The Road Scholar Trip to Mexico is a dry run for things Mark wants to do when he retires and for packages in other places, possibly Egypt.
Aoife stayed up half the night when he first left wondering when he would return. She’s figured out that he’s gone, but I’m pretty sure she still wonders if Mark is going to magically appear at the dog park. Cicero displayed stereotypically feline indifference (there was only one upchucked hairball).
Mark’s absence is reminding me that I need to expand my social networks and increase the time that I am physically visiting with people. I think folks in England do this through the institution of The Pub. Which, of course, makes me think of the scene from the movie, “Educating Rita,” where the titular character asks her mom why she isn’t singing along with a song in a pub, and her mom answers along the lines of, “I’m waiting for a better song.” The response from Rita’s professor upon hearing this story is, “No. She’s waiting for a different song.” Visiting English pubs would be an option if I weren’t in Eugene.
And of course, imagining Eugeneans in a would-be English Pub while singing songs makes me think of Anna Russell’s monologue about folk songs where the singer is wishing they were anywhere else and “weren't in this horrible place, but were in their dear old native land.” Instead of singing songs to cope, I’ve decided that I need to pronounce Eugene (uh-ZHEN) with a French accent.
Since Mark was away and couldn’t attend, I took The Child out to a comedy club to see a “psychic comic.” It was a funny show and the comic was entertaining; he likely has a very good memory, has excellent skills at observing people, and is mentally quick. (Cue the Animaniacs singing, “So urbane-y / Shirley Shirley MacLaine-y”). The audience was fun enough, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of the very cringey audience from when Randy Rainbow came to the Hult Center a few years back. I suppose that when a comic is choosing audience stories and questions as prompts to interact with, there’s more mileage to be had from “Should I get a boob job?” or “Is my cat my sole soulmate?” You know the cringe is strong when the audience collectively sucks their breath through their teeth and goes “Oof.” Several times. It’s a credit to his skill that his answers were both funny and gentle.
As we were getting into our car to leave, a woman in her mid-thirties hit on The Child. This was the same audience member who, during one of the final psychic moments of the show, revealed that her idea of fun was to try to get dizzy (which apparently is hard for her to do), and during her last attempt, she drank insane amounts of alcohol and had her friend’s son twirl her around on playground equipment so hard that she flew off into the air and landed on her face, receiving a mouthful of bark mulch and her tenth concussion. The Child was seemingly oblivious to how her body language abruptly shifted from slouching to her car to one foot forward, shoulders-back-breasts-engaged, and a demi-toss of her long hair as she told us her name.
We wished her a good (and safe) night and drove away.
I did not take The Child dancing at the local, pink-themed, gay dance event a few nights later. I’m not sure which he would be most uncomfortable with: the various couples making out on the dance floor, the sweaty Go-Go Guys dancing in their underwear, the not-always-softcore porn clips playing behind the DJ, or my Doctor Strange dance repertoire (sixty-year-olds are so cute when they try to do their solitary ritual aerobics).
The current dance venue, which wants to be an occult-adjacent English Pub, just lost its liquor license. I’m not sure if there were more or fewer drinks spilled onto the dance floor. If I were pressed, I would say that instead of many small sloshes of alcoholic drinks there was one large non-alcoholic drink that got dropped.
The dance was simultaneously fun and a let-down. The DJ and the event photographer are always welcoming and inclusive. I liked the dancing part and the music for the most part was danceable. I didn’t have any mystic dancing down the moon on the moon paths moments and had to settle for a Dance Meditation while fixing my gaze on the red-lit disco ball and asking myself “Is This a Tree of Life Vision of Splendor, a Vision of Victory, or Have We Collectively Even Gotten Past the Veil of Maya and onto the Higher Astral?” and “Is This Experience Like The Lovers, The Devil, or The Moon Tarot Card?” The rising crawfish in The Moon seems to be resonating with me as a symbol of an awareness of unseen, possibly imaginary, currents at the beginning of a path that starts with a dog and a wolf facing each other—and there was someone in a leather pup mask, now that I think of it.
Everyone there appeared to be with a partner (“Let’s Play Master and Servant,” “I Am So Into You,” “You Can Ring My Bell”) or group (the College Kid Friends, the Women Who Say Whooo!, The Leather Harness Dudes, The Go-Go Guy Posse, HIV Alliance Volunteers) and I felt like I was the only single person there (“Dancing with Myself”). Usually, there are more singletons—maybe this time they were all hanging out on the smoking patio.
I got my aerobics in and when the music shifted from a fun dance tune to a slower, cool-down tune, it was time to leave. I wished that there was someone there that I recognized, because it would have been fun to chat; but the music is Very Loud, and it’s difficult to talk on the smoking patio. I’m hoping when the dance moves to the new venue it has a quieter space for discussions—although the new venue’s right on the edge of campus, and I suspect more undergraduates will make an appearance.
I came home to Aoife and Cicero. Who woke up enough to see if I was going to put any midnight treats in their food bowls. Mark comes home in four days.
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