Hurt in a Skirt

You should be incredibly jealous of me. This past friday, I went to Rollerderby. You got it - roller skating girl on girl action. Friday was an all star team match up pitting the Dairyland Dolls against the Minnesota Roller Girls. The Dairyland Dolls were comprised of players in Madison's league - teams like the Unholy Rollers and Reservoir Dolls. Some of my favorite players were Mouse and Britnee Smears, two jammers that really know how to get the job done.

It was cheesy, there were hi-jinks, I drank Bud-Lite from a 24 oz can, but I couldn't help getting wrapped up in all of the excitement. The girls were dressed in fishnet stockings and glittery outfits that offset the mouthgards and helmets. And they were all business rocketing each other forward in order to score points, knocking each other off the track, ganging up on each other to block. And the crowd would go wild every time their respective team's jammer would get in front of the pack to score.

I seemed to be the only one in my group to draw a parallel between this and the spirit of women's baseball leagues that popped up in the 1940's during war time. Back then, women risked their feminine reputations just to play some ball championing the notion of women as athletes. And even with names like The Bone Setter, these rollergirls with their fishnets, push up bras, and short skirts maintained that edge between bad girl and feminine mystique as boys and men showed up in droves for photo-ops, autographs, and even a raffle in which the grand prize was the opportunity to sky dive in tandem with your favorite doll.

And if that weren't enough, all of the proceeds from the events go to charitable organizations that promote the health and well-being of women. On friday night, the profits went to the rape crisis center. Even the mayor showed up to recognize their philanthropy over the past two years naming August 25th official Mad Rollin Dolls Day. What could be better.

The new season doesn't start until January. I for one plan on being a season ticket holder. If you have a roller derby league in your town, you should check it out. If not, you should be incredibly jealous of me.

The Line of Beauty

I'm beginning to think that any book that takes place in the 80's has to involve conservative politics and cocaine. I'm also wondering if it is possible for anyone to write a piece of gay fiction without mentioning AIDS or someone dying from it. If your book is gay fiction taking place in the 80's, you get all three. Introducing The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst, lauded as a "gay" book to win the Man Booker Prize for fiction.

The story surrounds Nicholas Guest, kid from the wrong side of the London Bridge who is charming enough to freeload his way into the home of one of his college buddies who incidentally is the son of a conservative politician. Nick is also gay. Over the course of a decade, Nick gets laid, Nick gets high, Nick meets the the woman Thatcher herself, and Nick dodges the gloom and doom of "the disease".

And like another 80's phenomena, the magical recipe of all those John Hughes Pretty in Pink type movies, Nick realizes that the only thing worse than not being an insider is thinking all along that you were. Or at least could be. Mr. Hollinghurst paints an interesting picture of inadvertant social climbing against a backdrop of Thatcher era politics and gives it a gay human interest slant. This human didn't think it got all that interesting until after page 300. Before that it was a big "so what". I guess one could derive a sort of parallel between the classes including their successes and their demise. But really, I just didn't feel the need to think that hard in order to be entertained.

I'll stick to Bret Easton Ellis. Now there is a man who captured the social climbing, cocaine laden, gay sexy, yet conservative 80's with gusto. Check out American Psycho (not the movie, PLEASE) if that's your speed.

Playground Revisited

In grade school, gym class wasn't really a class as much as it was mandated and scheduled exercise time. Invariably, in order to keep all the kids interested and at bay, we would learn team sports such as dodgeball, baseball, or basketball. In my class there were two kids who were the epitome of the athletic overachievers that matured way faster than the other kids. One was Mike L. and the other was Robby S. Because having both of them on the same dodgeball team would amount to gym class homicide for the opposite team, the gym teacher would split them up, call them team captains, and then let them pick the remainder of their teams in alternating fashion. He could have just done 1's and 2's but that would have taken away the humiliation for the kids like myself who day after day, year after year, got picked last. And I was pretty good at dodgeball. Sometimes, bartering would occur with Mike L. stating that he would give Robby S. both me and Craig C. in exchange for Danny B. Em, guys, I'm in the room. I would really like to think that I've gotten over this but truly, I haven't. There has always been a small Sybil persona that represents the playground reject. And he manifests himself in many different ways in my adult life.

Fast forward 25 years. I joined a new gym called the Monkeybar Gym, a "natural gym" that uses no weight machines. Instead, one relies on their own weight and resistance to build muscle and tone. The founder's philosophy is such that kids on the playground are able to maintain health and fitness purely by running around and playing on monkeybars, so why can't adults. The gym provides daily classes that incorporate playground type activities in a much more controlled and disciplined way and a number of my friends have seen significant results. So we do intricate hour long jump rope sessions, climb ropes, do sit ups and chin ups, thirty minute shuttle runs and crab walks. I don't remember being this sore or tired on the playground.

