Rollins With Mah Homies

Apologies, Global Family excepting Herr Kanada, for the dearth of posts as of late, although it seems to be world wide wacky phenomenon as everyone's output seems to be down at the moment. I chock mine up to the afore/oft mentioned ennui and expect comments of sympathy, frozen snickers bars and cash money to come pouring in from the baker's dozen of winners following my descent into pre-Passover madness. Hey, Ancient Jew Slaves: I feel you, peeps.

Wanting to emerge from my nest of self-imposed isolation and dejection, I called in sick to my regular Friday night dinner invite and went to see Señor Henry Rollins speak instead. I won't bore you with a long preamble about his many deeds and services, as that's what Wikipedia and nakedmalecelebrities.com are for, but he's a punk rocker/spoken word presenter who speaks to the oft disenfranchised angsty masses of suburban adolescents and the messed up adults they become. He also has wacky adventures travelling to strange foreign locales such as Burma or Pakistan, not for gigs or appearances but rather just to check out the places about which we only hear negatively and at the hands of Western media sources. In addition, he is a hetero tattooed tank of a guy who is a huge proponent of gay rights and not being a douche. I wanna hug him in ways I can't even express.

I went to be inspired and I suppose I was. He wasn't quite as humorous as when I'd seen him previously, but was all the same extremely entertaining, self-depricating and generally awesome. While I didn't walk out of the show and book a ticket for Azerbaijan, I did feel inspired to grab a NOW magazine and fill in every free night normally spent sitting at home on the interwebs and drinking wine with an activity of some sort, whether it be a show or a talk or just something to enrich my life better than backlogged episodes of Heroes. I also rode my newly-re-tired bike to and from the show, which always makes me feel like a Big Boy, and I even fixed the chain when it fell off, thereby making my hands filthy and my sense of purpose shine. Small victories, people.

So how did I spend my post-Rollins weekend? Saturday, I tidied my place and took myself to lunch. Then I popped into Starbucks, where I spilled an entire Grande American Misto all over the everything by dropping the jar of honey I was pouring from into my drink. A Hot Dad with a baby strapped to his chest told me I'd done it with "panache" and they made me another drink for free so I'm-a call Win on that one.

From there, I transitted my tuxedo-carrying ass to Buttfuck Nowhere, where I arrived an hour early for a 5pm dress rehearsal of a concert happening later that night, starring my dog-and-pony-show Jew choir (the 'ch' is guttural) and some Protestant equivalent with 3 times the members and 1/3 the makeup. Okay, for serious, United Church Goers, the good lord invented MAC counters for a reason. Hell, he invented Dollarama makeup aisles for a reason! A lesser reason, but STILL A REASON. Moving on, after butchering the Chichester Psalms so bad they became New Testament (zing!...just kidding; I have no clue what that meant), things wrapped up around 10:00pm, allowing me to get back to my urban reality, down three caffeine pills, two martinis and a non-drowsy deconge and bike down to The Beaver to meet fellow blogger The Queer Behind the Mirror (QBM) for some raucous dancing. I managed to nearly get hit by cabs a mere three times and then stood in line outside for a solid 20 minutes while an obese drag queen performed Fleetwood Mac covers, complete with backing band comprised of 1 guitar, 1 bass, 1 drum kit and 17 tambourines, including one played by a man crowd surfing to 'Landslide'. I finally got in around 12:30am, ordered a shot of vodka and a bottled water, kicked off my Kenneth Coles and dropped it in the manner that one might was it hot on the dance floor. Highlights included nearly getting assaulted by a drunk amazonian woman doing what one could infer was her signature dance move, protecting a tiny tattooed woman in a tutu when now-coke-out-of-her-mind Steven Nicks decide to stand/stumble in the middle of the dance floor, and finally getting surprise-ridden by bearded drag queen when I was on all fours looking for my shoes under a table.

QBM and I left around 2:30 and he crashed at my place, making excellent use of the futon. The following morning we went for leakfast (suck it, Brunch) and then parted ways as I went off to meet my aunt and uncle for a play. We saw Breakfast, which is about a house-coated woman descending into madness at the hands of her self help cassette, culminating in dry humping the personified tape after erotically coating it in pudding, banana, strawberries and vanilla yogurt (We just narrowly avoided the splash section). Needless to say, it was a bit ridiculous and hit-you-over-the-head obvious about sexuality and repression, but at an hour-long running time, it was manageable. We then went on a matzah-finding adventure, 'cause evidently most urban grocery stores are staunch anti-Semites. We soon found an embarrassment of riches at a nearby Price Chopper (which, incidentally was our original nickname before "The Chosen People" got all trendy) and then went back to Aunt and Uncle's pad to get toasty on wine and full on his homemade pizza. I got home around 10:30.

So that was my weekend. I did not protest Ann Coulter or participate in any sustainable living fashion shows, but I did keep myself occupied, which I suppose was the goal. I'm still not totally out of the woods yet, mostly cause my weekly quiche didn't turn out that great (yeah.) but it's a move in the right direction.

Lastly, while walking home this week I saw a scarf lying in the middle of the road that had been run over repeatedly. For some reason, I picked it up and thought, "Hey, if laundered this would actually be a really nice scarf for a sweet natured, conservatively dressed straight guy with grooming challenges." Unibrow is receiving it next weekend.

HAPPY PESACH, BIZNATCHES!