After my SCU whirlwind extravaganza and a delicious crab cake benedict (V had the Carnitas benedict) at Bill's Restaurant in Santa Clara, I was off to Portland, OR. I lived in Portland after college for two years. It was a very specific time in my life. We had so much fun drinking beer and listening to bands. My hair was long, I wore satin pants without undies sometimes and strutted my stuff.
My crush that first year was Jonathan Cook, who was a Jewish hippie who treated me badly, had a nice package and had dreadlocks. I was the envy of many girls I knew, who had no idea he liked men. My first clue was when he walked into my office with sweatpants and no undies. I made out with him at my birthday party that year. That's another story.
I started out living with five interesting characters. We were together in a year long volunteer service program called JVC, which stood for Jesuit Volunteer Corps. When I was home that summer after college graduation, I got a letter describing my housemates. While this is not accurate, this is how I now remember it:
Suzie Baldwin (Suzanne) - Suzie graduated from St. Michael's College in VT and will be doing a second year in Portland as a JV. She's a spitfire, a bit of a know-it-all, and ultimately won't find it funny when you hit on her future husband at Chris' wedding in three years.
Jennifer Kiely - from Newtown, CT and a graduate of Providence College in Rhode Island. She's an 80 year old woman in a 22 year old body. She uses phrases like "dog's age" and "darkie." You'll have one huge fight where you both blow up because you aren't putting up with the other person's shit. She'll ignore you on FB when you're in your thirties and she has children.
Erica French - from Texas. She'll be the person you connect with right away. She's got big hair, she's Latina and she'll be out of your life in three weeks when she realizes that she really likes her credit cards and hates the poor.
Sharon Goebel - Sharon's from Indianapolis and went to Marian College. She'll turn the other cheek when you make her take you to Burger King for a secret snack after you've told your entire house that you're now a vegetarian. Then she'll disappear for years, only to reappear on FB with a stepdaughter and six weeks from marriage.
Chris Flanagan - graduated from St. Michael's College. Chris is the guy in the house. The Irish Catholic guy who might be the template for the guys you have a crush on and eventually end up with years later. He will forever be recognized for his famous "I will not walk on eggshells" speech. You make an effort to see him at least once every two years when you're close by on business. He's the person you're most in touch with years later.
Eric Loo - loves to sing and dance. He's gay, but will tell you he's bi when he meets you. He'll probably piss most of you off because he thinks he knows it all and he's got a superiority thing. He will go from Catholic school boy to whore in a matter of weeks. He'll give up on the volunteer thing to go work in the cutthroat world of advertising where he'll have a new set of fancy friends, but will always have you in his heart. Even as he travels to New York and eventually makes it back to LA.
Now when I drive down the streets of Portland and see how much has changed - an American Apparel on Hawthorne Blvd, the emergence of a real food scene, the Pearl District - I remember the ghosts of Portland Past. And I head into my Portland present, which is basically my brother experiencing some of the same things I did. But he's older than I was when I lived there and he's got a lawyer wife and a three month old baby.
I remark at how easy it still is to get around. Only 10 minutes from his house in Brooklyn to the Pearl District. Even at 1 pm in the afternoon. I live in LA. That's remarkable. And I hear the names of neighborhoods which have hit their gentrified height and didn't even exist when I lived there: Alberta and Mississippi. But it still feels good to be surrounded by the wind and the chill as I walk with my little baby niece in a baby bjorn and get congratulated on my new little arrival.
So in Portland Present, I am a cute straight dude with a baby attached to my front. I laugh and thank the man.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Dinner and Carolyn
Then we all got together for dinner at Mio Vecino, an Italian restaurant near the campus. The thing of note: my former professors all eat way too much bread. Bread baskets, garlic bread and bruschetta as appetizers. I felt it would be too rude to say no. Great conversations with Barbara about life and writing. Great talks with Jerry about his Japanese, although he didn't get I was joking when I said I knew there was a reason he was so nice to me when I was a student. Yellow fever! I was kidding, Jerry! I swear!
Slant Eyes adores Jerry!
So then my favorite professor, Carolyn came in. And when I say favorite, that doesn't mean that I don't love everyone else. It's just that Carolyn had the greatest influence on me. She helped birth my creativity.
Carolyn Silberman was the person who let me create dances and taught me about Justice in the Arts and art as a social service. She told me that doing art and doing service were not mutually exclusive.
