" danger hat: July 2006

Friday, July 21, 2006

Clark Kent Syndrome

So here's the thing, I spent Sunday night like a rock star signing friggin' autographs for the young and old. I was openly ogled more than once. I knocked girls to the ground and even instigated a bit of a 'thing' with Mama Roach by shouting, "Get off of her you bitch" and then flicking her off and winking when she gave me the stink eye. (Princess Disgrace is revealing herself to be a bit of an asshole)
But see, now I'm back to mild-mannered pseudo-librarian April. Today I realized that tone of our fans who gushed love to me (and my team) before the bout is actually a volunteer at our branch . Did she recognize me behind the glasses, sans pigtails, tiara, and skates? Nope. See, glasses really are a foolproof disguise! Oh, and when a nutty half-drunk lady started to yell at me about our computer reservation system, my only reaction was to turn and say, "I'm sorry you feel that way" while our security guard made a beeline for her. I don't know what it is about the derby track that makes me so hot-headed, or what it is about normal life that makes me even-keeled (at least when playing with others), but I have never felt the superhero dichotomy in such a personal way.
Next dose of the strong PD juice comes 8/13.
I'm already gagging for it.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Still Undefeated

We won!

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Game Day

I had a drama instructor at one point who said butterflies were fine before a big show because while they seemed to be fluttering aimlessly when it came lights up they would start to fly in unison and carry me through the performance. Which honestly I thought was a load of hokey crap, but I'm banking on it now as it's game day (Win Day according to my cap'n) and I've got a touch of the jitters. Here's hoping I don't break anything!

Monday, July 10, 2006

I might be getting old.

I had the beginnings of a sore throat at work today, so I slipped over to the convenience mart across the street to grab a highly carbonated soda, one of the only elixirs that can soothe my pain. Something like this exchange occurred between me and the guy at the counter:
"That all for you bebee?"
"Yup.'
"That'll be a dollar and some sort of change, bebee."
*struggles with crumpled bills then hands said bill awkwardly across the counter*
"Sorry."
"That's okay bebee. How old are you?"
"I'm twenty five"
"You look seventeen."
"Thanks?"
"This is very good for boyfriends, yeah? You have a boyfriend?"
"I'm married."
"This is very good for husbands and boyfriends."

After I had crossed back to the library, I realized that I might be old. That suddenly being seventeen is supposed to be some sort of compliment--that my face does not yet betray my haggard twenty-five years. Sure, sometimes I look a little young. Not in a hot barely legal way, more in a she can't put an outfit together to save her soul/her face still has the topography of a Campbell's soup kid sort of way; I don't tend even remember how old I am anymore (again, a sign of aging) until someone like Mr. Bebee brings it up. For youthfulness to be a compliment is still sort of jarring, since only a few years ago I wanted to fool bouncers into letting me into bars and managers into thinking I was mature enough to merit promotion. Weird.
The really disappointing thing is that all of this chatter meant I missed out on secretly observing the shirtless Doug from Ghost World wannabe. I'm not even sure if he was hungry enough to chew the crotch out of a rag doll. Sigh.

