About a year ago, knowing I was looking for exercise options (and looking for one herself*), my friend, DK, discovered an opportunity for “fun”** exercise — dance aerobics.

So, with DK, Dear Friend, and others, we started aerobics classes.  Our instructor for the dance aerobics was Larry.  He runs a dance business that includes dance classes, aerobics classes, and DJ-ing dance parties.

Larry’s preferred dance style?  The Latins — salsa, cumbia, merengue, cha-cha, et cetera.

So, Larry’s aerobics classes were based on those Latin dances.  He spent the first 10 minutes reviewing the basic steps for 3 or 4 dance styles.  Then the next 50 minutes we (attempted to) follow song after song, with Larry up front showing us the dance steps to do.  It was definitely a workout aerobically.  And, without really realizing it, we were learning the dance steps as well.

And Larry?

Pure happiness and joy.  He clearly enjoyed both the dancing AND the instruction.

We learned his catch phrase early:  “Isn’t this fun?”

But it wasn’t just a catch phrase from a businessman trying to market himself.  He truly believed it.

It became contagious.  Hating to exercise, I nonetheless looked forward to those Tuesday aerobics classes.

Not too long ago, I wrote about  a Latin dance instructor who was…well..a royal bitch.  While she was skilled, she was a shitty teacher, impatient with our progress.

Larry is nonjudgmental, encouraging, and patient.  Yet, still, he challenged us, adding more complex steps as we got better.  Yet, he would slow down if we were lagging.

And his hips?  On a swivel.  Or, hell, not even attached to the spine and legs.  They went one way and the legs and body went another.  More than Elvis could’ve done.

Uh-huh-huh

Because of what I learned in his classes, I’ve since gone to dance parties he DJs…and don’t feel that “two-left-footed”.  And he’s there at those parties, swiveling, encouraging, still teaching, and saying, “Isn’t this fun?”

Since then, Dear Friend and I have gone to many of his dance parties.  Many start with instruction to help remind me of the steps.  All are fun (See?  “Isn’t this fun?”).

Compared to the bitch instructor, this was an excellent business model in practice.  I would run screaming from any further contact with bitch instructor, even if it were free.  But, I seek out opportunities to support Larry, recommending him, his classes, and dance parties to any who ask.

And, yeah…

…on a damn swivel…

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*…to include a momentary escape from the seemingly 30-hour-a-day demands of her kids.

**Don’t like exercising.  Period.  Though some types of exercise are less painful than others.

Well, here I am again.  Boy, do I feel sheepish.

"Baa" means "No"

So why do I feel sheepish promising, yet again, to be a more consistent writer?  We are humans all.  Many (but clearly not all!) with the frailty of wanting to be accepted even by people we know only through the internet…to be accepted by people who may not deserve such attention…yet needing that acceptance nonetheless.  That is downplaying the importance of writing for myself.  I will never write like many of you.  But I need to write.

I had started to type “virtual strangers”, but find myself experiencing an immediate visceral response.  That being that you, dear readers, are not truly strangers*.  You are friends and colleagues in the blogosphere.  Some are closer friends than others, to be sure.  Some are more acquaintances.  But, despite the the virtual nature of the internet, friends nonetheless.

So, I’m recommitting myself ** to writing more.  I will need to knock the rust off of my writing skills (forgive the exaggeration).  I want to write.  I (obviously) have been very inconsistent at that.  I have no illusions that I’m a good writer (although I do believe I’ve had my moments in posts past), but the only way to get better is to write.

I had forgotten what I wrote long ago in this blogs “About GnuKid” section.  That being “…and though I might not have anything pithy to say, By Gawd, I’m gonna say it.”

I need to refind my voice, pithy or not.

I need to get over myself and write for me.

So, without edit or review… where’s that “Publish” button?

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*Yes, many…in seemingly high proportion to my IRL friends…seem “strange”.  But I LIKE that in you!

**No, not ‘recommitting’ as in signing myself into the local psychiatric ward…though that might not be so bad.

My cell phone was dying.  Not completely gone, but “…who…just when he seemed about to recover, felt the icy hand of death upon him.”*

Instead of just getting the basic dial-a-number-and-talk phone, I made a big (for me) step.

I have now been iSsimilated.

Yep, bought an iPhone.  Didn’t want to go that way. Partly because of the cost, but mostly the fear of becoming overly reliant on being constantly connected…v-, e-, and i-.

the beast in hand

I’m enjoying the iPhone.  It does have issues.  For example, the phone microphone is too good and picks up too much ambient background noise, making it hard for whomever I’m having a conversation with to hear me well…okay, especially since I call from noisy bars.  But, overall, it’s a wealth of information and capabilities that I still have not adequately tapped.

