I learned more about dance belts as I matured into dance retail. For instance, most guys will buy a dance belt too large–for whatever psychological reason–and end up ‘falling out’ of the belt. Usually after purchasing the first one, most guys become more comfortable with the idea of needing one and immediately become experts. This is fine, because on the whole, men are much easier customers than women. They know what they need, they usually know their size, and they put up very little fuss. Part of this is the simple lack of choices men have in the dance retail world.
Now, most of you know that I have been currently struggling at the local dance store. It’s gotten so bad, that sometimes I fall into a deep depression when I realize I have to go back to work after a nice long weekend. I’ve had deep suspicions that no one knows what they’re doing, and I’ve had a very hard time keeping quiet about it. I think my past experience as a manager has really been hard to squash–I just have so many good ideas! I know how to make a dance store successful! I know my product, and I’m very good at selling it! People come to me specifically with questions about character shoes, the difference in leotard cut per brand, and for detailed pointe shoe fittings. I love sending off a little kid with a brand new leotard, ballet slippers, and tights. I enjoy helping older women find a way to squash their bunions into a 1.5′ inch character shoes–wait did I just say that?
This is why I have been so torn over quitting…I have the vain hope that somehow it will get better. Maybe I figure someday I’ll be in charge and I can really turn this defunct store around. I love dance retail, I hate to see it go. If I knew how or had the money or was delusional I would start my own goddam dance store.
Anyway, why the sudden rant, you ask? Because yesterday I learned that the store had been selling cheerleader briefs as dance belts….(see example of so-called ’spirit briefs’ below):

Now, I know the picture is sort of fuzzy and I know I just went into a brief explanation about what the product is but HOW CAN ONE POSSIBLY CONSIDER THIS A DANCE BELT? I can’t describe how flabbergasted I was when I started checking in these cheerleader briefs as dance belts in the computer. Are you KIDDING me? In fact, I think I was vaguely insulted. When I brought it up with the current buyer she blamed it on the past buyer: “This is what she used to bring in for, like, years! I don’t know…” Here’s the thing: It is apparent that none of these women have really taken a look at a dance belt…and chances are, the male customers go home, see that it’s wrong, and are embarrassed to return to the store.
I have to quit. I can’t be the lone pioneer on a quest to liberate the store from its embarrassing dance belt mistake. I can’t continue to fight an uphill battle…but I can’t seem to find a replacement job. I’ve been putting plenty of ‘irons in the fire’ and either it’s just taking a long time or I can’t seem to get anyone interested. People don’t call back in this town–even after two interviews, or a follow up visit, or whatever…It’s everything I can do to choke down my bitterness. The dance belt scandal only heightens it–but at least I had a good laugh.

My Dad always has to take a vegetable vendor “perspective shot” when we visit the Market. This is one of his better shots.

My Mom and I, mid-conversation.

Hobbes finally giving it up to my Dad.

I had my eyes dilated a few days ago and I still feel effed up. Of course it was a blindingly sunny day–a rarity really–and I road the bus home wearing my glasses and a goofy sun visor insert. I don’t think I’ve ever endured dilation before. The following day I had a roaring headache and the glasses–which were once a fun, cute novelty–went back on. I decided to spring for the anti-reflective coating and had a set of new frames ordered. Call me an inexperienced eyeglass wearer, but the reflection drives me crazy.
I’m starting a new theatersports class which studies the Harold. In the improv world the Harold is considered a “long form” game of improv. The fancy term on the website compares the “Harold to a jazz like form incorporating scenes, games, and monologues to create an improvised collage inspired by a single word.” This word essentially structures the Harold; a word like “water” could suggest fluid movement, long scenes, and graceful characters. After the first class I had fantastic dreams, each one an individual scene onstage, floating in and out. Of course every class has its own “loose cannons,” improvers who dive in, floundering, drowning onstage, splashing about in embarrassingly long narratives. A couple of weeks ago a dear young improviser bitch slapped someone on-stage in a blinding, emotional, performance-driven frenzy. Backstage, I cringed over such blatant improvised violence.
Recently I was given one of the best personal observations an instructor has ever given me (including college): “Mara is an embodied improviser. She is more in touch with her body than anyone else in the room. ” He further embellished on this idea by claiming that most actors are completely inside their heads the entire time they’re on-stage, trying to be witty, trying to be present and accurate…very rarely can an improviser abandon their brain and allow their body to lead and react to offers given by other actors. Publicly, I chalked it up to the dance training, but secretly I really cherish this new bit of information.

