He’s come to tell us the crappy news that my direct boss has quit. Not a surprise. Anyone with brains or ambition or even an ounce of creativity eventually runs screaming from my corporate job, which is just like a Dilbert comic strip, only not funny. But for me, being able to sit still and turn off my brain from 8-5 during the week is somewhat therapeutic, especially when compared to how much physical exertion and brain power goes into cruise directing my weekends.
So the K-Hole is droning on endlessly about “opportunity,” and “managing the end-to-end experience,” and “dialoguing,” and I’m doing what I usually do, translating this into my real job as the Original Fag Hag.
I’m regretting all the missed "opportunities" I’ve had over the years to post juicy little tidbits on my blog, which I only recently and very belatedly started; contemplating the "end-to-end experience" my weekend coming up will be, given the charity pool party, dance classes, Dore Alley street fair and 2 circuit parties I’m going to; and jotting down notes for how I will be "dialoguing" about this experience to as much of gay San Francisco will listen.
But on this day (which ultimately sucks hard for me, because my cool boss who didn’t give a shit about how much time I put in is history), I have an impish grin on my face because when the clock strikes noon, I’m out.
I’m off to participate in the filming of a promotional DVD for the new Sunday T-Dance at JET, which I’ve been asked to gogodance at by Bebe Sweetbriar, a wonderful charity drag queen who also happens to be fucking fierce in every way. I met her at the Marlena’s Dragathon just the week before Pride, where she hosted the hour before the one in which I got to be Beyonce for 5 minutes. She’s super-professional, she’s got a plan, and she’s doing it all for a good cause, which makes her my hero. (Not unlike Donna Sachet, who is hosting the Equality California pool party I’m attending on Saturday even though I can’t afford it.)
So we’re filming at JET (thank goodness I work so close to the Castro!), and I meet one of the 2 gogoboys I’ll be dancing with on August 12. Of course he’s delicious, though not my usual type (blond, tall, sweet), which is why I’m so taken aback when he flashes me an impish grin, upon recognizing me. Apparently I’ve climbed atop this gogoboy before, along with his partner, on the dancefloor at Fresh. He’s just put it all together, because on this day my hair is down and wild, and on the dancefloor it’s always restrained, adorned with flowers.
He’s a doll, and when I start recognizing his tattoos from the gym, I finally start putting it all together, too. We’re mutually thrilled that we’ll be dancing together, and we’re giggling and squealing about all the fun events coming up for the weekend.
I am swooning.
Then we film the last shot for the day, in what will be the “first-class” area of the airline-themed party. On a pole. I’ve never danced on pole before (I’m scared! A girl could really hurt herself!), and neither has gogoboy. But we are game. We climb on pole, and all over and around and under each other, until we are wet and panting.
Not bad for a Tuesday afternoon. And I got a bonus cardio workout, too!