So Carolyn comes in with her slender, young self, jean jacket and warm face. There are so many things about that night with Carolyn that meant so much to me. First of all, the revelation that she thought I was going to pursue dance after college. What? I was the kid who danced in Adam Zotovich's shadow. Yes, I choreographed dances and was pretty good at it, but pursue dance? Wow. I guess the thing that meant the most was that she thought that I warranted giving it a shot. Please, I love writing. And I'm glad that I pursued writing. But I always wanted to be a dancer, since I was six and my mom told me my family couldn't afford jazz dance classes. It was a 12 year old dream I took with me to college. So it meant a lot to me to have her say that. Especially since I respect her so much. She said that I had just begin to come into my own when I left college. All I can say is wow. That means a lot.
We decided to go grab a drink at Fiorello's and some of my favorite quotes included:
"You can never go wrong with Kendall Jackson."
"Okay, if you can't decide on a wine, you can never go wrong with a Martini."
"I didn't have anything to eat. So sugar isn't a good choice. Let's see the wine list."
And she's not a lush, I swear. She's just amazing and a great character. She's so inspiring and artfully articulate, that I forgot how funny she is without even knowing it. I adore her and I'm proud that I'm someone she shone her light on. It was the best night.
When Carolyn dropped me off, she asked me if I keep in touch with my English professors (I was an English major, not a theatre or dance major). And I don't. I only keep in touch with my theatre and dance professors. And the only people I made it a point to see individually were my two dance professors. Because they encouraged me to be creative and make my own original art. And years later, I'm still making original art. Thank you.
I'm about music, humor, art, and service. And that describes my college education to a T.
Slant Eyes adores Jerry!
So then my favorite professor, Carolyn came in. And when I say favorite, that doesn't mean that I don't love everyone else. It's just that Carolyn had the greatest influence on me. She helped birth my creativity.
Carolyn Silberman was the person who let me create dances and taught me about Justice in the Arts and art as a social service. She told me that doing art and doing service were not mutually exclusive.
So Carolyn comes in with her slender, young self, jean jacket and warm face. There are so many things about that night with Carolyn that meant so much to me. First of all, the revelation that she thought I was going to pursue dance after college. What? I was the kid who danced in Adam Zotovich's shadow. Yes, I choreographed dances and was pretty good at it, but pursue dance? Wow. I guess the thing that meant the most was that she thought that I warranted giving it a shot. Please, I love writing. And I'm glad that I pursued writing. But I always wanted to be a dancer, since I was six and my mom told me my family couldn't afford jazz dance classes. It was a 12 year old dream I took with me to college. So it meant a lot to me to have her say that. Especially since I respect her so much. She said that I had just begin to come into my own when I left college. All I can say is wow. That means a lot.
We decided to go grab a drink at Fiorello's and some of my favorite quotes included:
"You can never go wrong with Kendall Jackson."
"Okay, if you can't decide on a wine, you can never go wrong with a Martini."
"I didn't have anything to eat. So sugar isn't a good choice. Let's see the wine list."
And she's not a lush, I swear. She's just amazing and a great character. She's so inspiring and artfully articulate, that I forgot how funny she is without even knowing it. I adore her and I'm proud that I'm someone she shone her light on. It was the best night.
When Carolyn dropped me off, she asked me if I keep in touch with my English professors (I was an English major, not a theatre or dance major). And I don't. I only keep in touch with my theatre and dance professors. And the only people I made it a point to see individually were my two dance professors. Because they encouraged me to be creative and make my own original art. And years later, I'm still making original art. Thank you.
I'm about music, humor, art, and service. And that describes my college education to a T.
Being Human, Chapter Two
So after having a lovely sandwich with David, I had to go do this panel. I was a LITTLE buzzed when it started, so I was nervous about what was going to come out.
Thankfully, I held it together. Some things that all of us had in common were that we were all in relationships with people who were also in our line of work, we felt that our training at Santa Clara prepared us well, and we were all happy to go back to SCU to share our experiences.
The students had good questions. Some of the guys were smoking hot. I was hoping to be more of a "mentor" to some of the jockier looking ones. Hee, hee...
But it was great. Really gratifying and really got me back in the mindset of maybe doing some teaching. It was nice to know that my experiences could be helpful. And seriously, talking to my professors really reminded me of the type of student I was: hopeful, enthusiastic and a total character.
