Sonorans? More like "Snore-ans". Or something.

(Note: this blog was originally hand-scrawled onto a notepad at approximately 6:45 AM, Puerto Vallarta time, on Sunday April 6, 2008. Only minor edits dealing with "tonight"/"Saturday night" and some spelling errors have been corrected.)

I’ve never been much for dancing. Meaning I never danced except under the most dire of circumstances (my wedding, my brother’s wedding, Arbor Day 2003).

As part and parcel of the, uh, new life I’ve built/fallen into in the past 2+ years, I’ve been taking to dancing. Not, though, in what might be considered a conventional sense.

First of all: I’m not good at dancing. I’m good at standardized tests, I’m a reasonably good singer, and I can stomach five star spicy foods without difficulty. But I’m not a good dancer. I don’t have particularly good rhythm, and I don’t know (m)any moves (salsa classes never really stuck, as it turns out). I’m just not good.

But I don’t care too much. I enjoy flailing around.

I’ve heard that dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal emotion. Maybe it’s the dearth of any sexual energy on my part when I dance that is the reason I’m so lousy... I don’t know. It’s this absence, though (of emotion, not of skill), that creates the second bit of fun I get from dancing: I enjoy seeing guys get shot down.

Don’t get me wrong: guys can try to get laid. More power to them. Whether it’s on the dance floor or at a bar or in a grocery store, guys are going to work angles. Seeing the same guys doing the same thing over and over on the dance floor (e.g., standing in place, serring a new girl, bumping into her, grinding on said new girl) gets old, though... at least for me until I embraced dudes getting shot down.

The thing is, while I don’t pursue women on the dance floor, it doesn’t mean that I’m not INTERESTED in women on the dance floor. I had an odd end to Saturday night that both makes me laugh and scratch my noggin.

Let me preface this by saying that I can only approximate times. Mexico is an unstable plane and time flows unevenly there. And I’d had rum and tequila. And no watch. (But still the unstable plane thing is mainly the reason. Along with not having a watch.)

Anyway, I got to the clib around 11:00, paid the cover of $100 pesos (about $10 US). Went to the dance floor which was full and ringed with people. Some of the people were women and some were hot. (Actually, I wonder if I saw more beautiful women in one place than I’d ever seen in one spot in my life. Maybe.) Travelmate 2000 joined me for a few hours and we made fun of bro’s getting shot down. Mostly, though, we just danced in our own little slices of the dance floor.

He left abd at about 3:30 the demographics were shifting. People from the floor were leaving and some of the drinkers/big spenders were getting closer to the floor. One group of people included about eight very, very pretty girls and an equal number of swarthy (and often quite short) dudes. Some of the girls were dancing on the edge of the (still busy) floor, next to their tables and were kinda bumping into me.

Being the nice guy that I am, I’d turn and smile and offer a "lo siento". At one point, a girl stepped a yard onto the floor and put her heel squarely into the middle of my left foot/shoe. She stumbled and I grabbed her waist gently to make sure she didn’t fall. That she was wearing what she was (and trust me, she was not dressed nor shod with balance in mind) made my chivalrous effort easier to execute... and it raised the ire of some of the dudes in the group. They didn’t go aggro, but they kinda pulled the girls back and I knew they weren’t pleased.

One chick looked at me and I smiled and said "Hola", which she returned. I kept dancing, and I could see her still looking at me, so I looked back and she said "Hola" again, to which I scrunched up my face in a "are you kidding me"-kind of look.

And then she did the unthinkable. She took a step towards me and started talking.

On the trip I just concluded, I spent probably 20 or 25 hours of dancing. I think I talked to four girls in that time, including this last one. In other words? This was uncommon.

She spoke in English. I think. Alcohol and being surrounded by Mexicans blended the languages together a bit.

She gave me a high five and claimed that we were amigos. I replied, "Amigos siempre! Claro que si!" That last big seems like it’s a phrase only Spanish students use, but fuck it.

