Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Independent Motherfucker
I'm an independent motherfucker
And I'm here to take your money
I'm wicked, rad, and I'm here
To steal away your virginity...
-Be Your Own Pet - Bunk Trunk Skunk
To think that these words were written and sung by a girl. Haha. For some reason I find this to be startlingly feminist, but maybe that's just blasphemy. I wish Earlbecke read my blog so she could tell me. That girl's got some serious intellectual chops.
Somehow there's something so hot about a girl growling the word 'motherfucker' like that. Am I totally nuts for thinking that's sexy?
I just got tickets to Be Your Own Pet's concert today. It's a real joy to be able to buy concert tickets again. A real joy. I'm also going to see K'nann with Moka Only on Friday (avec le redhead), and I am still debating about whether I should go to Jason Collett and Ridley Bent in October and Xavier Rudd in December. Which should I go to? Ridley? Bicyclemark? Any other music lovers want to put in your two cents as to which shows I ought really to make sure I slowly lose my hearing in attending?
By the way, that priceless little bit of sidewalk graffiti above was the one of the last things I saw in Paris before I left Europe altogether this June. I took it as a sign, a summary of what I ought to take away from my trip. It means: "Please take your happiness with you when you leave."
So...one of the guys I met at the party, let's call him Sylvester, called me on the phone from his hotel the other night. He's a screenwriter, 38, with salt-and-pepper hair, a solid j
aw, and a movie star voice -- a kind of Frank Sinatra of Hollywood, let's just say. We had a nice little phone conversation, and when he asked me if I wanted to go to a bar that evening I told him I couldn't because I had a phone date scheduled with the redhead. He was all fascinated by the bisexuality thing (as are just about all straight men aged 18-50 who I meet these days), and asked me tons of questions (which I obliged him by answering), and in the course of our conversation he told me that one of the guys at the party had been trying to set up a threesome with two girls at the bar that night, but to no avail.
I laughed at first, and then I stopped, stunned. Because I knew this guy. I had spoken to him. Let's call him Bobby. He was a tall black guy (maybe half black, half caucasian, because he had the most beautiful light brown skin and freckles I'd ever seen) with a remarkable lean but muscular build, and just before I left the other night I complimented him on his adorable freckles. He flashed me a perfect bright white smile and said "Aw! Thanks. No one's ever complimented me on my freckles before." and then: "I should have talked to you more tonight."
Haha. No kidding, pal. I was probably the only girl at that party who would have taken him up on his offer. I told Sylvester this and he said "wow, you really would have been up for that?" I thought about it for a moment. "Well, yeah, probably. If I felt safe enough." He seemed impressed. Today I texted him to ask for Bobby's number, which he might find weird, but I suppose it's a risk I'm willing to take.
Is it ridiculous to kick yourself for something you couldn't possibly have known about and acted on at the time? Grr. Cause I am sure doing that now.
I sent the first chapter of my book to the redhead, and she loved it. I hesitate to give her a pseudonym, out of
some superstitious fear that it will make her become less amazing than I think she is before I've even met her. So I think I'll hold off a bit longer on that front.
I went to pick up my class materials at my Saturday teaching job today, and my new boss gave me two more classes to teach on Monday and Wednesday nights. Score. Now I have twice as many hours. I'm well on my way to being a real independent motherfucker, indeed.
More about my new job later.
For now I'm just excited, nervous, and hoping from the top of my head to the tips of my toes that I won't make a complete ass of myself now that I'm an actual honest-to-goodness teacher for the first time ever.
I had a dream last night that my mother caught me having sex with the Boy on our dark green and most comfortable living room couch. This was both embarrassing and deeply frustrating, and it resulted in her berating me about being a slut while I yelled and cried until I was hysterical. The sex was really strange, too. It was almost violent in its urgency -- I haven't had that kind of sex since I was a teenager, and even then it was pretty rare. I tend to want to take my time and do it right -- even as a kid I didn't find awkward fumbling and split-second thrills very entertaining. Weird. I'm starting to notice a pattern in my dreams, in that they're getting more and more sexual and less and less sad. I guess this is a good thing, but it makes for some pretty strange analysis in my waking hours.
Gotta get going. I'm meeting another girl from online (yeah yeah, I get around, yeah right) for dinner and bookstore browsing. It should be fun and intellectually stimulating, if not stimulating in any other respect.
Hope you're all having a nice day, and that it isn't pissing rain and creating swampland and giant puddles where you are.
Laters,
N
