It's a cold Tuesday in January that feels like a Monday.  On Monday, a holiday, I cleaned the garage enough to fit my car in. Cause I'd rather clean the garage than scrape morning ice/snow from the car, now that winter has finally decided to make an appearance. 

To get the car in the garage, I need to move my ex's truck. Which I borrowed 6+ weeks ago to get a Christmas tree and never got around to returning. (I have an comfortable relationship with my ex, so things like borrowing his truck are no big deal.) Except it won't start.

So, a cold Tuesday morning in January, I get to jumpstart his truck. Which I do, and think back to a lifetime ago, 1993(?) when I jumpstarted a friends Volvo in Pittsburgh. I was 23, she was thirty something. She remarked on how cool it was that we- two women - could jump a car without help of a man. True then, true now. One woman even.

Car is now in the garage. Yay me.  Though I did manage to lose my keys somehow in the operation. And it is too damn cold to keep looking for them. They'll turn up, and I am an adult, I have a spare. And a way to get into my house without a key. 

Also, 2 weekends ago, I made this, with some help from friends.

I'd hoped to find my parachute to cover it when I cleaned the garage, but no luck. Not sure what I want to do next with it, and I'm out of poles. Though I do still have a truck that runs now, so I can pop over to Lowes/Home Depot anytime to get more.

I stayed up too late watching the SOTU. 

I love my president. Not because everything he does is right, but because he does more of what's right than any president of my life has. 

I know I'm not the only one posting about David Bowie today I get that. But it's hit me so hard. This is my generations Elvis and him being gone is like a giant hole in what I know life to be. Like missing an entire color all of a sudden.

Everyone usually references Labyrinth as their first Bowie movie. Mine was the Hunger, with the sister of a famous lead singer. And the first time I admitted to anyone I was bisexual. Straight or gay, I think David Bowie was everyone's "Ah ha!" moment of  what it feels like to be attracted to someone. And that's so important for so many people. Tons share the same story and maybe it lessens it a little. But in jr high, I had this secret that I felt I could share with someone who was exactly like I was, and open and so cool about ti.

Still, I can't help this giant hole I feel. Life feels a little different from now on.

I absolutely love you.

During my London semester, back in '89 (yikes), I spent some time at the Camden Palace. That was my first club dancing experience. I remember closing the joint a couple of times. It was out of character for me then, but I liked the physical abandon of it. Mostly though I didn't dance much in between my teenage bedroom and my mid-thirties.

When I was single again in my mid-thirties and looking to try new things, I finally took a swing dance class to satisfy a lifelong curiosity... And I nearly just ticked off that box and moved on. I'd missed the swing revival, and as far as I knew there was nowhere to go.

But a friend took me to Brasils Nightclub, the salsa club in Old City, Philadelphia. And I realized that this was a living, breathing scene and I could go dancing as often as I wanted. Which was a lot.

For weeks I'd come home every Friday with feet still dancing in my mind's eye.

But I was still a suburban Connecticut dude with two left feet, so I took private lessons until I had a much better idea what I was doing, then started hanging out at a local latin dance studio.

It takes longer for fellas, because we have to learn how to lead from an instructor. By contrast, once someone who dances the "follow" part has the basics down, they learn a lot from every good lead they dance with.

I've danced salsa for a number of years now and still enjoy it, but lately I've fallen for blues dancing. Blues is much more spontaneous and collaborative... the "lead" and "follow" roles are not so strict, and you'll come across women who prefer to lead some of the time. It's very easy to pick up.

It's a little like writing free verse after writing nothing but sonnets for nine years.

Random midnight Christmas ham is always worth it.

I first saw a performance of Ibsen's Hedda Gabler on the London stage in 1989. And I saw what everybody saw, in 1989: a modern woman marooned in 1890, acting out in desperation because she was denied the opportunity to develop as an individual. It's a fine reading of the play.

But tonight I saw the play again, in 2015, performed at Philadelphia's Physick House. And I saw something very different. I saw a human being marooned in 1989. Marooned without the Internet. (*)

The feminist reading is straightforward enough. While her father was alive, Hedda lived an independent, privileged life. She was largely sheltered from the harsh reality that women had limited control over their own lives in 1890. She is surrounded by women who are fulfilled in caretaker roles, whether they got to choose them or not: as servants, sisters, nurses. But she wants to be an adventurer, a bon vivant, the center of her social circle. And once she has been dragged into marriage, through the agency of a white lie grown unchecked, she has no more choices left. None but one.

But what about 2015? In 2015 this play is about a human being deprived of Facebook. In 2015, Hedda Gabler is almost a horror movie, where the monster is 1989.