Back to dancing I went, but the chick was approached by what was clearly that alpha male of the group (blue eyes, less indian blood, almost my height) and said something, and then like four of the group started chanting something. Not for long, and not clearly, but I think it was "Gay boy! Gay boy!" in heavy Mexican accents.

Me being mistaken for a homosexual is nothing new or particularly uncommon. I was wearing a white shirt and tight black pants. I was clean-shaven and looking kinda pretty (heh). I’d danced with myself for hours avoiding contact from drunk and ugly people and not once initiating contact.

I guess how I can see how they’d think that.

The funny thing is that the women were attractive but not anything more appealing than some of the girls I’ve dated at home... I just to remember that a tight dress on a dance floor doesn’t need to change how I act. Dancing has come to form an interesting piece of my emotional masochism.

I didn’t have the time or energy to explain this to my new BFF from Sonora. Maybe next time.

Key numbers

Here are some key numbers from our stay thus far in Mexico:

300. The aproximate bitrate of the internet connection in the hotel.

165. Number of pesos I paid for a Redbull and vodka. At about 10 pesos to the dollar, that is... fucking ridiculous.

100. Approximate number of Mexican karaoke bar visitors who sat, stunned, as I sang "Don’t Stop Believing" last night.

50. Percentage of batched images that have failed during upload as I kill time, waiting for them to finish uploading.

22. The number of times that "That’s what she said" has been offered as a joke by the four of us combined. Metareferences are not included.

13.5. Average age of girls at Senor Frogs when we went there last night. Not really, but... man. Young. Almost too young. (That’s a joke, of course. There’s no "too young" in Mexico. I looked it up.)

6. Number of gringos present last night when I sang "Don’t Stop Believing".

5. Number of songs we’ve sung, combined, at aforementioned karaoke bar.

3. Degree of sunburn on my right forearm. Damn. Missed a spot.

3. The number of nights we have remaining.

0. Number of fights and man hours spent in jail on this trip. So far.

Bummer

I almost never talk politics in real life, and I even more rarely do on MySpace. But...

Following threats to our staff of a very serious nature, and some ill informed reports from certain corners of the British media that could directly lead to the harm of some of our staff, Liveleak.com has been left with no other choice but to remove Fitna from our servers.
This is a sad day for freedom of speech on the net but we have to place the safety and well being of our staff above all else. We would like to thank the thousands of people, from all backgrounds and religions, who gave us their support. They realised LiveLeak.com is a vehicle for many opinions and not just for the support of one.
Perhaps there is still hope that this situation may produce a discussion that could benefit and educate all of us as to how we can accept one anothers culture.
We stood for what we believe in, the ability to be heard, but in the end the price was too high.

That’s from LiveLeak.com. You can read more about "Fitna" and the controversial Dutch short film here.

I’m not sure what I think of the content of the film, and I haven’t seen it... but I am a bit bummed that even in today’s age of communication that legal speech can be shut down almost entirely through death threats.

Step one: Ikea

First, a bit of a prelude. I run hot and cold when it comes to my blog... anyone who has been reading it for a while knows I go through spots where I take a week or two before I have the energy and incentive to write about anything. Part of the reason I blog, ironically enough, is to get more discipline as a writer. Of course, that makes sense when I feel like writing, but the rest of the time I ignore that reason and do whatever else I have going on (generally, it involves talking to someone about how I’m JUST about to start cleaning my apartment). So, in the interests of discipline (aka fighting boredom (well, fighting MY boredom... maybe causing it for anyone who reads this))... here we go.