It was also nice to know that they still thought of me all these years later. I was just a dude that really wanted to dance and write and SCU allowed me that freedom to make mistakes, which is the point that all of us panelists made to the students. Go and experiment and do and try. That's probably the best thing that my education gave me. It was a small liberal arts Catholic university. No Carnegie Mellon or Northwestern or UCLA or NYU would let you do that. Yes, maybe the training might have been more advanced, but how much do you really retain of that. And it was nice to have a broad education to help you figure out what you really want to do.
It made me the artist I am today. So thank you Barbara, Fred, Jerry, David, Carolyn, Fran, Erik, Peter and Barbara. I owe you my life.
Thankfully, I held it together. Some things that all of us had in common were that we were all in relationships with people who were also in our line of work, we felt that our training at Santa Clara prepared us well, and we were all happy to go back to SCU to share our experiences.
The students had good questions. Some of the guys were smoking hot. I was hoping to be more of a "mentor" to some of the jockier looking ones. Hee, hee...
But it was great. Really gratifying and really got me back in the mindset of maybe doing some teaching. It was nice to know that my experiences could be helpful. And seriously, talking to my professors really reminded me of the type of student I was: hopeful, enthusiastic and a total character.
It was also nice to know that they still thought of me all these years later. I was just a dude that really wanted to dance and write and SCU allowed me that freedom to make mistakes, which is the point that all of us panelists made to the students. Go and experiment and do and try. That's probably the best thing that my education gave me. It was a small liberal arts Catholic university. No Carnegie Mellon or Northwestern or UCLA or NYU would let you do that. Yes, maybe the training might have been more advanced, but how much do you really retain of that. And it was nice to have a broad education to help you figure out what you really want to do.
It made me the artist I am today. So thank you Barbara, Fred, Jerry, David, Carolyn, Fran, Erik, Peter and Barbara. I owe you my life.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Being Human, Chapter One
I just recently went back to my alma mater, Santa Clara University, to speak to their students in a panel conversation called "Business of the Business." The talk is designed to help students understand what their lives could possibly be like after they graduate. There were alums going all the way back to 1981 and in various fields of study: dance, acting, costumes, tech and writing (that's me).
The panel conversation was the least interesting part of my trip, although it was great to talk to students and hear about their experiences as undergrads and compare that to my own a bit. But the real entertaining and enlightening part of my trip was seeing my professors again. These people shaped my life and set me on a course that I'm still on. I would have been a writer without them, but I'm a much better, fully realized artist because of them.
I have the utmost respect and admiration for them, but I've got to say that getting to know them as human beings and not just these icons of my personal educational experience was enlightening. I realize that they're people just like me, who are trying to fulfill themselves creatively and sustain that over a period of 20, 30, 40 even 50 years. It's pretty remarkable.
I had dinner with a bunch of the faculty from the theatre department (where I was actually NOT a theatre major, but a theatre and dance double minor), but I had made it a point to reach out individually to my two dance professors: David and Carolyn. I didn't even make the connection, until Carolyn dropped me off at my hotel on Friday night, that it was important to me to connect with them. I love my theatre professors, but David and Carolyn really nurtured me in the act of creating original work, which you could only do at the time in the dance department. As a course of study that is. You could write a play whenever you wanted, but most of the theatre students were concerned with performing already created texts--dead authors and the like.
David and I sat down and had a beer together. Very manly for two guys who spent hours and hours in tights and unitards. I heard about his family and the struggle to make more time for them. I listened to him tell me about how his body had changed over time. He went back to school in the time since I graduated. He now has tenure. He's still creating dances and performing his own work as well. Our conversation had an ease and a lightness that it had always had. I always teased David because we had that sort of familarity - taking things seriously, but not so seriously that you can't laugh at yourself and the absurdity of the act of creation. In that absurdity, I believe we also always found the grace in it as well. I was once described by a friend as "irreverently reverent" and I think that applies here. It was so great to see him again and share stories about what we're creating. I didn't feel like his student anymore, but more like a peer. That was a revelation.
The panel conversation was the least interesting part of my trip, although it was great to talk to students and hear about their experiences as undergrads and compare that to my own a bit. But the real entertaining and enlightening part of my trip was seeing my professors again. These people shaped my life and set me on a course that I'm still on. I would have been a writer without them, but I'm a much better, fully realized artist because of them.
I have the utmost respect and admiration for them, but I've got to say that getting to know them as human beings and not just these icons of my personal educational experience was enlightening. I realize that they're people just like me, who are trying to fulfill themselves creatively and sustain that over a period of 20, 30, 40 even 50 years. It's pretty remarkable.