I’ve discovered and frequent the iPhone App store.  Here you can find applications galore to do just about anything you want (there’s another post coming on just that as I describe a recent and intriguing find).  Most of the applications charge a fee for downloading, but many are free.

Being the adolescent boy in a man’s body (pretty true of most of us guys), early downloads included the “Atomic Fart” noise maker, the “More Cowbell” app, and a game or two.

I’m turning into the over-reliant “Stepford iPhone Owner”.

I’ve become ‘that guy’ is used to shake my head at.  The one who was always within reach of the phone and always doing the internet searches when someone has a random question (a bane to bars running those trivia games.  How do you keep the game fair when the answers are (fast) key clicks from knowing?).

But there is also power and comfort in it.  That information at my finger tips is power.  I’m able to check e-mail from anywhere.  I can ping the internet.

Okay…I guess I’m not kicking and screaming that much on my way into the 21st century…

More to come on this!

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*Bonus points for sourcing that one – - – WITHOUT using the interweb.

Yay!  It’s that time of year again.  Masquerage was last night!

Last year I had a couple posts (here, here, and here) on a very fun evening of costume wearing and cross dressing, all for a good benefit — AIDS research.  Masquerage  raises lots of funds for this research, which still impacts way too many people.  And they raise money while still having a great time.

Last year, some of our primary crew of party goers were unavailable (flimsy excuses like vacationing on another continent or taking care of sick kids or other trivial reasons like that).  This year, bolstered by a few new friends, we had a great party of 7 folks going to the benefit.

This year’s theme for the party was “1930’s Circus”.

We spent the last couple of months coming up with costume ideas.  My best friend and I decided that it would be very cool to go as the Lion Tamer (me) and the Untameable Lioness (she).  Others went as the Ringmaster, the Trapeze Artiste, and the Fortune Teller.  Random costumes filled out the remainder (actually, the only requirement for attending is that you have some sort of mask on – - either a real mask or a painted one;  these could be as detailed or simple as you wished).

The event was in a different venue this year, but was just as sassy and exciting as last year.  Highly empowered by a pre-party at my friend’s house where, besides drinking heavily*, we did our final costuming and mask painting.

"Keep Your Eyes Closed!"

Popping glow sticks on the ride over, we found clever places to put them (my friend, for example, stuffing a few down her cleavage to glow through her top).

And once again, the event was a wonder of myriad costumes and people.  Not all stuck with the “1930’s Circus” theme (one glaring example being the two gentlemen who dressed up as Transformers), but there were costumes galore for viewing pleasure.  Some more pleasurable than others, revealing a bit more than what you’d expect from the average Halloween costume.

It was a tremendous party.  The drag queen troupe was there and they arranged for several side shows for the stage (the knife thrower…the contortionist…dancers between acts…etc.).

Gives me frisky ideas

Ouch...Eye Candy Hurts

I enjoyed playing the role of Lion Tamer, making free use of a riding crop I brought along (don’t ask) and having fun dragging her from place to place on a leash (yeah, I know that’s not really the way they did it in the Circus…but it had a kinky air to it that sort of thrilled me).  Found it amusing that, despite the fact she’s a grown woman and not really a lioness, I felt I couldn’t leave (to get more drinks or hit the little lion tamer’s room) without handing off the leash to one of the other party folks…almost like I had to make sure she was under control at all times.

here kitty, kitty, kitty...

The mustache came off quickly…could NOT drink with that sucker on and I was not willing to give that much to the art.

Food and drink fueled an evening of dancing and just plain fun.

Highlights of the evening included my Lioness borrowing my riding crop to whip a clown, the dancers who entertained between acts, and being stopped numerous times to get our picture taken.  That latter included folks from the local paper who posted us on their website.

Heading back, happily, well after midnight, it was clear that the evening was a hit with all of us, designated driver included.

I’m already jazzed for next year’s event.

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*Worry not as we got another of our theater friends to be the designated driver.

Wow… there she was.  Petite.  Toned.  Shapely.  Very Cute.

I was thinking that this was going to be fun.

I am afflicted with a mild case of sinistrobipedalism – - two left feet – - when it comes to dancing.  However, I try and not let that stop me from actually getting out on the dance floor.  Indeed, I look for opportunities to learn to overcome that problem.  (okay, I’m not really *that* bad).

A while back, my dear friend found just such an opportunity in a local offering of Latin dance lessons and, bravely, agreed to go with me as dance partner.  The flyer said we’d learn the ‘standard’ Latin dance steps – salsa, cumbia, bachata, cha-cha…

We arrived to find a small-ish class with a variety of people, to include one very cool dad who brought his just-barely-teenager daughter.

