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October 26, 2004
Get your war on.
I know this site won't change anyone's mind, but the combination of trenchant political analysis, cartoons and rank expletives really rang my bell.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 04:53 PM | Comments (0)
Twitch.
When I'm extraordinarily stressed out, I get a slight tic in my left eye. It's only apparent if you're right up in my face during an anxious moment. Hopefully.
It's a strange tell, and rather prosaic. I'd much rather be the type who twists a signet ring or tugs his earlobe, but we can no sooner choose our tics than our relatives.
It comes back stronger when I think about it -- like right now, as I'm proofing this blog entry. It's a real fucking irritant.
It's not at the level of Tourette's, and it seems to have abated somewhat since I woke up this morning. An eyepatch is out of the question, since that would just raise more questions than the twitch.
After taking it under advisement, I've decided that coffee and cigarettes are in order.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:19 AM | Comments (0)
October 20, 2004
Watching the swing kids.
An out-of-town friend is visiting this week, so I find myself going, seeing and doing far more than usual. No whining from me; hosts are not civilians, and I knew the risks going in. Full disclosure: this was written on three hours' sleep.
Last night, we went to a performance space to watch a friend swing dance. The sextet was smoother than buttermilk in their matching high-waisted suits and hand-painted silk ties.
Twenty and thirty-somethings swirled about with a smattering of middle-aged and oldsters (all male) who were clearly in their element. Very few wallflowers, save the small group I arrived with.
There was instruction before the dancing began, but I didn't see many beginners on the floor. The dancers fell into two main classes: those who made it look easy, and others who made it look hard.
The former would maintain eye contact as they spun, flung and glided on a cushion of air just above the floor. They smiled with the joy of movement and a confidence that their hips, feet, hands and assorted parts would move just as expected, just as they'd practiced.
The other group, the Onetwothrees, had faces rigid in concentration, a few actually frowning as they went through their paces. I saw more than few Onetwothrees start to jitterbug freely, shutting off the metronome in their heads -- just before they caught themselves and came back down to earth with a missed step. Don't think -- dance, I whispered mentally.
As we sat and chatted while watching the terpsichorean display, I settled on a few favorites like the black guy in his twenties with Chuck Berry's hair, or the gent in his 60s who never once sat down -- or danced with a woman older than 25.
A very short man in his fifties danced with a series of young women. He couldn't have been more than 5'2, but damn the cliches -- he was a giant on the dance floor. Watching him cut a rug with one leggy young thing after another wasn't incongruous, it was affirming.
I was surprised to observe that partner dancing is so much more intimate than fruging, voguing or doing the Running Man. If you're not paying rapt attention to your partner -- if you're not fully engaged -- it shows.
As the band blared their final song and the singer mopped his brow, I leaned into my SO and asked if she'd ever considered taking a swing or ballroom dance class.
"I've thought about it," she said, her green eyes peering at me over her glasses.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:06 PM | Comments (0)
October 11, 2004
Making room, deux.
They are not getting along. So far.
My 2.5-year-old has staked out the living room as her domain, leaving my SO's 8-year-old to skulk and hiss while puffing up her tail to outsized proportions.
By midnight, The Woman and I were in separate rooms, each of us crouching uncomfortably and whispering gentle words as we fed milk and diazepam to Krystal and Alexis.
We were watching TiVo on the sofa later when her cat jumped on my lap so she could mix it up with the other one, perched on an armrest. The stereo effect of cats hissing in both ears blocked out the TV and made me flinch.
"It occurs to me that you're the only creature in the house who's not on Valium," she said sweetly.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:20 AM | Comments (0)
October 09, 2004
"Xanax Saves Bush's Election Hopes"
Can we agree that the president seemed defensive and angry during the first third of the debate?
His voice went up at the end of each sentence -- that tone people use when they think you're stupid because you don't agree with them.
Bush got a little less aggro after 20 minutes or so, but he still had that pained look whenever he was asked a tough question.
Spin, spin, spin. Bush's base thinks he did a great job because they share his frustration that more than half of their fellow citizens think they're possibly a bunch of fucking lunatics who are hell-bent on fomenting Armageddon so the rest of us fornicators may be Left Behind.
Anyone who supports Kerry -- or might be considering him -- saw him as relaxed, confident, aggressive, informed. Presidential?
Then again, as I said to my SO, you could put this guy up against Bush and still come out ahead on that one.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 03:07 PM | Comments (0)
October 08, 2004
Making room.
She and her familiar
are moving in this weekend.
Me and mine
are looking forward.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:17 PM | Comments (0)
October 07, 2004
American Might.
Normally, Howard Fineman is a lapdog, but I spotted this gem on Daily Kos:
As things now stand, Bush is left with only one argument and justification for having launched a war that has cost 1,000 lives, $150 billion and whatever goodwill America had won in the aftermath of 9/11.
His last-resort reason: Saddam Hussein might have developed weapons that he might have given to terrorists that might attack the United States.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 05:11 PM | Comments (0)
October 02, 2004
Howdy, neighbor.
The garage door rolled up to reveal two men in their late forties.
One wore a T-shirt, shorts and sneakers, the other -- just sneakers.
I pulled the car out, and stepped out to press the button that would lower the door. My errant landlord has given all of the other residents a clicker, but whatever.
Mutt and Naked Jeff were at the end of the block, Mutt keeping a lookout as Jeff pulled cutoff shorts and a tee out of a Safeway bag.
And then, they were on their way.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 01:44 PM | Comments (0)