I had dinner with a bunch of the faculty from the theatre department (where I was actually NOT a theatre major, but a theatre and dance double minor), but I had made it a point to reach out individually to my two dance professors: David and Carolyn. I didn't even make the connection, until Carolyn dropped me off at my hotel on Friday night, that it was important to me to connect with them. I love my theatre professors, but David and Carolyn really nurtured me in the act of creating original work, which you could only do at the time in the dance department. As a course of study that is. You could write a play whenever you wanted, but most of the theatre students were concerned with performing already created texts--dead authors and the like.
David and I sat down and had a beer together. Very manly for two guys who spent hours and hours in tights and unitards. I heard about his family and the struggle to make more time for them. I listened to him tell me about how his body had changed over time. He went back to school in the time since I graduated. He now has tenure. He's still creating dances and performing his own work as well. Our conversation had an ease and a lightness that it had always had. I always teased David because we had that sort of familarity - taking things seriously, but not so seriously that you can't laugh at yourself and the absurdity of the act of creation. In that absurdity, I believe we also always found the grace in it as well. I was once described by a friend as "irreverently reverent" and I think that applies here. It was so great to see him again and share stories about what we're creating. I didn't feel like his student anymore, but more like a peer. That was a revelation.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saw Medea last night
Wes and I are trying to do more cultural things around town. We tired of hearing the same old mantra that there's no culture in LA. Mainly from ourselves. There is and you just might have to go to Pasadena or Echo Park or Boyle Heights or San Pedro or Laguna. Sorry, folks.
Well, we went to see MEDEA starring Annette Bening at UCLA Live last night. UCLA LIVE is kind of great because it's the LA version of BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music). Experimental, provocative, theatre, dance and music. It's got a lot of shit going on. And there were a few celebs in the audience last night, which is always nice. I was sitting between my boyfriend and Zachary Quinto, the guy from Heroes and Star Trek. I met him once before he was famous and he read a few pages from a play of mine and had something very sweet to say about my writing afterwards. Wes told me I should have said something to him, but it was over four years ago and I doubt he'd remember.
Anyway back to the show. I appreciate the fact that UCLA Live produced it themselves and that it was thinking outside the box, but I think the problem was conceptual. Wes liked Annette Bening less than I did. I didn't enjoy her performance, but I think it had less to do with her and more to do with the director's conception of the character of Medea, who's a woman who is wronged and kills her own children (in a nutshell). I had the good fortune of seeing Fiona Shaw at BAM years ago and the image of blood splattering on a lucite wall as she's killing her children will never leave my mind. It was theatrical and exciting and bold. All things that this production wasn't really. They tried to make Medea sort of nice so you felt for her when you realized that she was going to kill her kids. You don't need to do that with this character. The force of her fury should be explanation enough for doing something so wrong. And it's actually not even all that wrong, it's just highly debatable in the context of the play. But that's the fun of the play--I guess if you consider deceit, murdering kids and going on a rampage fun. And I do.
This isn't the Susan Smith story. It's Medea. And when it is done right, that bitch really kicks ass.
Well, we went to see MEDEA starring Annette Bening at UCLA Live last night. UCLA LIVE is kind of great because it's the LA version of BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music). Experimental, provocative, theatre, dance and music. It's got a lot of shit going on. And there were a few celebs in the audience last night, which is always nice. I was sitting between my boyfriend and Zachary Quinto, the guy from Heroes and Star Trek. I met him once before he was famous and he read a few pages from a play of mine and had something very sweet to say about my writing afterwards. Wes told me I should have said something to him, but it was over four years ago and I doubt he'd remember.
Anyway back to the show. I appreciate the fact that UCLA Live produced it themselves and that it was thinking outside the box, but I think the problem was conceptual. Wes liked Annette Bening less than I did. I didn't enjoy her performance, but I think it had less to do with her and more to do with the director's conception of the character of Medea, who's a woman who is wronged and kills her own children (in a nutshell). I had the good fortune of seeing Fiona Shaw at BAM years ago and the image of blood splattering on a lucite wall as she's killing her children will never leave my mind. It was theatrical and exciting and bold. All things that this production wasn't really. They tried to make Medea sort of nice so you felt for her when you realized that she was going to kill her kids. You don't need to do that with this character. The force of her fury should be explanation enough for doing something so wrong. And it's actually not even all that wrong, it's just highly debatable in the context of the play. But that's the fun of the play--I guess if you consider deceit, murdering kids and going on a rampage fun. And I do.
This isn't the Susan Smith story. It's Medea. And when it is done right, that bitch really kicks ass.
