Archive for May, 2010

Duel-a-Hoop vs the Hula Strip Tease

Posted in blog, boulder, colorado, hula hoop with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2010 by tymora42

The other night at a BBQ party in Denver I found out that I could hula hoop all of my clothes off. We tried to think of catchy nicknames for hula-stripping, but none were as clever as “duel-a hoop,” another game we played involving two opponents facing off in a battle to the hula death. We imagined momentarily, or at least I did, what society would be like if we evolved with this barbaric sport as the symbol of true brute force masculinity instead of football or wrestling. A caveman version would have bone spikes on their hoop. The middle ages would bring fire to the spinning ring. Asian kung fu cultures would use perfectly timed drop kicks to bring the hoop to certain demise. Nicknames for our fighting styles in duel-a hoop emerged. There was the Pigeon, the Dodo, the Chicken, and finally the Peacock orchestrating a rear entry maneuver deflected by the Irish Aggressor.

At another BBQ just a few short weeks ago on a night when I should have been sleeping for early job interviews that I failed the next day, a hula girl stopped by to show me some tricks and convince me that I did not want that job anyway. On Mother’s Day my sister showed me the start of the one that goes around, then up to your hand, then back down onto the waist. The hoop I was using had too much water in it and was considerably smaller than the one I made. It was more of an exercise workout ring, than a trick. On the last BBQ I got it on my stoner-ring, which is what we call the bigger, slower moving, self created one. I can sort of do it on the speed-freak now too. It is a clumsy approach on either, however, fluidity is certain to arrive. The hula girl who stopped in showed me a couple others. The ‘elbow bump’ brings it up to your neck. The ‘second hand’ after the ‘hand up’ continues the flow of the ‘turnstile.’ I am totally making all of these names up right now. All of them paved the way for the stripper hoop.

One guy at the party, who fought in a style called the Fabio, was getting the hand up once we moved to the courtyard. He was younger, handsomer, had longer hair, looked more like a model, and wore a button down shirt two buttons opened already. The roommate of the girl who hosted told him to take his shirt off. Evidently, she had a guy at the party, who was more like Fabio than any of us, leaving her wondering about his sexual preference. They concocted a scheme to find out. Both of them would bend over to pick something up and a coconspirator would watch to see whose ass he looked at. The real Fabio lifted weights. His sexuality was in question because of, among other things, a picture of him in a Charles Atlas pose hanging on the wall. She was excited to have a new gay friend and ended up with the start of a boyfriend. That Fabio never hula hooped. When the other unbuttoned two more, the games began. I was intrigued to see if it could actually be done and how far it could go.

What I lack in other areas I make up for in women’s clothing and shock value. A t-shirt is easy to strip away while maintaining a core centrifugal force. Pants are more difficult. The cameras were out, so I did not try so hard. As soon as they went away it was down to the skivvies for me. I could even get my shoes off with it still going. Underwear is a different story until I can perfect the elbow bump to the neck. Getting your hands down there to zip off while the hoop is on your waist provides certain difficulties. With a borrowed button down and a studded leather belt from the host, I dropped trouser with a small group and no recordable media to put my skinny butt on You Tube. Sorry, audience, you will just have to imagine it. Next time I am going to go for the full length dress.

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Fun, but only in Designated Areas

Posted in blog, boulder, colorado, faeries, family, life, love, passage, rainmaker, religion, review, spirituality, trickster with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 30, 2010 by tymora42

The Boulder Creek Festival – Saturday

Once a year Boulder throws a party that their cold stoic regulations cannot handle. It is sanctioned by the city. It is filled with travelers overtaking the town in tents, vans, backpacks, scarves, and wings. The Boulder Creek festival, held every year on Memorial Day weekend, is designed to officially ‘kick off summer.’ They open the dam in Nederland and let the water gush down the canal in near flash flood conditions. All along the banks are the white tented temporary establishments selling fair merchandise or information. The carnies come also with their rides and darts and stuffed animal prizes next to magnetic core milk bottles daring the passerby to knock them down with cabbage sized soft balls. Bands, solo musicians, dance troupes, drums, and quiet hawkers dominate the soundscape with the eternal hush of running water consistently in the background. The faeries play. You are allowed fun, but only in designated areas.