Several interesting reads:
The Chelsea Whistle by Michelle Tea, former traveling poet with the spoken word touring group, Sister Spit. God, I love this author. Fiercely written down to the finest detail she continues to fling the written word around like it’s her bitch. I have her other two books, Valencia and The Passionate Mistakes and Intricate Corruptions of One Girl in America, and I have read them over and over again. Even though I’m not nearly the bad ass that Michelle is, I love vicariously living her life in San Francisco as a once punk rock lesbian, former prostitute, current writer. The Chelsea Whistle is about her childhood, growing up poor and destitute, in a suburb outside of Boston. Even Josh enjoys Michelle Tea, despite being completely opposite her target demographic. An intoxicating read.
Everything About Me Is Fake…and I’m Perfect! the continuing memoir by Janice Dickinson is such a guilty read. If Janice was truly the first supermodel, why had I not heard of her until her debut as a judge for American’s Next Top Model? (She has been compared to as the Simon Cowell of the ATM world). No mind, she apparently rocked the 70’s as a raging, coke snorting, anorexic bitch who dated fine superstars such as Mick Jagger and Sly Stallone (shudder). This is actually Janice’s second book, the first one being the fairly engaging No Lifeguard on Duty: The Accidental Life of the World’s First Supermodel. The second book came across as a little forced, she must have responded to the request for more dirt and expounded a bit more on her various affairs with famous men. She also reveals her top most embarrassing modeling moments, her beauty tips, and despite the build up, barely skirts the issue of her many plastic surgeries. I am really impressed by how truly full of herself she is…I can’t decide if this is unabashed confidence or just plain annoying. Unlike her first book, (which I devoured in practically one sitting when I wasn’t prying it out of Josh’s fingertips), I couldn’t really get into this one. So she had a pedophile for a father, that’s pretty sucky, but is her salvation really yoga?
How The Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez is a book my Mom gave to me when I was a sophomore in college. Four sisters are uprooted from their native home in South America when their doctor father becomes a target by local militia. They relocate to NY during the raging 1960’s. Once wealthy and doted on in their native country, the family has to adjust to their new found poverty in the states. The book travels backwards in time, exploring each of the sisters’ lives as they undergo a severe cultural shock. One of my favorite stories is when the oldest goes off to college and runs into a smarmy guy from the nearby boy’s dormitory. He tries to coerce her into following the sexually exploitative 60’s, but she is lost, proud and still vaguely Catholic, trying to use her English as best as she can to ward him off. The writing is really good, the kind where you go back after you’ve finished the book and reread your favorite pages.
Moving away from book for a moment, I have to give huge props to the movie, Whalerider. Oh My God. This movie is one of the best I’ve ever seen. It’s been a long time since a movie really and truly moved me. Despite winning tons of awards I don’t think this movie received nearly the attention it deserved here in the states. Here’s the basic low down: In a small New Zealand coastal village, Maori claim descent from Paikea, the Whale Rider. In every generation for more than 1000 years, a male heir born to the Chief succeeds to the title. The Chief’s eldest son, Porourangi, fathers twins - a boy and a girl. But the boy and his mother die in childbirth. The surviving girl is named Pai. Grief-stricken, her father leaves her to be raised by her grandparents. Koro, her grandfather who is the Chief, refuses to acknowledge Pai as the inheritor of the tradition and claims she is of no use to him.
Koro is blinded by prejudice and even his wife, Flowers, cannot convince him that Pai is the natural heir. The old Chief is convinced that the tribe’s misfortunes began at Pai’s birth and calls for his people to bring their 12-year-old boys to him for training. He is certain that through a grueling process of teaching the ancient chants, tribal lore and warrior techniques, the future leader of their tribe will be revealed to him. Pai secretly follows the teachings despite the belief that “girls can’t fight.”
Meanwhile, deep within the ocean, a massive herd of whales is responding, drawn towards Pai and their twin destinies. When the whales become stranded on the beach, Koro is sure this signals an apocalyptic end to his tribe.
I have never seen such an amazing reenactment of beached whales, nor have I ever seen accurate footage of what it might look like if a kid hopped on a whale and started riding it. I initially thought this movie would be a cheesy girl flick, but I assure you it is not. The movie is shot on location, the extras are local Maori people, and the music is fantastically composed by Lisa Gerard. The scene where Pai stands in front of her school during a class concert and recites her tribal history for her grandfather–who is not in attendance–was the most heartbreaking scene I’ve watched since I can remember. Do all of yourselves a huge favor and see this fantastic movie.

We were inspired to travel to one of the islands on Saturday. We have fond memories of Whidbey Island. There was a time many years ago when we visited the island as young, newly committed bf/gf. We broke into private beaches, ate ice cream cones on the shore, and stumbled across an impromptu island fireworks display.
This time around, I had the brilliant idea to visit the Whidbey Winery. Ever since ripping it up several years ago at the Red Hook Brewery, I’ve been really interested in visiting the local Washington wineries (beer really isn’t my thing). We paid our fair, took the short ferry ride across the water, and BOOM it began to rain buckets. Whidbey Island was a soggy mess. We found the winery, despite our intentions of eating before sampling, we ended up drinking on empty stomachs.
Now that the movie Sideways has become part of pop culture, you can’t imagine how stupid people get when sampling wine. Just the mere act of swirling your wine in the glass for oxidation invokes someone to launch into a diatribe about the movie. I can only imagine how painful it is for the lady behind the counter who’s pouring the wine and trying to describe the ’smoky undertones.’ Granted, we had a nice time–we cleaned out an entire bowl of soda crackers–despite being hungry the whole time. The hipster pouring our samples came off too snooty for Josh. She bemoaned how big her wine budget has become–her tastes are so expensive! So refined! “There are only a handful of restaurants we can go to now…” An inexperienced couple next to us stole our laminated wine list, dumped most of their samples in the spittoon-like bucket, and didn’t end up buying anything. If Sideways has personally taught me anything it’s to take a good hearty sniff of each sample…and to drink up. We bought the infamous rhubarb wine, a really fantastic pink wine, and a red.
This is a picture of me in the tasting room. If you look next to the flower vase you’ll see a big bunch of fur…that’s Pinot, the vineyard cat.

After a belly full of wine, we sat in this nice little bar waiting for a table by the window:

Note the dark, rainy, sky…we still enjoyed the window table. Outside, cranes picked through the water with their long legs, seagulls competed for scraps, and the blue strip on the horizon grew smaller and smaller. I told Josh this picture is going on the back cover of his future book.

I’m posting this largely to show off my new red tipped, Malcolm X inspired, glasses. Despite empathizing with an impending graduation, I was pissed because I really wanted some gelato. Thumbs down on closing early!

Last night Josh and I went to the Bus Stop on Pike Street and watched Sam’s boyfriend, Ian, sing and play guitar.

Sam underneath some really cool art.

Me, Sam, and Rob–check out that cool tiger shirt, roooar!