I worked a lot on my genre analysis paper today, but did not get a lot of the actual writing of it done. I researched, sent a note to Dr. Swarts for a clarification on Swales (big surprise I needed that), and read some of the articles that I will probably cite in the paper.
Robert left for the spa around 2:00, and I went to Carmichael at about 3:30. I did 30 minutes on the elliptical crosstrainer. I was on #3, with no one on #2, and this tiny (small framed, thin) Asian girl on #1. It’s not significant that she was Asian, but if I don’t say it, you’ll probably picture a nice little white girl. But I digress.
Okay, so she has on these very low-rising black lycra pants, and a top that doesn’t quite meet the low-risers. After another 5 minutes or so, I glance back over there to see the low-risers about another 1.5 inches below see-level (sic), and this black contraption of two elastic strips that comprise a waistband, I guess, connecting to this oval piece in the middle of her back from which one other elastic strip heads due south central. A thong.
Now, I suppose I should be mesmerized, and maybe a couple of other things far from the topic of comfort and utility, but I’m thinking, Okay, I know with a jock strap, the elastic strips start at the end of the pouch that’s centered over that area known as the “taint” (‘t ain’t d*ck and ‘t ain’t *ss), and then connect up to the waistband of the accessory — extending out, sort of enveloping, if you will, the cheeks.
With this contrivance, however, I’m thinking, What route exactly does that southbound elastic strip down the middle take? At the very least, it seems to me, it would be like a wedgie on steroids. That can’t be comfortable to work out in. Wouldn’t, like, after an hour or so, it basically start sawing you in half? I don’t get it.
I keep glancing over there in an it’s-like-a-really-bad-accident-but-I-can’t-stop-rubbernecking way, when she catches me. Suddenly, I think, Oh my god, she is going to think I’m straight. Ruin my reputation. Quit looking at her, for God’s sake.
I left that really uncomfortable (literally) situation, and went upstairs to walk. I did 13 laps, for a total of two miles. In one of the gymnasiums, which you can see into as you walk around, there were about 5 couples practicing ballroom dancing. The male partners caught my eye, because let’s just say, they were a little too precise, a little too graceful, and a little too pretty in pink, if you know what I mean. “I’m pretty enough. I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And gosh darn it, people like me.”
Once home, I made dinner: salad, steamed broccoli, and a new entree, Soy-Ginger-Lemon Chicken (something like that). It wasn’t nearly as flavorful as I had thought it would be with that name, but it could have been that my taste buds weren’t back at 100%. It wasn’t bad, just not as tasty as I’d hoped.
Robert left the house just before six, stopped at Chargrill to get him some dinner, and I met him at 6:15 at Flex, where we parked my car. He drove us to the BTI center, and we were in the lobby just before 6:30, which was our meeting time. Richard arrived first, then Joe, the other Richard and Donna and Judy — all at once.
Donna had met Robert and Joe before, but not the Richards. I don’t think Judy had met any of them. Introductions, and re-introductions all around.
After taking our seats, which were separate from Joe and Richard’s (the couple), Donna said to me, “Joe’s Richard is really cute. Why are all gay men so cute?” And then, during intermission, while I was gone to the bathroom, Donna clarified to Richard that she wasn’t “with” Judy. She pointed between the two of them and said, “We’re not a couple.” I thought that was pretty amusing, as Richard knows she’s my ex-wife.
Once again, I loved, loved, loved Miss Saigon. I have seen it twice on Broadway, and once touring. This was my fourth time, and other than being disappointed with the (lack of) opening scene, I was just lost in the hauntingly beautiful music of the play. I had to restrain myself from singing along. Love it, love it, love it.
Once outside, I went to check my voice mail messages on my cell to see if Brian had left me a message. I had told him that I really didn’t feel like going out tonight, and was only doing so because I told him I would, and that if he didn’t feel like it, that it would be fine. Just as I started to dial voice mail, my phone rang. It was Jay. “John, where are you? Are you coming out?” He was at Flex with Brian. Okay, twist my arm — a whole degree.
Robert dropped me off there, and I put umbrellas and binoculars in my car, and went in. At about 10:15, I noticed that there wasn’t anybody singing. And since it’s karaoke night, starting at 9:30, I thought this a bit odd. “They’re having technical difficulties,” the bartender told me.
This guy went up to “Toola Box” (you gotta love that drag name — oh yeah it’s Drag Karaoke night, but only the emcee(s) dress in drag, not the whole audience), and this guy says to Ms. Box, “Do they ever do drag in this bar?”
In her platinum blond wig, ruby red lips, black and white polka dot outfit, Toola looks right at him and quips, “What the hell do you think you’re looking at?” I ’bout fell on the floor. That’s classic.
Toola came over to talk to us for a few minutes. I said, “Toola, isn’t it karaoke night tonight? I’ve been here 20 minutes, and no one has sung yet.”
“Oh, the CDs are locked up in Brigner’s office and no one has a key.” Technical difficulties? That sounds like stupidity difficulties. Josh (sings-so-loud-they-started-selling-earplugs-there) had run to Brigner’s house to get the key.
This guy named Eduardo, who I introduced to Jay as Jesus, talked to him for a long time. Turns out his name was Eduardo Jesus (surname, which I don’t know), and he’s not the Jesus I thought he was — he wasn’t that I-think-it’s-too-funny-to-run-in-to-a-guy-named-Jesus-in-a-gay-bar Jesus of a couple of weeks ago. Jesus, there’s a lot Jesuses. Hail Mary, full of grace… But I digress.