Fae folk care not for these silly human rules. They will bow to the event coordinators with badges dangling around their neck until backs are turned and they have found another crevice to mischievously grace. They excommunicated the hula hoopers from the front of the bandshell because of the highway pedestrian traffic that would allegedly course through their path. They wanted them to hide on the side near a Ryder truck, avoiding small children without the mindset to not walk near the spinning disc or twirling drunkards kicking up dust. They would move the drunkards if they could, but if the beer garden next door did not give these alcohol imbibed cause to dance then the simple fact that live music was playing does. Casually they tell her, “As soon as I no longer see you on your shift, I am coming back.” She, the festival assistant, did not like this. Her face creased into a stern furrow. You are allowed to have fun, but only in designated areas.

There are invisible and visible markings all over the ground. This fenced in yard is the place you may drink beer. This parking lot is where you do carnival things. This stadium is where you sit and watch music. This row of chairs and tables is where the teenagers hang out with their highschool battle of the bands judged by adults. This bleacher is where you watch dancers. Oh, the dancers. They twirled and whirled and stepped and leaped with modern, classical, ballet, and belly moves. I like the belly moves. The belly movers use scarves.

We sought more play in the section dispensing information on how to be more body, mind, soul, and eco conscious. Proudly, a friend brings his idea of the Bikeopolis to fruition with his own tent and flyers about the once thought as a pipe dream, Front Range Eco ranch. Around the corner is the designated fun area for hula hoops. You could hear the drums beating, but you could not see the performers. This will not do. We leave to dance in front of the ignored by the musicians stage. They have opted to stand on the level with the audience because they want the audience to make noise alongside their trash gamelan. They do. They hoot. They holler. They clap. They dance. There is much dancing today. There are lots of areas designated for that.

And then the rain came. Rain has the tendency to erode quickly those perimeters set by either man or nature. The creek rose another foot. The chalk lines of fun designation faded away as the majority of patrons ran for the community tents to keep dry. Those like myself, the beloved rainmakers, the winged tricksters, the spirit dancers, and family waited the warm dark skies for the cooling mist of droplets on our weary sun weary brow. This is when the change occurred. This is when they allowed me to walk with them for the day. They saw my appreciation of the weather sprites was genuine. She ran out to a sidewalk median between the grass and the drum stage parking lot. She was beautiful, frolicking in the pour, damning the denizens who sought refuge with her teasing motions, slipping on the wet, and laughing at herself, rolling in it only to fluidly arise to her feet once again for more play. She withstood the hail. That was my limit. I had seen it golf ball sized here before. I had felt it rebound onto my leg from the front door ajar and it had stung. I did not want to feel it on my scalp.

We hurried back to Bikeopolis, stopping along the way to introduce myself to Domino, the rainbow dancer. We had met before in another dimension with different faces, but we knew each other. She called the inner faerie inside of me by named association. She called me family. We dodged the discomfort of the sky water by running headlong through it, splashing in puddles the whole way. A new traveler would join our bus. She needed, however, to be blinded first. Sometimes it takes closing our eyes and letting our vision blur to truly see. I promised to bring her back a neodymium magnet to retrieve the screw of her spectacles.

Further along the course we were saturated with this new environment. The veil of the maya had been lifted. At our respective houses, Blake of Moab was with me, we changed from shorts into pants, he from shoes into boots, me into a jacket. Night was around the corner. It would get cold, maybe. It did, but I would never have a chance to be deterred by it. After the resupply we returned to the body, mind, and soul arena. It had spilled out from the roped in area to the streets. The town had been cleansed. A moment of sun refracted into double and triple rainbows on the balcony of a Himalayan cuisine balcony adequately named Sherpas. These monks had our baggage carefully stored for the climb to the top. They fed us Chicken Tika Massala, Chai Tea, and Vegetable Yak stew with Naan. We would need the roughage for the next leg of our journey. Little did I know that this chain of events would yield a crop of flamingo nunchuks. Whenever you see a rainbow, two faeries fall in love.

Some stereo music and liquid libations served directly to our seats on the couch later we remained unsure of our energy levels. I left the gathering to stoop on my gargoyle perch outside. It was too beautiful of a night to waste inside. The rest of the posse felt similarly. They joined the battle, unleashing a Super Smash Brothers style force with day glo hoops and those dastardly hot pink nunchuks. The beating was a massage that would continue throughout the nightly walk. Domino and her pan like friend brought us to gyrations outside, clanging street signs and newspaper vending machines with our sticks. The dead club would jump tonight. The DJ thought it was his own fault. Down the streets we sparred without bruising. We found the end and kept going. We looped the circle through the back alleys where topless dancers have an entrance to their stage. We united with more of the crew. We danced with fae. Blake has his own name for these creatures. He calls them Serendipity.