Excited for this adventure and  learning something new (plus expecting to get a bit of aerobic exercise in the process), I was even more jazzed when the instructor arrived.  She was that babe I referred to leading off this post.  Hot, Puerto Rican with a cute little Latin accent.  Eyebrows a-wiggling, we started the lessons.

…at a very high speed.  I’m not talking about the tempo of the music, but rather the speed at which the instructor was teaching the steps.  Fast.  Too fast.  Okay, to be fair, there were a couple overachievers who were getting the steps right away.  But the majority of us were left in the dust as she showed us a step, let us practice a couple times, then charged off to the next step with a terse, “Okay?  Good.  Let’s move on!”, without even asking if we felt comfortable knowing the step.

I was getting frustrated.  This wasn’t as fun as I’d originally thought.  Now, I was getting good aerobic exercise.  But felt I wasn’t really learning much.

When she started teaching us intricate arm weaves to go with the steps…and most of us were even more lost…she started to get very impatient with us.  Almost like it was a race to get all the steps in, whether we knew them or not.  And we rookies were holding her up.

I was starting to not like her quite so much.

Then, the last straw…

The young teenager?  She was getting frustrated too.  She started taking longer breaks (where, bless her heart, she was actually doing homework…and they say kids today aren’t good…).

The dance instructor bitch (did I slip in that extra qualifier? Hmmm… [grin]) called the young girl out.  Loudly.  Publicly.  With a very chastising tone not necessary at all, she chided the young girl for not dancing.  Now, I’m sure you remember that awkward early teen time in your life and how the littlest slight can be devastating to the ego.

So… when the instructor did this?  It was like a switch was toggled off in my head…okay, both heads.

This spicy, good-looking woman became suddenly – and irrevocably – very unattractive to me.

Beauty is, indeed, skin deep.

…and the ugly inside can make the beauty outside a moot point.

Well, I did it…caved in to pressure.

When I first started blogging, I found the delicious Nursemyra and her Friday Corsetry.  Not thinking (well, I am a guy, right?), I made an offhand comment about how maybe I should start a Banana Hammock Friday.

I got demands from both sides of this continent, plus another three continents chiming in, to “put up or shut up” (so to speak).

They wanted to see GnuKid’s banana hammock.

Those demands continued.  Some vociferously, some slyly, but continuing nonetheless.

So, empowered by a bit of beer, I herewith offer my first…and likely last…Banana Hammock Friday.

I hope you’re happy…

(this IS what you meant, right?)

Yesterday I told the story about running over a rabbit while driving to go for a bike ride.  And my faithful reader(s?) will recall that my friend and I agreed to return a different route in order to avoid seeing the results of that tragedy.  Gruesome or otherwise, I really didn’t want to see what I had a hand in (stupidity of the rabbit being in the middle of the road as a major contributor aside).

However, the next day, there we were heading over to do some more exercise.  And, forgetting the events of the prior day, headed over the same road.  We both cringed as we realized simultaneously that we would be witness to road kill of our doing.*

As we neared the scene of the crime, we didn’t see a corpse.  Now, the Wilds of Ohio has plenty of road kill and the state actually does clean it up.  But, like any bureaucracy, takes its own damn good time in doing so.  A day later and they’ve already cleared the corpse?  Not likely…

So, we started to wonder…I did hit the little guy, but did I just stun him?  Did  he actually listen attentively in bun bun school when they were showing the “Roads of Death” film in Rabbit Safety 101?  You know, the part where they urge all rabbits in a similar situation to “Stop, Drop, and Roll”?

Friend:  “I’m sure he just was dazed!”

GnuKid:  “Yes, I’m sure of it.  He likely just had his fuzzy little ears knicked up a bit.”

Friend:  “Yes, that’s it.  He likely got up, brushed himself off, hopped on his merry way, and is, even now, happily making new bunnies…”

GnuKid:  “…with tattered ears.”

Our wishful thinking was brought to an abrupt end when we realized we were NOT at the scene of the accident.  Driving around the next bend, there was a furry, lifeless, gray corpse on the side of the road.

Shit….shit….shiiiiiiittttttt…..

But part of me is still hopeful…maybe that was some poor guy’s toupee that blew off his head while driving a convertible…

okay, but a little more gray than this...

…and bun bun is, even now, doing what rabbits do best…

bunny sex FAIL

Yeah…wishful thinking…

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*Notice how I’ve cleverly assigned some of the blame to her?  “…our doing.”?  Makes me feel less guilty.