Return to the DHS

I am drinking red wine out of a Dixie cup, hoping the astringency will melt the chicken fat off my lips. Akwete has gotten so tall in the last year. He is playing on the merry-go-round with the other young Hats, but he doesn't look like one of them anymore; he looks like an rambunctious uncle as he digs his heels into the tiny rocks, shoving the metal cage faster and faster until their baby faces are different shades of pink and green. He waves a long arm at me from across the park, then recommences spinning for the few survivors of the last whirlwind. The older Hats are playing horseshoes and sitting around sipping coke and beer awkwardly from cans. Passersby, such as the spandex clad speedwalkers who just shuttled past, take in our odd little group, their cocked eyebrows revealing their efforts to classify us, a multi-national group of young and old doing our best to eat fried chicken like your family might. I imagine they label us a church group or forget about us altogether once their sightline is directed at a different horizon by the winding path. They all keep scanning the sky with expectant glances and neglecting conversation in order to watch the road for a sudden upkick of dust.
Milo's supposed to be coming, the most impressive Hat of my generation and the heir to the founder of the Danger Hat Society, his great uncle Chet Whittier. Milo's a strapping young lad--the kind Martine makes the habit of secretly sticking used chewing gum to and ashing out cigarettes on. Sadly, she's home in Montreal caring for her sick parrot and so I am left alone to roll my eyes at the anticipated arrival.
"Do you know if there's any butter left?"
Fern Willoughby, a doddering excuse for an adventurer, stares up at me through her cataracts. I shrug my shoulders, and glance away. I am uncomfortable with the perils of aging, and the shiny scales that are staring up at me seem foghorn warning me of a nearing coastline of arthritic fingers and susceptible hip bones.
"Well, that blows," she says dropping an ear of corn to the ground like a used tissue.
This graceful statement distracts me from the herald a herald of Milo's anticipated arrival, the staccato sound of his motorbike cresting the least hill of the drive.
"He's here!" she squawks, and shuffles over to the main group of Hats whose voices have turned similarly birdlike.
"I hope he brought potato salad. And butter" I mumble. The slowly walk over to join the welcoming committee. After years of stories of his conquest, I expect Milo to be chiseled from Mayan gold. But from this distance, he looks rather slight and consumptive as he slides from the seat of his bike. He fusses a bit with a leather pouch at the rear, and then begins to walk toward his adoring public. I engage myself in the red gingham pattern if the vinyl tablecloth, playing hopscotch with my fingers. You should know, I become a mope in the presence of superiority. And now the old-timers are letting out some sort of Hip-Hip-Hurrah nonsense, which they've never done for me even though, even on a birthday, even though I restock their candy bars and chips and put pillows under their drooling heads when they pass out playing backgammon in the DHS Room. The sound of their pride swells with each step Milo takes towards them, building to a fervor I'm sure these folks haven't experienced since, well, I'm not so good with history, but I'm sure it involved a ticker tape parade. It would be rude to cover my ears, but I start to anyway so I can retreat to my brain where I am the strongest and most beautiful Hat to ever grace the Society. That's when I hear it, a low moan and a thud. When I turn around, Milo's face down in an extinguished barbecue pit and the Hats are swarming over him like the ants atop Fern's discarded corn.

Self-Portrait as an Insomniac


So the month's current
  • Self-Portrait Challenge
  • is Self-portrait as... Which is just the sort of open-ended project that makes my brain stew. Sadly, the camera seems to be MIA for the time being, so this week it'll have to be one from the archives. Since it's now 4:48 am the sentiment is appropriate even if the image isn't timely. I still look pretty much the same, except for an overgrowth of bangs that would also qualify a current photo as: Self-portrait as a girl who needs a haircut.
    I promise if we unearth the camera, I'll produce some of the fairy dust wackiness you know (and love?). Perhaps self-portrait as a toreador? a toilet seat? Richard Dreyfuss?
    See? The possibilities are endless...

    Thursday, July 06, 2006

    Re-sult!

    I finally feel like I'm getting better at the derby thing, all around. Mostly where I'm feeling it is endurance. I'm not the fastest, but I can give to the end. This is not to say I am anywhere near top tier, but it's nice to finally feel a sense of progress. My shoulder feels like it's about to pop off due to all the hits I took/gave tonight. Yum.
    Not much to report otherwise. My house is a mess as usual. I'm still funked out career planning-wise (it's pretty much just a day to day thing at this point). I've dropped some lazy depression weight, so now I can stop freaking out about that. I have a constant running dialogue/story in my head, so sooner or later it's going to emerge like Athena from my brain--fully formed and perfect. Which sounds like sarcasm, except that seems to be my writing process. Struggle struggle struggle with the white paper, and then Kaboom! it all aligns itself.
    I am missing my family. And Sarah Kate went and posted pics of J & D on her site so now I'm missing them too. I've marked time by the length of their hair for so long, it's weird to see such a tuft atop J's head. I feel as thought I've lost months. I'm also making friends, but of a pretty superficial nature. Which is fine, because it's easier and what I wanted, but I also sort of feel like I'm not working hard enough at the social thing. Like that's somehow a requirement of moving to a new city.
    Sorry for the scattershot post, but now Green Wing is on, so no time to clean things up!