Friday, October 2, 2009
One more naked yoga story...
I'm just tryin' to catch ya all up.
When I went to my first yoga class, there was a guest teacher, "Joe", who happened to also be the cute guy with the shaved balls and the trimmed pubes in Sunday's class. And I liked the idea of doing a class midweek when I really needed the clarity.
A quick real note about the HNY: I'm really loving it. It is spiritual and it allows me to find my center. The thing about being naked is that I don't have to think about what I'm wearing and I can just be. And when I can just focus inward, listen to the sound of my yogi's voice and just be...I feel the most in touch with myself (no pun intended) that I have all week. The stories are just my entertaining ways of sharing the twisted things that occur to me.
So I get there and this time there's a little more light in the room. I rush in because I'm running late, I slap my 20 bucks on the counter and introduce myself to the teacher, who I'll call Gene. Gene is hot, y'all. He must be in his 40s somewhere and he's lean, muscular and he's got a big one. Just in case you were wondering. Most of my friends usually ask the question within the first 10 seconds of me telling them I'm doing Nude Yoga: "Are there lots of big dicks in class?"
And, by the way, I walked in and felt like I stumbled into Algebra class when I was supposed to be in Geometry because it was definitely the "show-ers" group, if you know what I mean. As in, I'm a grower not a shower (which in fact I am). So I just laid back and enjoyed and started my practice.
I don't know about you, but I usually expect my yogi to have a pretty soothing voice with a bit of a New Agey twang to it. Joe's voice was authoratative but soft. The yoga teacher on Sunday's voice was very reassuring and positive. This guy was straight up from Williamsburg and not the Williamsburg of today, but the Williamsburg of Barbra Streisand and Joy Behar. The Williamsburg of poor old school Italians and Jews. In other words, he spoke classic Brooklynese. Maybe instead of calling him Gene, I should call him Johnny Knuckles, because he walked like a bit of a street thug as well. A street thug with impeccable posture.
"All right, yous guys. We're gonna do da downwahd dawg."
Oh my God, he's Tony Danza. He's getting a new alias.
So Danza's instructing and swinging about..."Please adjust me", I keep thinking. And he does. But I don't think he's enjoying it.
Thankfully the music's soft and soothing, but it's not like Yanni muzak played with a pan flute.
"Do ya know who dis is?" Okay, the Tony Manero shoulder shrug was a bit much. "Come on, yous! Dis probably came out before you wa born! It's Fleetwood Mac, but before Lindsey and Stevie joined. The first album. 1969."
Is this yoga? Fleetwood Mac trivia? Brooklynese?
I open my eyes. I see his schlong in front of me. Yep, it's yoga.
Besides the entertainment value, it was actually a great class. We stretched a lot and it seemed to flow. This dude wasn't messing around. He did a refresher on sun salutations for the new guys...boom boom boom. This class wasn't necessarily for the advanced guy, but it was definitely for the experienced one. I was sweating and not really thinking about how overworked I felt or how stressed out I've been. I forgot all about that and just focused in on the sound of Danza's voice. Guiding me through my Warrior poses, my flows, my Yoga abs and my balance postures.
It's kind of like all of your cravings all at once. A chicken hard shell taco and Peppermint ice cream and pepperoni pizza and french fries all as one spectacular oddly satisfying meal that doesn't seem to go together. Such is the Brooklyn yogi, the Fleetwood Mac, the muscular wirey bodied students, the clarity and simplicity of yoga and nudity.
Great tastes that don't seem to go together, but are great together.
I think I found my class.
When I went to my first yoga class, there was a guest teacher, "Joe", who happened to also be the cute guy with the shaved balls and the trimmed pubes in Sunday's class. And I liked the idea of doing a class midweek when I really needed the clarity.
A quick real note about the HNY: I'm really loving it. It is spiritual and it allows me to find my center. The thing about being naked is that I don't have to think about what I'm wearing and I can just be. And when I can just focus inward, listen to the sound of my yogi's voice and just be...I feel the most in touch with myself (no pun intended) that I have all week. The stories are just my entertaining ways of sharing the twisted things that occur to me.
So I get there and this time there's a little more light in the room. I rush in because I'm running late, I slap my 20 bucks on the counter and introduce myself to the teacher, who I'll call Gene. Gene is hot, y'all. He must be in his 40s somewhere and he's lean, muscular and he's got a big one. Just in case you were wondering. Most of my friends usually ask the question within the first 10 seconds of me telling them I'm doing Nude Yoga: "Are there lots of big dicks in class?"