Here's the kicker. At my first class, I was also introduced to one of the gym's other philosophies - the buddy sytem. At every class, one must pair up with another member of the class who they will work with that day to spot and help each other. When the instructor announced that it was time to pair up, I froze. For a moment I became again the scrawny kid leaning against the fence waiting to see who would be stuck with me on their team. That person would be resentful and feel as though the class would be a wash. But the days of Mike L. and Robby S. are long gone. I'm not 70 pounds wet anymore. I don't have to wait to get picked, I can pick for myself. And that's exactly what I did. I asked the first guy that I saw to be my partner and we ended up having a great workout. There was a healthy competitive spirit between us and nobody was the underdog. I'm taking back my earlier playground memories and replacing them with new ones.

Shirts, Sherpas, and Sardines

One of the best parts of moving to a new city is that everything is, well, new. Discovering new restaurants, new clubs, new streets, and maybe modifying your old routine into something a bit fresher can be, well, refreshing.

I moved to Madison, Wisconsin three weeks ago from Milwaukee. I've always defended my choice of living in the Midwest and the thumb state has always been my home - born and bred, never left. My dear friends who reside in more urban areas of the country probably won't get it when I say that there is a considerable difference between the two cities. But other locals will understand that Milwaukee is a veritable concrete playground when compared to Madison. So I have my work cut out for me.

The last few weeks have been devoted to the stress of unpacking - unliving the way you did before and starting over. Melding your stuff with your BF's can be akin to the petulant eight year old who doesn't want any of his food to touch anything else on the plate. But after 14 days of playing multiple rounds of "His, Mine, and Ours" (I'm Lucy, natch), it was time to venture out.

Rule 1: Go with what you know. First order of business was to catch the last day of the Friends and Family sale at the Gap. Gap is universal. No matter where you are in whatever language you're attempting to speak, denim is denim. So falling into Madison was as easy as falling into the Gap. Usually I just sit in the changing room while my friend Tony, a manager at the Milwaukee store, brings me things to try on until I am saturated. I was on my own now, and I knew it was time to check out when the nostalgia just got to be too much.

Rule 2: Try something new. After shopping, lunch. In an attempt to break me of my Qdoba addiction, the BF took me to one of his favorite lunch spots - Himal Chuli. Literally meaning Himalayan Hearth, this office sized street spot serves authentic foods all cooked by the owner, a woman who looks like she came down from the mountain itself. I had takaari, roti, and daal while a mix of people chowed down with their fingers (the Tibetan way). So typical Madison, unpretentious. And even though everyone knows about the place, it still feels like your little secret. The food was amazing.

Rule 3: Stake your claim. I'll admit I fantasize that I'm somewhat of a VIP whore. If there were any celebrities around here, I'd be a total star fucker. If it's opening, I want to be there. If there's a list, I want to be on it. In New York, this is hard to do. Madison surely can't be that tough. So after joining the LGBT center, the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art (no laughing TB), and the Democratic Party (they're huge around here), I got a reservation for one of the newest restaurants in town, Sardine. Madison's daily page says, "A bistro style restaurant, Sardine serves an American twist on classic French combinations in hip Machinery Row. An odd mix of caution and confidence" I have no idea what that means but it sounds Perfect! We sauntered in at an early 7:45. I was wearing my over tailored Hugo Boss summer weight blue plaid shirt and my If.You.Like.Versace.You'll.Love.These.Five.Dollar.Knock.Off sunglasses. It could have been South Beach. If we were in South Beach. But it was all in East Madison.

Which is enough for me.

Clearing a Full Plate

I'll admit it. I probably bit off more than I could chew. I have a tendency to do things like that - be agreeable to multiple commitments only to find myself on thin ice when the deadlines start rolling in. June and July were lessons in humility. Kids, don't try this at home.

First, I quit my job. The decision wasn't hard to make but leaving was hard to do. Think of every stereotype of an abusive relationship and you'll get it. Maybe, more on that another time. Next, I moved. The BF and I made a decision to move in together which meant moving to a city about an hour and a half away. This involved looking for houses, buying a house, selling my house, and packing up my life in boxes and leaving the city I have known for 18 years. I think the two of us learned alot about each other during the last eight weeks - patience, compromise, style choices (ugh). Lastly, I had to find another job. In a limited market, my choice required some soul searching. My start date preceded my moving date so for a month I commuted 90 miles.

There just wasn't time. It was too hot to train, I was too scattered to eat right, my free days were numbered. Something had to give and I had to let it go. I followed the news of the Gay Games from a distance unable and maybe a bit unwilling to participate. But the training wasn't for nought.

I know a bunch of people who have packed it in for different climates in the recent years. BB, Nurse Nancy, him, and him. And I will take note of their success. I'm excited for the next chapter of my life.