Monday, February 22, 2010

My boss just thanked me for something and my response was "Np." I need an internet cleanse.

This was a bit of a funny weekend. Most others are spent preparing for the week to come (sorry, Shabbat), but as I'm going home on Thursday for 10 days I didn't do all my normal rituals, like a big shop in Kensington (unrelated: I need to stop buying cucumbers. I never eat them and they just sit in my fridge like a huge dong, fermenting and eventually releasing all sorts of liquid fun). As there were fewer errands to do, I decided to go out and have an awesome time on Saturday night as Sunday could be spent convalescing. Initially, I was planning on going clubbing in the gay village with ESLothario and some of his peeps, which had potential but wasn't really filling me with dance fever. I account this partially to a fear of reawakening the minor infatuation that transpired last fall at the hands of seeing anyone come within 3 feet of him ( inevitable at a club, from what I understand), but mostly I just have no desire to step foot in the village, rampant homophobe that I am.

Later in the afternoon, I received a completely random message from a chat buddy last heard from about five years ago. We'd gotten chummy prior to my visit to Montreal, where he was residing, in 2005. We did not hang out as he wound up being out of town for all but one day of my visit but we kept in touch for a while afterwards, mostly on the basis of our Toriphilia and mutual boredom. Anywhoozles, he'd seen that we'd both moved to Toronto and proposed we hang out that night at a queer dance party being held in the trendy boho part of Queen West called Parkdale. I am feeling an increasing attraction to this neighborhood, as it seems like a lovely artistic enclave removed enough from downtown to have a sense of community yet only about ten minutes away by streetcar. Additionally, the gay community there (affectionately self-titled Queer West) is present in a very natural, integrated way as opposed to the normal two options of closeted devotee or screaming rainbows. As such, I was very excited, imagining this would be similar to my outing with The Jews. I promptly bailed on ESLothario and began mentally imagining what I would wear, relieved at not having to pick out an ensemble that accentuated those desirable features which I am sorely lacking (pecs, bubble butt, 2", etc.). Imagine my disappointment when I was karmicly bailed on by the Montrealer, leaving me alone with my milk frother and dead dreams of newfound community.

Then, in an odd moment of courage, I thought, "Fuck it, I'm going anyway," and sure enough at 11:06pm, with 5 ounces of vodka and 120 mg. of pseudophedrin coursing through my veins, I marched out the door. I would have walked, but evidently I'm just too stylin'. I arrived at The Beaver, essentially your typical neighborhood bar, at approximately 11:45pm. Initially, I thought this an ironic name for a queer dance party venue until I arrived and saw that the only people on the tiny dance floor were four lesbians. Evidently, they're still considered queer. The tables by the bar were filled with queer hipsters of both genders and a few of their straight friends. As I did not feel like sitting alone like a loser, I opted to dance alone like a loser and made a b-line for the dance floor. The music was indie/old school hip hop. This, anthropomorphically, is not my people. The fact that I shook this ass pretty much non-stop is a testament to how deeply I did not feel like sitting by myself, as well as to the two decongestants I'd downed prior to embarking, effectively teaching me that third times a charm with over-the-counter non-drowsies.

I got hit on twice in the course of the night. The first was by a fucked-out-of-his-mind Stanford Blatch lookalike, but about ten years older, meaning five drug-filled years older. He was also dressed like Rudy of Fat Albert fame. After introducing himself and his lesbian bestie "Ocean" (yeah), he asked me about my life, leaning in far too much for my liking and allowing me to experience that all-too-familiar combo smell of illicit substances and bad oral hygiene. Later in the night, he gave me his number written on the back of someone else's business card. Unfortunately for Stannie, Becky McFarlane, Co-Director of the Ontario Council of Alternative Businesses, is much more likely to receive a solicitous phone call from me than his surely-encased-in-man-spanx ass. Aside from the olfactory assault, I was able to confirm that he was in fact high as a kite when five minutes after giving me the card, he came back over and said, "I just want to let you know I wasn't hitting on you; you just seem like a nice guy." Now, normally I would simply accept this statement at face value, but having been in this man's physiological condition, I can safely inform you that when a person is fucked up, offending someone else or being rejected is the most devastating thing imaginable. I swear that a solid third of my conversations at raves were spent with both of us trying to reassure the other person that we "liked them."

The second come-on had potential. In the dark. I saw a tall ambiguous male form from across the room awkwardly dancing alone and thought he looked endearing and potentially cute. (As to differentiate between his dancing and mine, Stanford had previously told me earlier in the night that he liked my dancing and this had allowed me to grant myself permission to fucking go off on that dance floor. Fat people have always told me that they liked the way I dance. Perhaps the inability to pick up one's feet is a biologically-ingrained instinctual attraction for people with over active thyroids.) After a while, the tall shadowed one comes over and begins shuffling in general proximity to me. We were kind of dancing at each other, like birds or something. At this point, the DJ, who has gradually switched to electro-house (thank the good lord; I can only be black for, like, an hour. Max.) put on a remix of...something. I can't remember, BUT ANYWAY he leans in and says, "I don't think I can survive this remix right now," to which I replied, "Let's find out together, shall we?" We kept making small talk but I was beginning to see him more clearly now and was having my inclination to believe him to be a hottie utterly dashed. He wasn't unattractive, but pas. I looked at my phone and it was just about 2am, the time that I had built myself up to stay until, so I said goodbye and left.

I realize that this would be a far better story had I met someone of note or had some sort of awesome adventure, but as it was I just went home, did not hook up and/or cuddle with anyone and went to bed solo. Sunday was spent entirely in my PJs catching up on two months of television and little else. I'm actually rather happy with the weekend. Ideally, I'd like to return to the Beav with someone else, perhaps the Montrealer, but I'm not into forcing anything. Not entirely sure if my newfound comfort at being able to do anything alone is healthy, but I tend to get satisfactory results from these outings.

Well, this was my attempt at narrative blog writing. It was...something. If you're interested in reading about someone who has found a way to be happy and hilarious simultaneously, the unicorn of bloggers, check out Sassy Curmudgeon. She had me stifling my tearful laughter with a Received By date stamp at work last week.

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