And, by the way, I walked in and felt like I stumbled into Algebra class when I was supposed to be in Geometry because it was definitely the "show-ers" group, if you know what I mean. As in, I'm a grower not a shower (which in fact I am). So I just laid back and enjoyed and started my practice.
I don't know about you, but I usually expect my yogi to have a pretty soothing voice with a bit of a New Agey twang to it. Joe's voice was authoratative but soft. The yoga teacher on Sunday's voice was very reassuring and positive. This guy was straight up from Williamsburg and not the Williamsburg of today, but the Williamsburg of Barbra Streisand and Joy Behar. The Williamsburg of poor old school Italians and Jews. In other words, he spoke classic Brooklynese. Maybe instead of calling him Gene, I should call him Johnny Knuckles, because he walked like a bit of a street thug as well. A street thug with impeccable posture.
"All right, yous guys. We're gonna do da downwahd dawg."
Oh my God, he's Tony Danza. He's getting a new alias.
So Danza's instructing and swinging about..."Please adjust me", I keep thinking. And he does. But I don't think he's enjoying it.
Thankfully the music's soft and soothing, but it's not like Yanni muzak played with a pan flute.
"Do ya know who dis is?" Okay, the Tony Manero shoulder shrug was a bit much. "Come on, yous! Dis probably came out before you wa born! It's Fleetwood Mac, but before Lindsey and Stevie joined. The first album. 1969."
Is this yoga? Fleetwood Mac trivia? Brooklynese?
I open my eyes. I see his schlong in front of me. Yep, it's yoga.
Besides the entertainment value, it was actually a great class. We stretched a lot and it seemed to flow. This dude wasn't messing around. He did a refresher on sun salutations for the new guys...boom boom boom. This class wasn't necessarily for the advanced guy, but it was definitely for the experienced one. I was sweating and not really thinking about how overworked I felt or how stressed out I've been. I forgot all about that and just focused in on the sound of Danza's voice. Guiding me through my Warrior poses, my flows, my Yoga abs and my balance postures.
It's kind of like all of your cravings all at once. A chicken hard shell taco and Peppermint ice cream and pepperoni pizza and french fries all as one spectacular oddly satisfying meal that doesn't seem to go together. Such is the Brooklyn yogi, the Fleetwood Mac, the muscular wirey bodied students, the clarity and simplicity of yoga and nudity.
Great tastes that don't seem to go together, but are great together.
I think I found my class.
A Different View on Sunday
So remember how I shared my Hot Nude Yoga experience (if you don't, go back to the post called "Boner Free" and catch up)?
Well, I decided that maybe it wasn't something I was just going to do once to blog about. Maybe I'd try it again and see how things look in the daylight.
And the truth is that they look old.
I guess it's a different crowd who didn't go out last night, meth out and wake up next to someone strange who they feel deeply ashamed about, but don't want to be impolite and kick them out of bed. So the whores and drunks are still asleep at 10 AM on a Sunday while the coupled ones and the fogies are wide awake, well into their second cup of coffee and maybe even back from church at this point.
Well, we all migrated to the Nude Yoga house and stripped down. And even though I'm not making much out of it, I must say that I took off my pants and started to get a boner. This was strange. It didn't happen on Wednesday, with all the hot guys with the muscled asses and the candlelight and the incense. Do I have strange tastes? Am I just looking for a hot daddy or even a non-hot, but reliable one? Well, as soon as all of these questions creeped in my head, they feel back out when I started my practice.
My yoga teacher got things going with hellos all around. We hugged, we smiled--there was way more interaction this time around.
And by interaction, I mean touching and adjusting and realigning. And while it's nice to be touched and have certain body parts grazed, it reminded me of my college dance classes when the professor would come up to me and tell me that my hips weren't square and I wasn't holding my stomach in or that my alignment was off, or he'd just look at me and say:
"There is a whole lot going wrong here."
Then he shook his head--not my college professor, but my current yoga teacher, who happens to be kind of well known for this sort of thing. It was one thing when he made us all put our hands up against the wall and press with our arms spread out. It was like getting searched by a cop. And that was hot as he stood behind me adjusting me. But then it got into familiar territory and there I was again, the kid who needed to be adjusted, toes in, arms tight, face forward. He manhandled me, but only to correct, not caress.