Saturday I’d planned on trying out for an adult baseball league, but the tryouts were at 9:00. AM. Oops. Nope. After kicking around LQA and my apartment with a friend much of the day, I decided to ACTUALLY take a step towards organizing my apartment. The plan for my "immaculate" apartment (no sarcasm from the commentator that ascribed that adjective, I’m sure) was/is rather simple:

1. Get a new bookshelf or two
2. Organize the 50 or so books that are currently scattered in the northeast corner of my living room and place them in aforementioned new bookshelf
3. Clean newly (partially) uncluttered living room
4. Move existing bookshelf to bedroom
5. Organize the 25 or so books that are currently scattered throughout my bedroom as well as the 250 pounds or so of clothes hanging from every corner and projecting surface in said bedroom
6. Clean newly (entirely) uncluttered bedroom
7. Go through the dozen large boxes in my living room, throwing stuff away, sorting through the books, and figuring out what (if anything) should go into storage

See how easy my life is? And how exciting?

In any case, I had looked at Target for book shelves on Friday, but I resolved to go to Ikea over the weekend.

Saturday evening was the time. I bid adieu to my cats, hopped in the car, drove about 1.75 miles per hour down Mercer on the way to the freeway and eventually made it to Ikea.

This was only my third visit. I’d been once in my former life and then once a little over two years ago right after I got my own place.

In the mean time, I’ve read articles about managing retail space, and I’ve worked on environments where the user experience is really a guided one... so maybe I just saw the store differently this time around, but. Man. It was weird.

For those of you who have been there: I’m sorry if I bore you with my detailing of it. For those of you who haven’t been there: I’m sorry if I bore you with everything else.

I wanted a bookshelf, right? Well, there’s no "bookshelf" section. There is something called the "Marketplace". There are self-service warehouse shelves. There are arrows on the ground to make sure you’re going the correct direction through the maze. There are lots of people who don’t speak English who walk about a third of the speed that I’d like to while taking up the entire width of the walkway.

Not to say that this is necessarily bad. Well, except the signage.

There are signs telling you NOT to get a cart because there will be an opportunity to get one before entering the Marketplace. But I saw no carts (and am still not sure what the hell the Marketplace is). There are signs promising 50 cent hot dogs (unrelated to the rapper, unfortunately) that are sold next to some other part of the store that I either never saw or was unaware that I’d entered and exited.

I wanted a couple of hot dogs. But not enough to double back with all the stuff that I’d accumulated, looking for the part of the store that I didn’t even know the name of.

(Yes, I could have asked for help. Theoretically.)

I did manage to accumulate lots of stuff. A candle. Some cat scratching box things. 16 hangers. And a plastic bag. They sell plastic bags for a nickel, and when the one I bought split right down the middle? I was too cheap to buy another one. Which is ridiculous, given I spent almost $300 at the store, and having the hangers and other stuff I bought spilling out of the bag was almost as annoying as the hot dog sign taunting me with the promise of cheap weiners.

Fortunately, in spite of the oddities of Ikea I was able to procure a pair of bookshelves and I was able to assemble them with little difficulty (their stuff IS easy to put together (I’ve only bled severely once while assembling any Ikea furniture)).

Of course, after completing step one I decided to take a break the rest of the weekend. Exciting step two (which will take about 20 minutes, when I just freaking DO it) will have to wait.

Dramedy

Thanks to everyone who messaged or talked to me about my last blog. It was a bit over the top. Even now, I think most of what I said is right, but I’m not in the middle of a late night alcohol- and sleep-deprived- induced fog like I was then.

I’m fine. Both in the "damn, girl you so fine" sense and in the more abstract sense.

I will try to be a happier blog monkey in the future.

1:22 AM

On April 28, 2006, I left my Capitol Hill apartment. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew that I had to stop playing WoW and I had to meet new people. I had few friends in Seattle. I was alone. I needed to change things, even if it was uncomfortable, even if I had no idea what I was doing, and even if I had no idea what I wanted to change to.

After that April night, I made a similar walk a couple dozen times over a three or four month period... I would walk down Pine from Capitol Hill, through Belltown and end up in Lower Queen Anne.

