Last night Roni and I went to see the Fat Bottom Burlesque Review at Theater Rhinoceros, and it was fabulous on SO many levels, not the least of which was seeing this one lovely lady (alas, who hails from NYC) who made my knees weak, a performance artist (as it turns out) named Beth Smoylan (forgive me if I mangled your last name, as I'm spelling it from memory... I think I left the fershlugginer program in the car!).
She first walked by when I was in the Lobby with Roni, who had to hold me up due to a sudden weakening of the knees. The fact she was dressed in sweat pants (a well known weakness of mine) and was wearing a very clingy tank top with the slogan "Femme?" blazoned across her well rounded breasts didn't help my state of mind.
When we got downstairs when they FINALLY opened the doors (not their fault... the theater crews were overloaded dealing with the crowds for another production in the upstairs studio) she was taking tickets. I made some half-assed comment about being disappointed that she wasn't one of the performers, and she dimpled and laughed. I found out why later on.
Turns out she WAS performing. In a show where "teasing" was the name of the game (and it was a wonderful evening of dollar bill stuffing goodness. Note to the troupe: If given more opportunities, I *will* continue donating money until destitute) she had a bit that involved her coming out in a bright blue spandex sack. As she explained, it was what a performance artist DOES. They way she put it was a lot better, but I should be forgiven for being sidetracked into wondering if she was naked under that spandex.
When one of her breasts unexpectedly popped out, completely bare (as opposed to the "pasties" the dancers were using) I at first thought it was an accident. But then she dropped the sack, and stood before us, completely nude. I was certain that I would need CPR from lack of breathing (repeat the mantra with me... Oxygen is our FRIEND).
Her intent was to talk about the day she was fantasizing about a transgendered classmate in college and caught a sight of herself in a mirror next to her bed, and suddenly realized that her body was a work of art. You weren't going to find me disagreeing -- in my usual contrarian way, I found her full roundness much more interesting to look at then the hour glass and pear shapes that seem to dominate the group (my other favorite is this very solid butch dyke who was scheduled to perform "Just a Gigolo" as last time, but for some reason didn't, much to my regret. I had a five dollar bill for the pleasure of THAT lap dance!).
Later, when the whole group came out to "pass the hat" in the form of rampant bumping and grinding, she joined them wearing the outfit I first saw her in. Yes, I got to touch her, and feel that lovely form pressed into mine. Not for long enough... but I can't complain.
Afterwards I gave her the address of the Rotunda by writing it on one of the dollar bills. If she manages to make it as far as this journal entry, I hope she'll contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org to discuss her modelling for me (waves frantically!)
By the way, special thanks to Roni: You know that stupid commercial with all the women saying things like "Beautiful, isn't she?" and "Of COURSE I'll pay for a lap dance for you"? Roni paid for last night's tickets and made sure I had plenty of singles. And that's without using a drop of cologne! It should be noted that she ran out of her OWN singles, and had to borrow back several from me. SHe will tell you she was normal before she met me. She lies.
In case you think that it's still a bit one-sided, there was today. We were planning on heading over to Best Buy to spend the Mad Money she had saved up (almost entirely from spare change that she had lying around!) to get a much needed new TV (the old one was getting worse off daily, and was nearly unwatchable). UNfortunately, I was conscientious and checked the model she had pretty much decided on on the net... or at least tried to.
That was a red flag right there: The lack of information was a bit scary. I mean, if you look up a model from most brands the trouble is sorting through the mass of info you get back. However, the ONLY reviews I could find was some columnist in the midwest who had received nothing but complaints about both that specific TV (an Advent 27" HDTV Monitor) and Best Buy.
Armed with some more info, we went forth to snag some lunch at Serramonte and check out Circuit City. We settled for a 27" Zenith HDTV monitor, which was still in range with the money we had saved up, and looked really good. It barely fit in the back of the Bug -- I had to tie the hatch down, but we're talking the difference of a couple of inches... I suppose if we were feeling a bit more flexible I could have slid the front seats forward a notch or two and closed it.
When we got it home, I realized that I had failed to consider the problem of getting it upstairs. The lable on the side of the box indicated that the box weighed in at 116 pounds. While I have had women weighing upwards of five times that weight riding me, that was under controlled... well, relatively speaking... conditions. At first we thought we had a decent hand truck to make it at least vaguely possible, only it turned out that one of the wheels were flat. I know, I never heard of such a thing either.
Roni wasn't up for it, and her roomie Gene wasn't home. So I did the stupid thing and rolled the box up two stories worth of stairs. Done carefully it doesn't screw up the TV (as long as you don't pull a sisyphus and DROP the damn thing), though I wouldn't recommend letting the kids try it at home.
Once upstairs, it was a matter of dragging out the old TV and heaving the new one in place. Roni was a bit shocked at how much bigger the new one was. The first thing I hooked up was the DVD player steelmagnoliaca and I gave her -- she was feeling a bit weird about spending so much money on herself, and I wanted to head off any buyer's remorse.
Oh, this is the part where I went "Ow". Not because I pulled a muscle or otherwise did damage to myself in any way that would have made sense, but because I somehow managed to catch my big tow on Roni's doorway when I went to get the monitor out of it's carton. I spare you the details: Let's just say that Vicodin is my friend, and Roni's kitchen is really clean.*
Roni was thus exhausted (and, I suspect, wanting to enjoy a TV that didn't make one think of fun house mirrors every time you watched it), and I took my injury as a sign that perhaps dancing wasn't such a good idea. Next time...
* That's because ADHD'ers tend to have paradoxical reactions to some drugs. Coke I tried in college put me to sleep for 10 hours. Vicodin makes me incredibly wired, which is why I try NOT to take it unless I have to.