No, I'm Not Your Stalker (Reprise)

I will be attending Conflux in Portland, OR, next month, so I cruised through some websites of local clubs, bands, DJs, etc., to get a feel for the Darkchylde community's building energy...

And that's when I found him.

Shaun of the Dead

Yup. I stumbled onto his site and actually squealed at my desk:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAA! Ohmygawd - is that really...? It is!! It. Is. AAAAA ha ha ha ha!"

Luckily, no one's in the office, today, or I would have had a lot of explaining to do.

I make a sincere effort to protect the identity of those persons mentioned here, so there are a few things about this gent I left out or altered just a bit.... I only reposted his picture because it was already accessible through a club website.

But I knew it was him, and, after spending 30 minutes absorbing all the little details, my suspicions were confirmed.

And he knows MST3K.

I'm such a dork.

... I need a new hobby.

Unwrapping Santa's Package

When Yolondar of Portland first introduced me to St. Nick, I thought, "What a friendly, open, clean-cut young man."

And then I found out about his luscious past: shake that money maker, soldier boy!

As I forced details out of St. Nick, drooling with eager curiosity about a lifestyle I've never known, he buried his chin in his chest and mumbled, reduced to a blushing schoolboy by my exuberant attention. I believe time proved I was not being judgmental, just a devious tease who would say anything to illicit a smile.

By my last day in PDX, he was sharing the contents of his prized boxer collection: that's my boy! Next time I come across boxers with cartoon animals on the bum, they're all yours.

The subject of strippers brings up a topic which has recently been on the minds of friends across the nation: "Are we sluts?"

Not long ago, a good friend confided concern about what they perceived as their tendency towards excessive promiscuity.

I was floored.

This person is amazing: sexy, friendly, loving, sincere, gorgeous inside and out. I would be blessed to be 1/10 as fabulous. I would probably be a lot more comfortable in my skin if I conducted myself with as much strength and courage.

In the clothed light of day, "slut" and "whore" can be venomous and hollow slurs, most often spouted by the jealous and insecure.

It's one thing to Tarzan yell, "You F**ing Bitch; You F**ing Whore" in the bedroom, quite another to spit these words in passive conversation.

Ironically, the most worldly and confidant fret over the same issues as the shy and inexperienced. Most of us are constantly concerned about our perceived inadequacies and failures, even if the rest of the world doesn't notice.

Have not these modern times evidenced the scientific and mathematical inability to quantify/qualify "Normal", "Average"?

Go ahead, my pretties: bitch-slap self-reproach and self-doubt to the floor. Life is too short and you are too brilliant to hide away.

...And the next time you're in Portland, OR, feel free to show St. Nick a little love: tip his good deeds with a fiver in the Jockeys... or a Voodoo Doughnut.

Simple Joys

Encouraged by my September 2006 trip to Portland, I made another visit in January 2007.

While standing in the bar line at Hive, I began conversing with Eshin (those of you 'in the know' will understand the pseudonym). I thought he was a dear, so I willingly parted with my e-mail - the real address, not my "Well, you're SPAM" address.

Digital correspondence and blog-sharing have, delightfully, revealed harmonious demeanors and sense of humor.

I lifted this from Eshin's web journal, and I dedicate it to Jewels, with whom I have spent years watching Muppets and other television intended for children:




Thanks, you two, for giving me reasons to smile.
Yip Yip-ee-I yo mama!

Before Sunrise

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

At once terrifying and exquisite, it is surrender to the unknown, releasing our inhibitions and dismantling well-developed defenses, pushing past all self-repression to embrace a new piece of knowledge and the possibility of hope renewed and faith restored.

Those individuals who inspire and invoke such radical action beyond our comfort zone with sincere kindness and absence of ulterior motive or passive-aggressive dominance, all for the purpose of gently pressing us into a new world of brighter possibilities, are the muses of modern times.

They're our blood. They're our friends. They have their needs and problems, but they're our family of choice, blood or no.

We love them and stand by them, even when they fail us...
Even when they fail themselves.

We cannot imagine our world, our lives, our souls without them.

Life will take many paths, some which cross more frequently than others.

To all my pretties:
When the shit hits the fan and you feel pressed beyond bearing, you can always come home.

This door is always open; here, you will never be forgotten.

Welcome to our newest addition from Bellevue, WA. Another brilliant inspiration in the dark heart of American apathy. Head high, Starshine: you're more important than you know.

No, I'm Not Your Stalker

In person, I'm awkward and shy until a friendship is solidified.
Then you can't shut me up.

I never approach strangers or speak unless spoken to out of concern that I may offend or annoy.

Yet, I love to engage in a little barroom voyeurism; to sit back and watch others having the time of their lives.

And I love a good party... in almost any form.

My journey beyond the dark oubliette of my little Mole Person hole began with me growing a pair... Of steel-clad ovaries, that is. I decided: I love dancing, I love music on the dark end of the spectrum (though most of my friends don't), and I ain't geriatric, yet, so I'm going clubbing, even if I have to go alone!

And that's just what I did.

Over the past year and a half, I've met some really friendly people, and, although most of them are only in my life for one night (stop snickering, you perverts), I still remember them with a smile.

So when I cruise the 'net, skimming through club listings or Crackbook or StalkerSpace, I get a kick out of rediscovering these friendlies all over again.

On my first solo clubbing adventure - Sept. 2006 in Portland, OR - a charming gent broke my 'stranger barrier' and struck up a conversation:

"Shaun.... Like 'Shaun of the Dead'."

I like him already.

I don't know anything about him, except what he chose to tell me (helloooooo uniform fetish). For all I know, he could be a serial killer named Bubba. But, he made me laugh, which made my first solo experience at a goth club a positive one.

Thank you, Bubba.
You made my night brighter and extroversion a hell of a lot less intimidating.

And I think I see him in this one, too.....



It's like a digital age "Where's Waldo"......




(See, this is why I try to avoid having my picture taken: You never know what loony with a blog is gonna share you with the world.)

Ha ha.

Da's My Titta

One night in Portland, two women walk into a bar...

"I didn't mess with the Tittas."

Excuse me?

Say hello to Ty and Nat, a lovely young married couple from southern Oregon, and my new connection to a world of Hawaiian-Polynesian slang. I was introduced to them by one of my PDX crew, Yolandar.

I may not have the right to say it because I can't even spell it, but I think I'm in love with the "Titta".

It's one of those words which burst from the teeth with affable enthusiasm, despite any negative connotation derived from the original definition.

As I understand it, 'Titta' is equivalent to a Polynesian Amazon. Like "Brick House" playing over footage of a strong broad-shouldered, black-haired woman in a mu mu. Yeah baby, work that pu pu.

You're supposed to say it only if you're already one of the gang, but I don't subscribe to exclusionary linguistics. I'll make my own definition -

All of my beautiful, strong, supportive sisters:
You my Tittas.