He was pretty in pink

Pretty in pink
Isn't he?
Pretty in pink
Isn't he? --- The Psychedelic Furs


Okay, so I was tired, but that's not to say I didn't see what I thought I saw.


It's actually taken me a few days to write about this. I was that disturbed. Or intrigued. I'm not quite sure which yet. All I can say is that on Sunday night, after a night of much dancing, I witnessed an act of... ahem... flexibility. Curious? Concerned? If you've answered yes, proceed to the next paragraph. If you have a weak disposition or are in the least bit prudish, please come back next week where I'm sure I'll be more demure. A little. Not much, but certainly better than this.


And without further ado, here is my latest blog entitled "My evening with a contortionist" or "If you wear pink frilly skirts, have a penis and can flip your legs over your head, you won't have to ever leave your house. Ever."





Did I give it away? Oh probably, but the entertainment part is in the lead-up. Given that Monday was a holiday and Sunday is meant for the holy act of dancing, my friends and I ventured downtown to a house music event of epic proportions - it was the Mixed Signal's 5th anniversary bash at The Mod Club (College and Bathurst area) - complete with big name house music DJ's and one of the best bands I've ever heard (let alone seen) to play live house music (check out King Sunshine). But I digress and this sighting is too important to get off topic.



After dancing for almost five hours straight (with the occasional venture out for "fresh" air on the smoking patio), we said goodbye to our friends (existing and ones we made throughout the evening) and ventured out into the night to walk the 5 miles back to where we parked the car. My friend Buddha had run ahead to grab some apres-dancing veggie dogs and said he'd meet Wen, Zen and me back at the car. We remembered where we parked and actually found it so we praised our good karma. Until he showed us his pink skirt.



Don't ask me how (or why) but I discerned that the fabric was cotton. And it was pink. With frills. And he'd teamed it with a zip-up hoodie. In pink. I couldn't tell what was on his feet as I was more distracted by what else he was NOT wearing. Underwear.



There's more. Oh yes, there is more. It was like a train wreck. You saw it, saw that it was catastrophic but couldn't tear your eyes away. I mean, after he flipped his legs over head you pretty much knew was coming next (no pun, don't even go there. Not. One. Inch.) and still we couldn't look away. Sure, we locked all the doors, the sunroof and made sure all the windows were up, but we still could. not. look. away.



A debate ensued whether we should call 911 or grab the cell and start videotaping. By the time we got the video camera working, he was up and off, jetting down a path leading up to someone's house. We figured out it wasn't his. The reason for the quick exit? While had no problem showing three girls his prowess, he didn't want to expose it to the guy walking down the street. One minute later and he was back, this time on the porch, legs up and over his head and his hands and... um... mouth working in unison. We didn't stay around for the finale, and neither did he. Last we saw, he was running through some alleyways to ensure he was not caught by the patrolling po-po (police for those who don't speak urbanese). While he laughed, Buddha was not really disappointed he missed out on that spectacle.



Needless to say, The Flexiboner was the topic of conversation for the rest of the long weekend, with even Wen phoning me up the next day to verify that her eyes (or mine) were not deceiving us. Friends who did not join us for the evening were kind enough to point out that I was the common denominator (thanks a lot!), for it seems whenever I venture into the Big Smoke as of late, I run into perverts: contortionists and an unfortunately smelly man yelling "Yummy Boobies" for two blocks past Union Station, not to mention my list of stalkers (Nutty Buddy, you know who you are!).


I'm just hoping I don't go blind for this one. Wait, isn't it the pervert who goes blind or has hairy palms, or... One thing is for certain, if most of my male friends had that ability, they would never leave their house. And they would certainly not be walking the streets of Toronto looking to demonstrate to a group of post-dance divas.

It rubs lotion on its skin

It rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again… that’s what I would say if I lived up to my words in a recent email to my friend Mags (you have to read her shite at simplylaur.blogspot.com – she’s feckin’ hilarious).

Her arch-nemesis at work – we shall call her Buella – just realized that we (Buella and I) grew up mere steps apart with nary a run-in in the past 20-odd years. Now she works at the same company as Mags, one of my best friends since we decided we didn’t hate each other that much in high school (she and I played the flute and we thought our shite didn’t stink – hers did, mine not so much). “One time, at band camp…”

As for Buella, I clearly remember sitting in the basement of her childhood home painting our fingers and toes. She was older than me and, at the age of five, I thought it was cool to hang with the older kids. They could teach me so much – like what pink to choose for my pinkie finger and the latest disco moves back when I was an aspiring disco dancer.

She moved away well before I did and she soon became a memory, a childhood memory of playing until the streetlights came on, hopscotch on the sidewalk and lemon twists* down the driveway. And, painting toenails in a wood-paneled rec room (we all had them back in the day).

Now she’s full of questions, and if you haven’t read Mags’ shite yet, you should know that Buella and Mags agree on nothing, save their mutual disdain of each other (I’d say hate, but I reserve that word for murderers, rapists and puppy killers). In an effort to keep Mags’ private life, well, private, I provided these tongue-in-cheek answers to Buella’s 20 questions about me, my life and whereabouts. I thought they were somewhat accurate…

Five down, 15 to go...

Mags, is Scribe married?
Well, Buella, she was married, but Scribe had a secret… she lived secretly as a black widow spider, and as those whores would do, she ate her then-husband, who was a prick anyway, so the world is a better place. Good men are hard to come by, so she’s onto Number 17. I think it just might be her lucky number. And if it doesn’t work out, she’s got this rosemary and garlic oil marinade. A dash of Mrs. Dash and she’s all set.

What’s her last name now?
Lucifer. She was going to change it back to her mating name (thanks go out to Ricky from Trailer Park Boys who provided that little gem), but she decided that Lucifer suited her better, especially when she gets all horny. Oh, I meant ornery. Forgive me.

What about kids? Did she pop any out?
Urrgh! No! Oh, sorry, I thought you were asking me. It was an unfortunate situation. Her two kids – a boy and a girl – got stuck in her web and, smelling fresh meat and having eaten her husband days earlier, she got a little hungry and ate them too. Barbecued kids? Choose a nice Chianti.

Where is she living now? Jail?
Buella, she’s currently between places, but she’s set up a nice gypsy camp along the River Styx that she shares with her one-eyed trouser sock. He spews occasionally but doesn’t say a word. It’s lovely. Really.

What does she do?
Do? Didn’t you pay attention to her answers? Man, I should get you to write this shite down and review it. There’s a pop quiz tomorrow. As I said, she’s onto Husband #17. It’s common-law, so she might have more trouble luring him into her web. She’s got the marinade ready just in case. It’s been a while since I’ve heard her utter those words: “It rubs lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again.”

TMI? Perhaps, or in Mag’s case, hopefully. To say that Mags really doesn’t like Buella would be an understatement. And for some reason, the feeling is mutual. All I can say is that she was rather friendly when we were neighbours, but that was over 20 years ago and things obviously change. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t like Mags. She’s magnetic and I don’t choose just anyone to enter my circle of awesomeness. Otherwise, they get the lotion and a nice Chianti.

* Scribe has a lemon twist story. Ask her about it.