I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinkin' "this guy is frustratingly intermittent with his blog posting." You might also be thinkin' "his constant proclamations to reform the aforementioned fault are laughable to the point of absurdity." And possibly you think "his fashion sense is spotty at best and his attempts to achieve an effortless, tussled look with his hair fall flat."
Well, first of all, fuck off.
Second of all, you're right on all three counts.
Third, Happy Groundhog's Day. (Mighta just shot m'self in the foot with that message, as I now have to finish this post in two hours . . .)
All right. So my Planet Fitness membership comes with unlimited free tanning. I am told by a fairly reputable -- if meglomanaical -- source that the appearance of muscle definition is enhanced by darker skin tone. The browner one's skin, the better one's physique looks. Something to do with light and shadow. Anyway, in my never-ending battle to make my already studly bod look better, I decided to try a bit of tanning.
The fella at the gym -- a flamboyant chap with a greasy faux hawk and an admirable bronze glow himself -- set me up for fifteen minutes. That didn't seem too long. I had tanned before and gone in for ten, with pitiable results, so an extra five minutos in the sun tank seemed just right. I endured the sweaty quarter of an hour and popped off of the bed with no visible coloring. I showered and drove home, feeling pleasantly spent after a challenging work-out and the tanning session.
That night I noticed the first tinglings of irritation on my stomach and back.
I awoke the next morning looking like the Coppertone Baby. Only more uneven. My tummy is a bright, fire-engine red, but the color stops at my chest, which remained a pale, wormy white. My arms tanned, as did my face, but my back and the back of my neck are burnt. My shins are still white, but the fronts of my thighs are hot pink. It feels as though someone bent me over and beat the backs of my legs with a belt (which, of course, just makes me think of my ex-girlfriend. [Sidenote: not really. The ex was never that into the whole BDSM thing, save for a rather splendid birthday spanking she gave me one year . . .]).
I am bemused that the tan turned so quickly into a horrendous burn, but even more bemused that the burn is so uneven. I vary from parchment white to jaundice yellow, through almond brown, into '80's neon pink and lobster crimson. And I tanned with my tighty whities on, leaving some rather dramatic tan lines.
So, ouch to my pride and ouch to my skin parts. Insult and injury.
I just sat down and read my horoscope in The Advocate and am once again awesruck at the profundity and personal applicability of Mr. Brezny's work. Every week the astrological almanac speaks to me in depth on a very close, individual level. I am not one much for astrology (granted there are some aspects of my specific sign, especially the sexual aspects, that I find uncannily accurate), but for some reason The Advocate is always poignant and apt.
In some small way I have turned my life over to a vague sense of superstitions and pagan, nature beliefs, lapsed Catholic that I am. I do not fully and reverently believe in omens and signs, but I still occasionally read into coicidental developments.
The only dream I remember of late involved me crusading around like Jack Bauer from 24, trying to save a little Chinese kid who was being persued by some shady corporation intent on studying children with special abilities. Eventually I wound up in a clinic, pretending to be a patient. A nurse approached me and asked to see what I was drawing. I looked at the table in front of me and saw the journal I took to Australia, back in sophomore year of high school. I opened it, flipped through, and found a comic drawn by my former friend Caitlin. (It's always difficult to explain dreams, because of the seamless and frequent perspective shifts.) Anyway, I went from looking at the book to being in the book. We were in the woods, and then we were in a kiddie pool into which leapt several alligators. "Stay away from that guy," I whispered, pointing a particularly big one, "he's a California crocodile."
At some point we made love in the woods, but in the comic book it looked like a fight scene in a cartoon; just a dust cloud out of which jabbed a limb here or there (which, to be fair, is a close approximation of how I make love). In one panel she illustrated us in the manner of one of my favorite comic book artists, Alex Ross.
I viewed all of this and thought to myself, in the dream, "How did I ever let this friendship slip thought my fingers?" (We are no longer talking. Long story).
I suppose I should follow my half-hearted, half-developed beliefs an call her.
Okay . . .
Oh, art class.
I'm taking a basic drawing course at HCC. It feels good to be back in school again, after three years. I'd never taken an art class before. It is simultaneously legitimate in that art, specifically drawing, is a primal and effective way of expressing oneself, and also a fairly frivolous exploit. I feel the epitome of academia, strutting about campus with my portfolio. I feel I am finally enjoying a necessary component of the college experience.
The professor, a distractedly intense little guy, reminds me of Jeffrey Combs. He could tell that I had previous art class experience. It's not that impressive, just something in the way I handle the charcoal, I'm sure. At the time we were simply making marks on newsprint.
One thing I like is how the prof stresses drawing with our shoulers or hips, rather than with our wrists. My massage training came into play here, helping with my body mechanics. I bend at the knees, almost adopting a tae kwon do saddle stance, and lean and pivot. Massage also led me to be more hands-on. Once one has applied enough charcoal to the page, one can spread it around, using fingertips and palms, deepening shadows and blending blacks and greys.
I regret not using my massage training more with the females. I feel my training is going to waste, me just using my hands to make tarts and sketch vases. I should have put my new found tactile predelictions to use with my ex-girlfriend. (Although she was always unsettled by my taking massage classes, and jealous of my touching other people). My hands long to feel warm flesh again. (That makes me sound like a serial killer, I know, but I mean it in an intimate, romantic way).
Okay. I've missed the deadline by about an hour and a half, but I am two blocks past giving a fuck.
So I bid you all good evening and I will talk to y'all later.
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