Who knew Hot Nude Yoga was going to bring some of my college aged insecurities back? But I just stared in front of me at the guys shaved balls and trimmed pubes. He smiled. I smiled. Then the teacher came over and fixed me again. And the guy in front smiled even bigger. Not a smile of serenity. But a smile of relief. A smile of "thank God it's you, not me. I know what I'm doing."
Well, that's not very Yoga like. But that's West Hollywood!
I just focused on my breathing, did my best and let him come by and adjust me if he needed to. What the hell? At least I'm getting my $20 worth.
Well, I decided that maybe it wasn't something I was just going to do once to blog about. Maybe I'd try it again and see how things look in the daylight.
And the truth is that they look old.
I guess it's a different crowd who didn't go out last night, meth out and wake up next to someone strange who they feel deeply ashamed about, but don't want to be impolite and kick them out of bed. So the whores and drunks are still asleep at 10 AM on a Sunday while the coupled ones and the fogies are wide awake, well into their second cup of coffee and maybe even back from church at this point.
Well, we all migrated to the Nude Yoga house and stripped down. And even though I'm not making much out of it, I must say that I took off my pants and started to get a boner. This was strange. It didn't happen on Wednesday, with all the hot guys with the muscled asses and the candlelight and the incense. Do I have strange tastes? Am I just looking for a hot daddy or even a non-hot, but reliable one? Well, as soon as all of these questions creeped in my head, they feel back out when I started my practice.
My yoga teacher got things going with hellos all around. We hugged, we smiled--there was way more interaction this time around.
And by interaction, I mean touching and adjusting and realigning. And while it's nice to be touched and have certain body parts grazed, it reminded me of my college dance classes when the professor would come up to me and tell me that my hips weren't square and I wasn't holding my stomach in or that my alignment was off, or he'd just look at me and say:
"There is a whole lot going wrong here."
Then he shook his head--not my college professor, but my current yoga teacher, who happens to be kind of well known for this sort of thing. It was one thing when he made us all put our hands up against the wall and press with our arms spread out. It was like getting searched by a cop. And that was hot as he stood behind me adjusting me. But then it got into familiar territory and there I was again, the kid who needed to be adjusted, toes in, arms tight, face forward. He manhandled me, but only to correct, not caress.
Who knew Hot Nude Yoga was going to bring some of my college aged insecurities back? But I just stared in front of me at the guys shaved balls and trimmed pubes. He smiled. I smiled. Then the teacher came over and fixed me again. And the guy in front smiled even bigger. Not a smile of serenity. But a smile of relief. A smile of "thank God it's you, not me. I know what I'm doing."
Well, that's not very Yoga like. But that's West Hollywood!
I just focused on my breathing, did my best and let him come by and adjust me if he needed to. What the hell? At least I'm getting my $20 worth.
Taco Fridays
It's Friday night and what am I doing? I am sitting at home, writing in my blog, watching Wendy Williams on the DVR (How you doin'?) and eating hard shell turkey tacos, inspired by my friend Roberto Martin who was on the Ellen show this week making vegan tacos. He's Ellen's personal chef and we grew up together in Downey, CA back when I was the school fag and he was Bobby Martin.
It seems like life has been going incredibly fast lately, so I'm taking the opportunity to catch up on my blog. I've got lots to write about.
My boyfriend Wes and I have this thing about Fridays. It's the same thing that most people have about New Years Eve. We like to stay in or do something low key because Fridays never turn out the way yout think they're going to. I work in an entertainment office, so at about 5:15 the panic begins. It's the "oh shit, I whole week went by and I forgot to do A, B, & C" feeling. It'd be nice if once I could just slide into a Friday, but it never seems to work that way. And Wes runs an agency, so it's never easy for him on a Friday either.
We tried to make plans with friends on a Friday, but it's usually people who have more open schedules, so we're trying to make it crosstown, stop over at the house to take the dogs to poop and feed them so we don't come home from a fabulous night out to the smell of dog shit everywhere and our dogs all muddied and disgusting. And the events or dinners are always at 7 because there are people in this world who actually can start their weekend early. SO by the time we meet up at home and I take the dogs out and we get dressed and out the door, we're late. And because Wes rushes in and needs me to be dressed and ready to go, I feel pressured and then we end up being pissed at each other for the first part of the evening.
So our new routine is that we stay at the office until we need to leave. I'm usually done before he is. Then I come home and take care of the dogs. If he's still not home, I end up making dinner for myself. Usually something that's a guilty pleasure. Like a hot dog. Or tostadas. Tonight, it was turkey meat tacos. But since we've been running ourselves ragged all week with drinks and business meetings, the fridge was empty. So I decided to go supermarket shopping on a Friday.
