Hi Lo
My energy's been a bit low lately, with the move and all. I haven't posted a damned thing about the Kinkwalk party, although it was extremely fun and I got to bounce a genuinely lovely and brilliant person on my lap while we were all hopped up on freshly made Vietnamese coffees. And I haven't written anything about the age play session that
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Dim sum - the DJ had to be the worst in history. The volume was turned up higher than the speakers could handle. They played the cheeziest shit ever, and one of the cheeziest ballads, they played four times, once back-to-back. They played The Twist, which was good, but only one person on the floor knew how to twist. He was jumping up on speakers and tables and anything he could jump up on, cuz he was Mr Dancetastic. The only way we could communicate at the table was by not bothering to try, so all five of us just waited for the three-second breaks between songs if we had something really important to say. Mostly, it was lots of pretending to talk cuz we were all suddenly deaf. On one side of the restaurant, it was all pink balloons inside of clear balloons that looked like condoms had swallowed Snowballs, three really tall white guys who looked very uncomfortable, and a whole bunch of Asians speaking in a language none of us could identify, having an absolute blast dancing their hearts out to really horrible music played at nauseating volume. On the other side of the restaurant was us. Nobody else. Some other people came in, winced, looked around and walked right back out. We were fuckin' troupers. We ate all our food, we tipped well, and I did the YMCA at my table to the huge embarassment and complete lack of surprise of the four guys I was eating with. Cuz why the fuck not. It's not like it could have gotten much weirder. Between songs, people would get up on the microphone, which was also set to 11, and talked and talked and talked in a combination of English and Korean or Vietnamese. Or possibly the flattest, most toneless Chinese I've ever heard. Then people would clap and go nuts and hug each other and the music would start back up. About halfway through dinner, during one of the 3 second breaks, I said that if they don't play the Chicken Dance, the marriage doesn't stand a chance of lasting more than six months. Two songs later, guess what? They are FOREVER, baby! Yeah! MEANT TO BE!! Some of the little kids knew the Chicken Dance and the adults had to watch and learn.
So. Banzai. He was left without human companionship for two hours yesterday. He expressed his dissatisfaction with that low-grade bullshit by tearing up a shirt he found on the floor, dragging his and Wilbur's beds out of the room into the hall, pulling the duvet off the bed, tearing a small hole in the sheet underneath it, knocking all six pillows off the bed and somehow, for whatever reason, moving the bed several inches out from the wall so that it sat on a slight diagonal in the room. He got yelled at enough, told he wasn't loved, told he was adopted, told he had feline leukemia and only had two weeks to live, etc. so much so that by the time his Boy got home (and after lots of hugging and a shared salad and talking about how "what you did is bad but who you are is good"), he thought I'd been beating the poor dog. The whole "You suck! What kind of shit do you call this? This is not Banzai's shirt! No toy! No Banzai toy! Where Banzai toy?" lectures happened all over again and he pouted for a couple of hours before coming back up from the basement to apologize for his assholery. Wilbur looked smug. Wilbur *good* boy. Wilbur not adopted.
I finished the Nalo Hopkinson book. Good stuff. She made her main character a little bit unlikeable and threw in some very interesting magical realism. Makes me want to pat my head on its tummy and give a ladylike little mental burp.
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