This is what comes of not posting promptly. This was yesterday’s entry:
Tonight is my dear friend’s belly-dancing concert, to which I am very much looking forward. Helpdesk Man being kind enough to take the snortlepig off my hands I could, in theory, don a low-cut dress and drink margaritas all night. If I liked margaritas. And had a low-cut dress. (Some bod called me parochial one time: this sort of thing does little to refute it. Although I suppose I should get points for having a friend who belly-dances.)
In actuality I will go to the effort of having a shower and attempt to fit into one of my pre-snortlepig non-breastfeeding-friendly dresses, and after the show is over my two dear friends and I will eat fish and chips at the park before returning to the snortlepig and eating dessert made by me. At least, I think that’s the plan. At any rate it’s still four times more exciting than my average Saturday night.
Can anyone tell me why I can only sometimes get sound on YouTube clips played on Firefox? Other times it refuses to play, and when i try to reboot Firefox gives me an error message which forces me to reboot my entire machine, even though the sequence has assumed the comforting predictability of an episode of Star Trek TOS (The City on the Edge of Forever excepting), never fails to fill me with powerful rage. Gritting rage, one might say.
So anyhoo, here’s a conundrum to brighten your insignificant little life: Which superpower would you rather have, the ability to find good deals in thrift stores or the ability to remember the contents of your garage, pantry and freezer, including expiration dates? I bring this up because we watched Watchmen last night, and all but one of said Watchmen had no actual superpowers whatsoever. Masks, gadgets and martial arts skills, yes; but at heart, nothing but glorified cops. Plus, the one that did have superpowers was blue and extremely naked. It was an interesting, though I feel somewhat flawed and patchy film.
This is today’s entry.
The belly-dancing concert was an experience not to be forgotten. I did manage to fit into a pre-snortlepig dress, a rather nice Keith Matheson blue one that Helpdesk Man doesn’t like (pah!); unfortunately I had thrown out the shoes that went with it on account of them causing me to bleed and fall down. So I wore it with my knee-high leather boots. “You can pull it off”, said Helpdesk Man encouragingly. It was OK. Kind of a River Tam look. Then I got somewhat behind on the getting-ready process, as Helpdesk Man could not be trusted to roll brandy snaps on his own; so instead of doing my hair I left it loose and jammed on my trusty hat. Not that one, the other one. Now I was a bohemian River Tam, and less certain about pulling it off. But it was All Oh Kay until we got to the Cosmopolitan Club and the woman behind the front desk snapped at me “No hats”. For the rest of the evening, I was a hobo River Tam and gave up altogether on trying to pull it off.
The staggeringly inaccurately-named Cosmopolitan Club is neither cosmpolitan nor clublike, but rather consists of an enormous warehouse filled with the odd poker machine, eight glum-looking senior citizens and a sign above the bistro saying “Due to Reduced Patronage, Cafe Hours Have Been Reduced As Follows”. We ordered fish and chips, which were passable, and waited meekly for the show to begin.
Somewhat to our surprise the lights did not dim to allow the dancers to swirl Turkishly in. The disco ball mouldering on the ceiling (presumably an ironic nod to the “cosmopolitan” conceit) remained resolutely still; the microphone was not offered to the troupe’s leader, which made her opening speech that much more tantalising; and surreally, the entire performance was punctuated by cries from a sturdy gent to buy a ticket for the Meat Raffle. Our table tried to tactfully ignore him and watch the show, which turned out to be a horrible faux pas, and he kept returning with ever-increased vigilance in the hopes of catching us feeling peckish for a leg of ham.
To the credit of my dear belly-dancing friend, who was known in the programme as… Perdita? No, that’s 101 Dalmations. Something similar to Perdita.I shall call her Perdita. K? Anyway, to give Perdita her due she sparkled and smiled throughout such adverse conditions in a way pleasing to the soul. Her movements did not blench when the sound system dwindled to the merest hint of music; her smile remained fixed and confident as the announcements blared out for Number 13 to come and pick up his prize; and when, during the highlight of the show, she was forced to dress like a Chinese (?) hooker (?) and sashay behind a guy named Azza who we suspect was rapping but couldn’t actually hear… well, I’ve never been prouder of a friend than at that moment.
The rest of the troupe, not having Perdita’s dance/performance background and being largely over the age of sixty (and in one case, it seemed, slightly disapproving of the whole bellydancing genre, which could be the basis for an interesting character sketch), were somewhat less polished. One of them scuttled out each time looking harried, as if an imp were on her heels; another performed with the ennui of a slightly stoned woman of disrepute who would rather be rinsing out her stockings. I found out later she was the teacher. When Perdita emerged after the show, approximately twelve costume changes later and flushed with the euphoria of success, there didn’t seem that much to say. We congratulated her sincerely on a memorable evening and went home to eat chocolate mousse and watch Bugsy Malone.
Life is odd sometimes.