We stopped along the waterway to watch the falls careen off the ledge on our way home from the night. By this time golf cart security guards had reestablished their boundaries. They found us before we could play and explained that they were cool with us having fun, but it had to be in a designated area. This was not the place. We walked along the banks until we found one. Under the library on the other side, a Frisbee throwing celebration commenced. We hollered the Mardi Gras anthem at them from our vantage. “Throw me something, Mister.” They did. The first launch established my credibility as a dedicated servant of disc retrieval. It almost made it, but a post balked the completion. Down to the stream of heavy flow it fell. A moment of consideration was all that was necessary for my mind to track the trajectory of the current. It would be pushed to the side. I could get this. I stepped to it. It swept out missing my hand. I stepped again and then again. I was wet now. A little more wet would do me fine for the sake of this fun. I had not had a chance to throw it yet. Success. They cheered from the other side. They lauded my bravery with enthusiastic kudos. Back and forth the yellow saucer flew across the creek staying dry until the famous last words were spoke. “This is my last one.” It was. I missed. It went down. They did not have the shore to bring their feet to the edge. Their bank was high. The game was over.

(I will put links on later. I have to go experience sunday now.)

Going to a Happy place with a group of Gay Men

Posted in beer, blog, boulder, colorado, faeries, life with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 29, 2010 by tymora42

To be clear, Happy is a bar down the street from my place in Boulder that specializes in making drinks. Gay Men are homosexuals, meaning they like intimate relationships with same sex partners. I have no issue with either except that at times they both can be a bit frou-frou.

I had never been inside Happy, although I have walked by it many of times and heard stories about the thousands of drinks the bartenders are required to have in their memory banks before an application would even be looked upon. These are not a set roll call of booze mixings, but rather a sheer quantity of knowledge and artistic talent ala Tom Cruise in Cocktail without all of the theatrics. Had there not been an onrush of gay men quadrupling the normal weekend crowd size, and I mean the whole weekend, not just one night multiplied by four, I would have ordered the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster only to see if they could make it. As it was, the Sushi menu of drinks was dropped to the Happy Hour list with dinner time prices.

Blake of the Moab fame invited me to this meetup or matchmaker or manhunter (I cannot remember the title of the group), where the homosexual union in the Boulder area practices their solidarity in protest to no gay bars by taking over ‘straight’ establishments for the night, bringing tons of people, buying tons of drinks, and effectively scaring the hell out of wet-behind-the-ear bar backs. Actually, I invited myself when he told me about it. It sounded like much more fun than their usual orientation elitist naked parties. I like naked parties as much as the next guy, more than the next guy, much more than the next guy, but when you involve strict sexual conduct rules the ball crosses the fence for me.

I think sexism should be less gender specific and more about the orientation of those being prejudiced against. Sexism is really genderism. We need labels like this instead of homophobia. Phobia has the literal connotation of fear and the homo part cannot be used to slap back for being reverse discriminated against in the manner that ‘racism’ can. We do not call it blackaphobia, negraphobia, mexiphobia. Okay, xenophobia, sure but this is a condition that causes racism or is caused by it, not one that is inherently in and of itself ‘racist.’ I like to apply it to extraterrestrial aliens myself.

In ten minutes standing at the bar you can discern the feel of whether this guy is going to serve you anytime soon. He wasn’t. At that point it is important to find the lynch pin of the serving station. Every bar, no matter how crowded, has one. I usually explore the joint upon entry, find the bathrooms if I need an excuse, accidentally walk into the employee only kitchen for a head poke, lap the typical u-shaped center, bumping into interesting people along the way. This time I went straight, pun intended, for the drinks. This did not serve me well or even at all so I performed my Lewis and Clark impersonation. Oddly, the rear entrance, which became the main entrance due to the inclination of tonight’s current clientele and the fact that they were allegedly locking the front for a semi-private engagement, was it. I pushed through, teaching a bunch of demure twinks how to be more aggressive with getting the attention of the bartenders by waving cash around like a pervert at the TNA club. He says, “I only have a credit card.” Dancers take that too, buddy.