After a while I started driving. After a while I knew people. I eventually moved to LQA and I have what I think are the beginning of friendships.

I’m not currently sober. I’ve been drinking for much of the last seven hours. Blogging while unsober is stupid, and I know that even in my alcohol-addled brain. But fuck it.

Tonight I made the Capitol Hill to LQA trek. I had a nice evening and spent quality time with friends. I decided to walk back, and in the hour that it took me I started to think.

I started to think about trust. I am a pretty naive person, and I’m willing to share the idiosyncracies of my life with people that I consider my friends... today (yesterday) my faith in people was seriously shaken. I learned that at least one person who I considered my friend was telling others their opinions of my feelings on other people.

Listen, I talk shit about people sometimes. I try not to, but I also try not to have many secrets, and sometimes my secrets being unhidden expose other people. The insight that I learned today/yesterday, though, is that some people are incapable of understanding what is truly personal and private. As a result I am resolved to be much more reserved with at least my current batch of friends.

I started to think about love. At my wedding, my brother/best man gave a speech where he stated that many in the family had doubts as to my capacity to love. I know he might have been kidding, but even as I sat at the table of honor next to my future ex-bride, I knew he might have been right. I’m not sure I’m capable of loving anyone outside of my family. I hope I can. I’m just not sure.

I started to think about significance. One of the most depressing moments of my life was when I told a female friend (for whom I had more-than-friendly feelings) that nothing we did mattered. She became a bit upset, and she stated that the things I’d done for her mattered, and that the friendship she felt for me mattered. I was sad that I didn’t really buy it at the time. Some months later she decided to date someone else and I couldn’t let go of how I felt about her. We dont’ talk now. And, as much as it pains me to admit, it probable doesn’t matter.

I started thinking about the future. Given that trust, friendship and significance are all less real than I had thought they were two years ago... does it matter?

It took me about an hour to walk home. I thought of all these things and more. I only skimmed the depths of my thoughts in this blog. I know I’m drunk. Is it less reflective of my feelings? I’m not sure any of it matters anyway. I still have to show up for work. I still have to go to class. I still have to live, cross my fingers, and hope for the best.

A boxful of dramedy (or: a pencil in every orifice)

I don't know if this sort of treatment was ever actually applied to an individual, but for some reason I have it stuck in my head as part of my basic understanding of the world: if you want to cure someone of his predilection for cigars, lock him in a closet with a box full and don't let him out until he smokes them all.

(1: I know this is opening the door for gay jokes... but I can't let that stop me. 2: When I was in first grade I got into trouble for sticking pencils up my nostrils as a joke during class, and I was told, "You can stay in the next recess and stick pencils up your nose..." Of course, I actually DID stick pencils up my nose for most of the appointed time, and I didn't consider it much of a punishment.)

I'm not a huge enemy of drama. Maybe it's because I lived what was essentially a placid life for so much of my adult existence. Maybe it's because I've lucked out with good health for my family... that my parents aren't divorced... that I've only had two cats raped by homeless people... maybe I just really haven't experienced drama. So when people say they "hate drama" or "need to be drama-free" I sometimes can't relate. In fact, I'd say I kinda like drama sometimes.

Drama can be the special sauce. It can be the nice cigar after dinner.

So back to the cigar treatment (insert: Bill Clinton joke (insert: insert joke))... last night MIGHT have been the "locked in an enclosed space with a box of cigars" moment for me and drama.

I won't get into specifics, but I had about four touchdowns pulsing in my brain and I was trying to keep a handle on a situation that was melting down in the bar all around me. I had to pretend like I dropped a glass that a friend threw. I had my pinky bit to the point where blood was almost drawn. I gave a friend directions to another bar and told her to call if she had problems and then I was so distracted by other things that I didn't answer EITHER time she called.

Oops.

It was almost too much. Almost. I might have just looked at it as an opportunity of advanced of pencil-nostriling, though... I need to mull it some more.