Yes, 1989: it was a time when you had to sit on the couch and share the remote with your immediate family. All night. Every night.

True, in 1989 you might escape into a book, or a video game, or certain early online activities. But alas, poor Hedda: she is not a bookworm. Her talents are social. She shines among friends.

And our social animal must endure a six-month honeymoon, in a country where she knows no one. She is forced to talk to the same person, all day, every day. She cannot even flee to the bathroom to check Facebook or Snapchat for a few seconds. There is only this: only her husband. Every minute of every day. Horror movie. Cue creepy music.

Is she lonely because she does not speak the language? No, Ibsen hints at something far more specific. Her prime complaint:

"To go for six whole months without meeting a soul that knew anything of our circle, or could talk about the things we are interested in."

Ponder how strange this is to imagine today. We are, every day, the President of our own fan club. We are never, ever away from "our circle" except by choice. OK, maybe for a two-week honeymoon. But for six months?

Hedda is a piece of work in many ways, and there are many threads that make up her downfall. Some feel devastatingly relevant today; some are a bit too melodramatic, but great fun in the right hands. But to me, in 2015, this stands out: as her father's daughter she had the Facebook friends she wanted, and took for granted that she could write on their walls any time she wanted, check for updates any time she wanted. And then: all gone.

All gone but one, and he holds a nasty bit of leverage over her; her snapchats will not erase themselves.

Everyone else has their place in the social order, or stumbles into a new one, despite her machinations. But Hedda has none, and she can't just go on okcupid and start over. Of course she has only one choice.

The past is a cruel place. Cue spooky music.

"But apart from that, Mr. Boutell, how was the play?" Very fine indeed. Just to touch on a few highlights:

Photographer Kyle Cassidy, as producer, somehow made this thing happen in Philadelphia's historic Physick House. You are right there bang in front of the actors in a sitting room. It's intense in a good way. And there will be a film of the play, too.

Naturally this all happened because of the Internet. And a kickstarter. And blood, sweat and tears, of course.

Jennifer Summerfield simmered gloriously as Hedda. Each micro- and not-so-micro-aggression came through with nuance and range. The melodrama that does tend to overwhelm the text at times never prevented her from connecting honestly with the audience.

Every time Hedda stopped working overtime to charm someone, she radiated an anger that said "I may have signed up for this, but it is not what I want. And I will never, ever accept it."

Adam Altman, as Hedda's new husband, plays the part of the self-absorbed nerd to perfection, enthusing about his research every time his aunt pleads for the slightest hint that they might be in a family way. And I say this with affection as a self-absorbed nerd. But even he can access family feeling, and so has a secure place that Hedda cannot reach.

Speaking of the aunt, Tanya Lazar's reading is also spot-on. Juliana Tesman lives through caring for others; she lives through family.

Of course she does. What else is there?

Well... what else was there? Now we have families of choice. Tribes of choice. Infinite overlapping personal fan clubs.

But shouldn't family, whether of origin or of choice, still be the most important thing? Yes, yes, of course. Hedda is an extreme case. But excuse me for a moment while I step into the other room and peek at my phone for a glorious minute. A guy can only take so much togetherness. Brr. Cue spooky music.

Tickets are still available. Playing through Sunday, December 20th.

(*) Yes, I know the Internet existed in 1989. And I personally had access to some of the escapes I'm talking about as early as 1986. But most people didn't, and their friends certainly didn't, and a social network without the people you know isn't really The Social Network yet.

TL:DR - Book recommendations needed, Coven, please comment as soon as you get time to breathe!  I know you are all busy as busy can be!

Today, I am sacrificing my post to boost the signal.

Lindsay  wants this:

"The Bechdel-Wallace (as Ms. B has said she thinks it should be called) Test is more important than I've realized. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Han Solo, so I could save Luke and kiss Leia.  Try to find any story where a woman does that. I'll read it or watch or listen to it, and praise you for leading me to it." 

Here's her whole post.

My first response is, "Hey, I wrote that!  Twice!"  One was a story about a pirate mom rescuing her kid from other pirates.  It may not pass the Bechdel test, but the badassery was all hers.  Well, the kid too.  Also, I wrote a Three Musketeers-esque novella where the D'Artagnan-analogue was female.  Of course she had help from her friends, but that's how the three musketeers stuff works.

I am trying to think of books like that, but even my favorite books about women have them winning by sacrifice more than by kicking ass, Han Solo style or kicking ass up to a point and then the man steps in, or at least they collaborate.  Also, I have a shitty memory and I am sure I am missing a bunch of great books I read and loved.

