The international adventures of a singing, dancing zombie queen.

Monday, April 25, 2005


Here's what I sound like when I'm bored, and IMing a friend who may or may not be online:

I'm bored.
me: And I was bored all afternoon at work.
me: and my housemate is out of town, so my boyfriend said a couple of days ago that he would use this evening to "fuck [me] all over the house".
me: But instead, he is at his house doing laundry.
me: I suppose I shouldn't bitch, since I've been getting it once or twice a day for the past few weeks, but I am bored.

I'm fascinating, non? Hee hee..
Well, at least I can blog at you folks. I'm listening to "Culo" by Pitbull. WHoot! CULO! I don't even know what that means. Herm.. Maybe I can find a dictionary of Spanish slang for you... Well; I did, but it isn't quite as detailed as I might've hoped. Here goes:

culo (noun, masc.) ass

CULO! How appropriate.

On a more serious note, I did have a Hunter S. Thompson's work hits real life moment. I'm reading "Hell's Angels" right now, which is weird because it's an early work of his, and so it isn't very Gonzo. But a good read, nonetheless. A lot of the book deals with the Angel's image as created by mass media, and the reactions to it that both general society and the Angels had. For the general public, this was, of course, an extremely negative association. But this book was written about the 1960's; in fact the main events covered in the book happened 40 years ago, almost exactly. And I am aware that the Hell's Angels are still known as the toughest motorcycle gang around, but also that they don't really exist in the way that they used to back then. You certainly don't hear about gangs of bikers wreaking havoc on a town anymore. Now the hoodlums of the decade are gangsters in the sense of African-American people from the ghetto.

Yet today, up on Parnassus at the hospital, a huge man riding a Harley. He was clean, wearing light colored clean clothing and a skull cap, with a large cigar hanging out of his mouth. He looked kind of jolly with all of his belly and his open face. On his bike, he moved gracefully over to the side of the road, talking to the people on the sidewalk, asking for directions. I realized that H.S.T. had been absolutely correct about the way that these men were entirely different beings off of their motorcycles than they are on them. Of of his bike, this man's weight alone would make him lumbering, perhaps slow, perhaps slamming each heel down in front of him, giant like, joints squealing under the stress. But on his bike, he flowed, comfortably sitting upright, a friendly voice curling its relaxed American tenor around his cigar. I couldn't hear what he was saying at first; he was about five yards from where I was sitting, stuffing my face with my classic tuna sub. But I could see the body language of all of the twenty- and thirty-something med students and residents as they steered themselves away from the curb. Heads dropped, and the motorcyclist began calling out to specific people as the crowds tried to walk an extra two feet away from him.

The biker called out to a young man, probably approaching thirty, with a healthy head of curly brown hair, a strong body, broad shoulders and nearly six feet on his frame. The young man looked down at the sidewalk a couple of times before he could no longer avoid the attention he was getting, then walked over to hear the biker's question. He shook his head, not knowing whatever the biker had asked him. The biker had removed the cigar from his mouth, but people were still finding him unintelligible, probably because they were too afraid to make eye contact with him, or to let themselves hear what he had to say, and therefore feel obligated to answer him. It occurred to me that he should get off of his bike; he was in a loading zone, and people were obviously intimidated by his presence on the motorcycle. The biker pulled a couple more yards down the street, only to get the same treatment. Just before he pulled away and drove off down the street, the wind blew a bit of his question into my ear, and as he roared off politely, I realized what it was he'd been asking for.
I heard him say,
"505 Parnassus?"
The last person said the number of the building I was sitting in front of, so at least he'd tried, I suppose. But 505 Parnassus was the giant hospital right across the street. The main hospital. The biggest building there. The building that probably every employee and student has to go into at least once a week for something or other. And they'd all been so afraid of this tender-looking, brightly t-shirted, clean Harley rider. Not wearing colors. Not wearing any darkly symbolic insignia. Just a big guy with a skull cap and a cigar, riding a Harley, asking for the most incredibly simple help. He was probably trying to visit someone.

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Dance & Fitness Faculty member at San Francisco Peninsula Community Colleges, Director, Choreographer & Featured Dancer, Founder of the Living Dead Girlz, and Owner of the Steele Dance Company, which provides entertainment for festivals, corporate events, conventions and private events. Teaching private dance lessons and creating choreography since 1997, Steele graduated from the University of California at Berkeley with a Double Major in Dance and Comparative Literature and completed her Master of Fine Arts in Dance and Choreography at Mills College. She has toured all the major cities in Germany and performed at the Cannes Film Festival as the featured dancer in TRIP -- Remix Your Experience, a multimedia exhibition of film, live music and art. Steele has also performed as a featured dancer for RJ Reynolds (CAMEL) promotional events. Steele currently manages the go-go dancers of "Poor Impulse Control," who perform frequently in San Francisco's industrial, alternative, and rock venues.