The Other wants to dance just as bad as you

If you're the only person left in the world, you can't be a dick.  Who would you be a dick too?


Last Friday I went to the 78th Street Studios in the Detroit-Shoreway neighborhood to see an exhibit with some friends.  I never feel very comfortable in art galleries when other people are around, because this is inevitably the conversation that goes on in my head:

"Wow! Art! Look at that one!"

"I wonder if anyone's looking at me, thinking 'that guy really appreciates art.  He's been staring at that piece for like two minutes.'

"Shut up, Jonathan.  You're here to see the art, not to have other people see you see the art."

"Okay, focus.  Art.  Art.  Art.  Fart.  Fuck... I wonder if anyone saw me giggle.  I wasn't laughing at the art.  I was laughing because I said 'fart'... Fuck, I have to stop laughing.  This is serious."  

I can't help but imagine that other people I see at these fart shows are having the same exact conversation in their heads, yet looking so serious with their plastic cups of wine.  Are we having fun?  Are we getting the message?  Are we taking anything from this art?

I learned that night, that yes, it is possible to take something away from such events.  You just have to not give a shit, and that is hard.  We all want to be accepted for who we are.  The only problem is that we are all very unique and strange.  There are parts of us we worry others won't accept or even understand.  We hide these little pieces we think are marred and only let them out when no one is looking.

For me, I find nothing more satisfying than dancing in my underwear.  Not regular white kid dancing, or frenetic head movements if you will, but some kind of mix between ballet, interpretive dance, and Footloose.  Music has a very powerful effect on me and my gangly limbs.  Whatever it tells my body to do, it does -- at least when it's just me and the cats.  As a heterosexual six-foot-four full-grown American man, people don't expect to see me dancing like an idiot in the street.  It's perfectly harmless, but unfortunately it's not seen as appropriate behavior.

So I hide the dancing and bring out my more hipster attributes that I know will get a response from the hipster community*.  I express my love for tight-fitting, vintage clothes.  I talk about my love for urban life.  I sing karaoke.  But I don't dance.

At least not before last Friday.

I looked at everyone at the gallery acting so interested and serious.  I saw myself do the exact same.  I started to feel uncomfortable.  The infinite-mirrors of 'does-she-notice-that-I-notice-that-she-notices' started spinning in my head.

But then I heard some music.

Fun, dance-y music.

Did people judge me?  Probably.  Luckily, a good friend of mine who also loves to dance was right there with me, dancing in the same absurdly beautiful way.  Surprisingly, the most beautiful part of the night was that for every ten people that gave us a what-the-fuck look, one person would join in.

At one point, a Ukrainian woman joined me, and every once in a while she would stop, laugh into her hands, and tell me I was such a beautiful dancer.  Though she was a bit drunk and her English was a little hard to understand, when she told me "haters gonna hate," I knew it was genuine.

That acceptance meant so much to me.  I was not only being accepted for the parts of me I usually show, but for the parts of me I usually hide.  It made me feel human -- human within my strangeness.

This is definitely what I miss most about being in a relationship.


*NOTE: the greatest irony of the hipster group is that while they love fun, dance-y music, they don't dance -- it's just a lot of head bobbing.  This kills me.

God Made Thrift Stores

Earlier last week I had a bad head morning.  But unlike most bad head mornings, it landed on a Tuesday.  I need to reserve karaoke for the weekends, strictly.

Having my mornings free on Tuesday, I decided to go to the Salvation Army on Euclid and E. 51st for some retail salvation.  I love this particular thrift store because as far as I can tell, the cool kids have yet to find it.  Unique in Ohio City is extremely picked over.  I also have this crazy theory that someone from Flower Child goes in early every time Unique puts out new clothes and steals all the Lacoste and Ralph Lauren.  I don't know how I know this, but I know this.  The Value World on Lorain has been pretty good to me lately, but being that it's next to a T.J. Maxx, I know if I go there, I'm not leaving until I spend all of my lunch money for the week.

So I like the Salvation Army, albeit I could do without their disapproval of my gay, lesbian, etc. friends.  