With Mojito in hand I could properly canvass the next stop on my tour, the smoking section. Yeah, yeah, yeah. A Mojito. I figured, when in Rome. This does not mean I am going to strip down to my toga in the bathhouse for a night with the son of Mars and Venus, but it does means I will drink a tasty mojito in an already frou-frou gay-for-the-night establishment. Evidently, Mercury forgot to deliver the message to some of them. There is always that one guy, the poacher, that you clearly demonstrate verbally your straightness, yet, he still wants to convert you. I could have learned much more about bears and otters than I wanted to that night. I even explained about my breast fixation. The general consensus was that those nasty things were just in the way. Being predominately straight, I can think of other protrusions that would ‘just be in the way.’

There was an after party. I did not go. Thanks to the Boulder Creek Festival my car was already parked way too far from my house. I could only imagine rolling in at 5am and having to walk a mile back to mi casa. Some guy offered a lift. He only had room for one. I figured Blake would get more out of it than I would, so I bowed out. I have more important things to do today needing an earlier rise of a different sort than some here might prefer. I have kinetic generator hula hoops to build. I have art exhibits to attend. I have concerts to go to. The Boulder Creek Festival might take my parking spot, but they cannot stop me from enjoying it.

Working Real Hard Trying to Find a Job

Posted in blog, life, Uncategorized, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2010 by tymora42

In this tortured economy I am sure I am not alone in this plight. This is a message to all employers who wade through the countless resumes and online apps posted by potential new hires. This is for the Human Resources departments of the world calling references and past employers nonstop for positions needing fulfillment. This is for the Job Recruiters toiling to make ends meet for unknown people on both ends of the employment spectrum. That message is this: When the job is filled, take the notification down. Send out an email to everyone who applied that they gave it to another candidate.

The most frustrating aspect of the hunt is the unknown. Keep us informed. No news is not good news. No news is bleeding hope. No news means they might still be looking and you might still have a chance. It is the girl who never returns your phonecalls to tell you she already has a boyfriend. It is the publisher you sent the manuscript that forgot to send it back with a maybe-in-a-future-publication letter. It is an AIDS test that the lab misplaced the results.

It does not matter if you absolutely know you have no sexually transmitted diseases because your last year of partners have been yourself, you still worry. Why? It is the uncontrollable unknown. Everybody hates the uncontrollable unknown especially when commingled with desire. No matter how often we go where the wind blows us, there is still a certain bit of steering the kite or boat or whatever metaphor you think is applicable here. I knew a hippie girl once who gave her entire life to God. She probably had lice and would not take medication to get rid of it. She said, “If God wants me to have lice, then I guess I will have lice.” This is extreme animal rights activism. Lice is life. She refused to kill it. She might be okay with the uncontrollable unknown. The rest of the world is not. I had lice once or at least I thought I did. I had long beautiful hair that got chopped down to the roots with a pair of craft scissors. I put so much RID in it that it shocked the remaining follicles into thick, unmanageable spikes. I no longer cared. I did not have lice.I took whatever measures necessary to control the situation. With a job search you cannot be so proactive. You have to wait for the results that might not ever come.

So to all of those people in those positions of control, keep us informed, because it just keeps getting tougher every day.

The Problem with a Daily Blog

Posted in blog, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , on May 25, 2010 by tymora42

The problem with keeping a daily blog, even if it is a somewhat one, is that it takes away time for real writing work with trivial BS. It seems like I am wasting more time telling you about things that you do not really care about rather than working on a real story, or novel, or something of substance. This is all filler. Beth Hayden says it is necessary. I am no Piers Anthony or Stephen King. I cannot crap out a novel in a couple months. It takes time. I have to have a real job to make ends meet and then go to work on these things of possibly promisary pleasure. There is little time for a glorified online diary. It is why I never dealt so much with them in the past. I use my energy shitting out these words, thoughts, feelings, life, experience for the sake of consistency. I could be writing about mermaids right now. Instead I am here talking about myself. So what? Thankfully, I have a few finished pieces and some more on the editing board to keep this season running smoother than the lasts. Thankfully, these blog pieces require no refinement. Unfortunately, the longer works will suffer. So you know what is coming up: a kafka style metamorphosis of a man into a fish, the origins of the flea in podcast form, a zombie novel series, live recordings from southmorehouse art community in Houston, a passionate piece about the difficulties of becoming friends with the opposite sex, more Daudi as soon as I can find the faeries again, and whatever else comes in the meantime. Stay tuned.