So, let's talk about the Hunger Games.  Katniss is a fucking victim.  She is traumatized through the whole book.  Gale is the strong action hero.  Peeta is the gentle soul with the spine of steel and the mushy bedroom eyes.  Prim is actually pretty brave and sensible throughout, but she's a secondary character and she's the cleric, not the warrior.  Katniss is not a hero, she's a figurehead who can shoot a bow, but internally, she's a mental patient who is able to function with a large support staff and she's manipulated by them over and over.

I know they're out there, these books, these stories.

Grania was a good one (historical fiction about Grace O'Malley), but that was written in the 80s.

I was trying to figure out what I wanted to write for JaNoWriMo.  I think I'm starting to figure it out.

I crave good storytelling, like medicine or food. 

Lately, I listen to a lot of podcasts at work. My mainstays are BBC Global News, and Stuff You Missed In History Class. The Truth is a fave, but updates infrequently. 

I want story; metaphor elevates me out of "point and click, lather rinse repeat." I want plot, I want action. I want it in the moment. 

The Bechdel-Wallace (as Ms. B has said she thinks it should be called) Test is more important than I've realized. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Han Solo, so I could save Luke and kiss Leia.  Try to find any story where a woman does that. I'll read it or watch or listen to it, and praise you for leading me to it. 

I want to create those stories, but I flounder on the rocks. I'm still trying.

I don't want to exclude men. I want to include men and women. The field is wide, but thin as it stands. 

In the meantime, I watch Jessica Jones at night and keep hitting the search button during the day. ​

I don't always lie down next to humans and act cute, but when I do...

I wait for them to pet me, and then shred their hands to bloody stumps. 

Of course, my humans try to play with me. I've broken the handle of the string toy twice. I will catch The Red Dot. And Blanket Shark?

Blanket Shark Begs Me For Mercy. 

I'm The Most Interesting Cat In My World. ​

Today is Hug a Random Stranger Day.

How do I know this? Because I hugged a random stranger today, at the grocery store.

And on a day after a day of Yet More Unspeakably Awful Things Going On Out There, that was a nice thing, to be offered a hug from a stranger, and to accept it. I had walked up to the end of the salad bar at Whole Goats, to get lunch. A tall man, older than me, was already there at the bins holding three different kinds of lettuce, carefully picking out individual leaves with tongs.

He saw me and said, "Hello," and I said, "Picking out the best lettuces, I see?" and he said, "Yes, as a vegetarian, I like to pick out the ones that still have the most nutrition left in them, that are still firm and crisp; I figure if I'm paying for it, I should get the best ones." He kept explaining about nutrition and attributes of healthy produce as I put lettuce in my takeout container. "Trying to stay healthy," he said, and I agreed, saying it was a good thing, and that I was also trying to stay healthy.

We moved together to the the bins holding things like chunks of cucumber and celery and red bell pepper slices and shredded beets and carrots and kidney beans and I held back, waiting for him to go first because he was there first and he said, with a sweep of his hand, "Oh, ladies first," and I thanked him and started putting various things on top of my lettuce.

"You having a nice day so far?" he asked, putting various things on top of his lettuce, too, and I agreed enthusiastically that I was--I didn't say this to him, but I had just come from the gym, where I'd had an awesome workout, which felt great because I've had to pull back a lot lately in order to continue healing from my surgery and that has totally been bringing me down.

So, finally feeling more healed and like I can maybe start pushing again, and having just been pushed by my awesome trainer, I was pumped full of endorphins and virtuously hungry. He asked if Santa was treating me right and I said, "Um...?" "Not a believer in Santa?" he said, and I said, "Well, it's just that Santa time hasn't happened yet," and he said, "Yes, but it IS that time of year," and I agreed that was true.

And then he said, "Just let me know when you're done, so I can give you a hug," and I know that might sound like it was creepy or weird or like he was hitting on me, and coming from someone else or in a different situation it might have been the case, but from this particular random stranger I did not get a creepy or weird or hitting on me vibe at all. Really. I know what that feels like.

This, it just felt like...kindness. Why the hell not, I thought, so I said, "Oh, I haven't been offered a hug yet today, thanks!"

I held out an arm and we gave each other a quick strong side hug, and continued putting things on top of our salads, and after a few more moments of chit-chat as we completed our salad masterpieces, we went our separate ways.

Some people are going out of their way to kill random strangers. Others are going out of their way to be nice to random strangers and offer them a hug.

And so I say, today if a random stranger offers you a hug and if it feels right to you, take it.