When I got there, the layout had changed since my last visit.  They were doing some sort of construction in the back, which included a jury rigged changing room made out of plywood and a shower curtain.  This was great news for me, being that this place never had a changing room before.  I had my coat with me, which I normally would have left at home, so I wouldn't have to constantly take it on and off to try things on in the aisle, but being that it was pretty chilly that day, I had to bundle up.  So having a changing room was clutch, as they used to say.

I picked up a couple shirts, a pair of jeans I knew wouldn't fit me (but you never know, right?), and a sweater that I passed by initially but came back for because it was a good label.  You really shouldn't pass up good labels.  Even if it's ugly -- but as long as it fits you well -- you'll feel like you're stealing it you're getting it at such a good price.  

And am I glad I picked up that sweater.  It was the one way ticket out of my crummy morning.  I quickly tried on the ill-fitting pants, trying not to trip in the make-shift changing room which would have made for a better story, but also would have meant about a hundred plywood splinters.  I left and immediately put the sweater on, not really giving a shit that I smelled like thrift store.  I didn't shower that morning anyway -- things weren't going to get any worse.

I wore that sweater about three out of the last six days.  As much as I'm going on about a piece of fabric, I'm not going to describe it to you in any more detail.  Like I said, I passed it initially because on the rack it's just kind of a "meh" sweater.  But when I put it on, shit got real.

I wore it yesterday and thought to myself, "as much as I love this sweater, which is probably more than most people, would my life really be much worse if I just threw it into a lake."  Don't worry, I didn't.  But the thought stuck with me.  My life hasn't changed since buying it.  My life won't change if it gets torn or stained.  

I've loved and lost a million sweaters in my life and it's never really affected me.

I really love this city, but not for the things it has: cool bars, places to sing karaoke, a lake (do you need more?).  I love this city because I love the friends I've made here.  The friends that gossip with me on Saturday mornings at Gypsy Bean.  The friends who know that Tina's is a Niteclub and not a Nightclub.  The friends who don't ask if we're riding bikes there, but know we're riding bikes there.

My life was a lot different before I met them.  My life would definitely change if they were thrown into a lake.

So if you're new to Cleveland, or just don't know many people, say hello to someone.  They're not going to hurt you, they probably just want to sing karaoke with you.   And you might have a few bad head mornings because of it, but isn't that why God made thrift stores?

Take good care of those you call your own and keep good company.  -Queen

Au revoir, Hot Pockets

I've never had a memorable experience by saying no.   

I don't know what to make of this new thought-dumpster, but that line wraps it up nicely.  There are a lot of memorable experiences to be had in this city.  And if you want them, you have to say yes to things.  

Things you know nothing about.

Things you might be afraid of.

Things you might regret.

A full life shouldn't be thought of as a string of pleasant, comfortable moments.  Naps are not memorable, no matter how satisfying it is to flick a hunk of sleep from your eyes.  A full life is inevitably going to involve an occasional accident.  It will be unpleasant at times.  But no new discovery was made by searching for comfort and stability.

A lot of advertising makes me feel as if I am somehow not comfortable enough, with the Snuggie commercial being the first to come to mind.  Who knew reading a book with an old blanket was such a miserable experience?

Advertising would have me believe that everything I do needs to be faster, easier, and more productive.  Sure, a Hot Pocket is faster and easier to prepare than its from-scratch equivalent (whatever that would be), but there's no craft to putting a box in a microwave.  

Will the Hot Pocket taste the same every time?  Yes, that's what the preservatives and salt are there for.  Is there a chance the from-scratch equivalent will burn, be made from sour ingredients, or simply not turn out?  Of course.  It's inevitable.

But then there's a chance that it comes out right.  You have made something delicious.  And once you make it right, all the burnt, foul-smelling dishes you've made before almost seem worth it, because it brought you to this moment.  

That is how I want to live my life.

Oh my love

Look and see

The sun rising from the river

Nature's miracle once more will light the world

But this light is not for those men

Still lost in an old black shadow

Won't you help me to believe

That they will see a day

A brighter day

When all the shadows

Will fade away

That day I'll cry that I believe

That I believe

Oh my love

High above us

The sun now embraces nature

And from nature we should learn

That all can start again

As the stars must fade away

To give a bright new day