LOST: end found

Posted in blog, technology, television with tags , , , , , , on May 24, 2010 by tymora42

Did all of my questions get answered? No. Is the concept of explaining it all with an afterlife-god-excuse hokey? Yes. But was I satisfied with the end? Yes. For six long years (actually 5 since I came in at the beginning of S2) I have toiled with the rest of the fans waxing and waning philosophically about the island, influencing my friends to watch with the availability of previously on LOST DVDs, been happy about things, disappointed, congregated in silence with a community until the commercial breaks, shushed those few non-addicts that found their way into our living rooms with their questions that would take a hundred episodes to explain if there was any explanation at all, found good conversations at bars and work about it that had nothing to do with sports, and thought on more than one occasion “That episode did not tell me anything,” until four episodes later when I realized the subtle nuances had serious impacts upon the plot. Overall I was completely satisfied with the finale despite the hokiness of the concept. The pure science types are going to hate it. Those who appreciate the archetypical journey of a hero in a spiritual walkabout will be content.

In our current group I could tell who was going to hate it as soon as Christian Shepherd asked why his son was there. No sooner than Jack closed his eyes did the two scientists shout, “That was crap!” It was almost in unison. One is a physicist at NIST. The other is a research biologist. One of these two are the reason I had to stop watching Fringe. The boyfriend of the other said he was not happy about it either, but I know the truth. He has to agree with her for the sake of the relationship. He gave me a knuckle bump of proof to confirm this supposition when I quietly confronted the allegation of his dislike in a whispered corner of the room during a chaos of everybody leaving commotion. He builds scientific equipment with huge machines. Everyone else appreciated it in direct correlation to their ability to suspend disbelief. Mine is very high. I am just glad the girl who kept asking why they all looked like they stepped off a runway (of the model sort not the flying contraption) left early. If she could not get past that, I do not know how she would have ever handled the end.

As much as we liked the other characters more than Jack, the central story does revolve around him. It is his journey. The only conclusion we needed was his redemption. Locke says it best when he says, “You were the obvious choice.” He was. He is. He did, redeem himself that is. I guess Kate did also, my least favorite, and the immediate support role for the hero. Now, about that ‘heaven’ bit. What? I wanted the alternate reality to be real. I am okay with alternate realities as long as they do not become the main timeline that the audience has been following for the bulk of the series. This is the problem I had with the new Star Trek remake. I absolutely hate the waking up from a dream scenario. It worked for Newhart only because it did not matter. Those bug the hell out of me. They are copouts. When the first episode of the last season aired I almost turned it off at the onset of the first commercial break, sold all of my LOST merchandise, found a soapbox, and stood on it in the middle of the city proselytizing my feeling of being ripped off by the networks. Thankfully, I sat under the glow of my television in shock through the product advertisements for cars or whatever, unthinkingly absorbing them subliminally and projecting a negative appetite towards specific types of dishwashing fluid forever without really ever knowing why, until they return with the castaways still on the island. This is when I said, “Thank God.” Little did I know how correct this was for the current direction of the show.

So the bomb never went off? Or it did, but it did not destroy the island? Then, what did Juliette mean when she said it worked? What worked? I still have questions. I expected this. Anyone who did not expect this fooled themselves. Anyone who did not expect a supernatural, larger than life, beyond death, divine intervention ending fooled himself or herself also. Quantum Leap had to do it and you liked that. When they make the spinoff of Hurley and Ben chumming it around in the jungle protecting the light with trusty advisors like Michael and the other dead people cameos brought to you by Hugo’s special gift, I will watch. I will even watch if Hurley pulls a true Jacob style gathering of candidates to keep the series going when he goes, meanwhile crossing paths with the returned survivors so we can see where their life has gone before the big death and constructed afterlife. What if my important moments in life have nothing to do with yours? Do you still get to be in it? Do I get to be in yours? Is my mom in yours if you are in mine? Next on LOST.

Pregunta de la cabeza

Posted in blog, life, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on May 23, 2010 by tymora42

Two posts in one weekend.

The ultimate ‘pregunta de la cabeza’ as the Spanish probably do not say is why am I here now writing in this blog that has failed the promise of being ‘somewhat daily.’ Is it simply just promotion? No. Well, yes, but simultaneously, no. I am at a workshop with Beth Hayden. She says every writer should blog. There is no excuse not to. I can think of many. So, I will blog now. I will give you a consistent rhythm. I will. Maybe. We’ll see if this even really makes it there.