I suppose I'd feel strange if I was single. But it's kind of nice to be at the local Pavillions where I can shop leisurly in my grey sweatpants, no undies and a big hoodie. Well, it's nice until I run into someone I know and wish I had spent 30 minutes getting my casual look together instead of actually walking out the door in an actual casual look. I see my friend...let's call him Giles from a certain support group I used to attend. He's very talkative, so it's like having my own live podcast to listen to while I'm shopping. I'm happy to listen, Giles is happy to talk.
Eventually, Giles and I part ways and I'm left alone once again to put all the things I don't need in my shopping cart like Entemann's coffee cake and Peppermint ice cream. I walk out of the parking lot and see that my Ralphs circular is in my car and tomatoes on the vine are on sale for 88 cents a pound. So since I'm having so much fun and my boyfriend hasn't texted me, I'm off to Ralphs. Or as Wes and I like to call it "Hellphs." Hellphs is Hellphs because it borders Beverly Hills and the parking lot is tiny and the old ladies who go there are slow and mean. I get a bunch of produce that's on sale and I fill up my bag full of lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, regular onions, garlic and Root Beer for $6.50. It's a bargain, so I head home.
Tacos are made. Tacos are eaten. Root beer is guzzled and here I am with Wendy on pause as I start to slow down. It's been a busy week. I've done a lot. I've thought about a lot and I think I've got a reflection filled weekend ahead.
Maybe I'll have one more taco before I start reflecting.
It seems like life has been going incredibly fast lately, so I'm taking the opportunity to catch up on my blog. I've got lots to write about.
My boyfriend Wes and I have this thing about Fridays. It's the same thing that most people have about New Years Eve. We like to stay in or do something low key because Fridays never turn out the way yout think they're going to. I work in an entertainment office, so at about 5:15 the panic begins. It's the "oh shit, I whole week went by and I forgot to do A, B, & C" feeling. It'd be nice if once I could just slide into a Friday, but it never seems to work that way. And Wes runs an agency, so it's never easy for him on a Friday either.
We tried to make plans with friends on a Friday, but it's usually people who have more open schedules, so we're trying to make it crosstown, stop over at the house to take the dogs to poop and feed them so we don't come home from a fabulous night out to the smell of dog shit everywhere and our dogs all muddied and disgusting. And the events or dinners are always at 7 because there are people in this world who actually can start their weekend early. SO by the time we meet up at home and I take the dogs out and we get dressed and out the door, we're late. And because Wes rushes in and needs me to be dressed and ready to go, I feel pressured and then we end up being pissed at each other for the first part of the evening.
So our new routine is that we stay at the office until we need to leave. I'm usually done before he is. Then I come home and take care of the dogs. If he's still not home, I end up making dinner for myself. Usually something that's a guilty pleasure. Like a hot dog. Or tostadas. Tonight, it was turkey meat tacos. But since we've been running ourselves ragged all week with drinks and business meetings, the fridge was empty. So I decided to go supermarket shopping on a Friday.
I suppose I'd feel strange if I was single. But it's kind of nice to be at the local Pavillions where I can shop leisurly in my grey sweatpants, no undies and a big hoodie. Well, it's nice until I run into someone I know and wish I had spent 30 minutes getting my casual look together instead of actually walking out the door in an actual casual look. I see my friend...let's call him Giles from a certain support group I used to attend. He's very talkative, so it's like having my own live podcast to listen to while I'm shopping. I'm happy to listen, Giles is happy to talk.
Eventually, Giles and I part ways and I'm left alone once again to put all the things I don't need in my shopping cart like Entemann's coffee cake and Peppermint ice cream. I walk out of the parking lot and see that my Ralphs circular is in my car and tomatoes on the vine are on sale for 88 cents a pound. So since I'm having so much fun and my boyfriend hasn't texted me, I'm off to Ralphs. Or as Wes and I like to call it "Hellphs." Hellphs is Hellphs because it borders Beverly Hills and the parking lot is tiny and the old ladies who go there are slow and mean. I get a bunch of produce that's on sale and I fill up my bag full of lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, regular onions, garlic and Root Beer for $6.50. It's a bargain, so I head home.
Tacos are made. Tacos are eaten. Root beer is guzzled and here I am with Wendy on pause as I start to slow down. It's been a busy week. I've done a lot. I've thought about a lot and I think I've got a reflection filled weekend ahead.
Maybe I'll have one more taco before I start reflecting.
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