F@#% YOU, CRUTCHES.

CRUTCHES SUCK.  I'm in my 3rd and next-to-last week (hopefully) of doctor-prescribed hobbling, and now I fully understand why I've been getting so many pitying looks and cluck-clucks from people I happen to encounter.  Because it SUCKS.  Being a dancer, I think of myself as a graceful person, even in my daily life.  I've always taken great care in the way I present myself to the world.   I cannot glide through a restaurant or a bar or a party. There is no vanity on crutches. There is only clunking.  And staring.  And sheepish glances.  That's what I hate the most – the staring.  My sweet boyfriend keeps offering to carry me, and while that is appealing in a practical (and romantic) sense, it would probably just alarm people and cause even more rubbernecking.  

I’m lucky that I’m 30 and have never sustained an injury that calls for this type of effort, but I’m not used to the kind of attention it brings.  At first I was surprised and touched by all the people who held doors for me and offered their sympathy and stories.  This is just a month out of my life, after all, and for that I am grateful. However, as the days pass and the bruises develop on the insides of my arms, I’ve started to notice that for every considerate door-holder there is also a giant asshole.  Like the guy who was approaching the line at the movies at the same rate as me, from the same distance, who looked down at my foot and then turned around to get in line in front of me.  Or the student who knocked over my crutches, ignored the clatter, and just kept on walking.  Luckily that’s about it thus far, but I’ve gained perspective, that’s for sure.  

There is one perk in my situation – that beautiful blue handicapped parking permit, good through January – but it isn’t even all it’s cracked up to be.  It’s not like you’re guaranteed a spot.  Lots of times they’re already taken, leaving the option to either crutch it from the far reaches of the parking lot or be dropped off to stand and wait alone for my companion, should I have one.  There are a lot of handicapped permits out there, so I guess I’ll adjust my mindset and join that rat race for a little while.

I’ve passed the halfway point now, and for the most part I think I’ve been a good sport.  Of course I've had a few fleeting moments of pouty self-pity, but I think anyone would.  It’s just not fun, and it’s summertime, and unfortunately I have to miss out on some stuff.  The costs of going to, say, a concert, are almost always going to outweigh the benefits of engaging in a more sedentary activity, such as watching a movie or hey, blogging!  This focused rest and reflection is all in the interest of healing and hopefully dancing again as soon as possible.  I miss it.  The stakes are quite high.  I’d be really, really sad if I couldn’t dance anymore.  I don’t even want to think about it. I’m lucky that I don’t have to.  

Today my boyfriend sent me a link to a Mental Floss story about disabled dancers determined to do their work, even on crutches.  It is mind-blowing and unbelievably relevant.  Watch and be moved by these artists’ sheer will to perform, no matter what the obstacle.  Their bodies are instruments, no matter how differently-abled they may be.  Perhaps it’s time for me to quit bitching about my temporary handicap and explore creativity from a different angle.  I’m inspired.

Trekkies.

Last weekend, inspired by some previews we saw at the Alamo Drafthouse a month or so ago, my boyfriend and I watched Trekkies, the 1997 documentary that exposed the wild, certainly weird, passionate, utterly thorough universe of Star Trek fans. I expected to be entertained; the snippets I'd seen were enough to convince me to add it to my Netflix immediately, but I never expected I could be so moved.

I've never known a true Trekkie, but I sure wish one would show up in my life. I LOVE that kind of fanaticism, that ability to wrap onself up in the most minute details, to be lost in one context while physically existing in a completely different one. I was relieved to see how people who go that far with it are still allowed to be the way they are in the world, how their commitment transcends whatever teasing or ridicule they have been subjected to.  The dentists with their office fully equipped in Enterprise regalia, who wear their costumes every single day, even outside the office. The woman who served on the Whitewater trial in the 90s in full Starfleet uniform and now works at a Kinko's-type establishment where everyone calls her "Commander." Young Gabriel Koerner with his robust collection of action figures, his perfectly constructed uniform, and his endearing mispronunciation of adult words.  "Spiner Femme" Anne Murphy, the very definition of obsession, who finds escape from her daily life by gazing out into the Hollywood Hills in the general direction of Brett Spiner's home.  A woman brought back from the brink of suicide by attending Star Trek conventions. The outlet of fantasy and identity Star Trek provides is a gift to these people.  It's a community, one where everyone has a purpose and everyone is accepted.

By diving into all these niches and bringing out the three-dimensional people inside, the film balanced the exposition of that world without exploitation. Alongside all the outrageousness, the filmmaker (Roger Nygard) managed to bring home the overarching messages of the Star Trek series.  It was the first mainstream presentation of diversity on such a large scale.  Martin Luther King, Jr. personally called the original Uhura to convince her to stay with the show beyond the first season because of the enormous strides her presence made for the black community.  Star Trek put science onstage and forced people to think about the future in progressive, creative ways. I can't call myself a fan – with such limited knowledge I know I don't deserve it – but I can't help but appreciate the institution.  They truly did "boldly go where no man has gone before," and we are so much wiser for it.

A few words on MJ.

It was one of those "where-were-you-when" moments. It's still hard to believe. Even typing these words feels surreal somehow, like some protracted publicity stunt that will surely be over any minute, when the world is poised for the ultimate comeback. Michael Jackson is dead. There's no denying that the man lived in his own world, but there's no denying that our world would not be the same without him. A lot of people have expressed confusion at the mass worship that followed his death, relating it to a religious zeal, deeming it inappropriate due to all the alleged scandals and the eccentricity he refused to smother. I would be confused if there wasn't a vast outpouring of emotion and reverence. You could easily say the man was a freak. His face, his actions, all unabashed and mostly unexplained. I don't care about any of that. For me, all of that laughingstock ridicule faded, disintegrated, the instant I heard he had left us. All I care about is what he brought to this world. He did the work he was put here to do. He performed his mission beautifully. Was he mentally ill? Yes. Addicted to painkillers? Probably. An alien from outer space? I sometimes wondered. But none of that matters. Michael Jackson has affected each and every person on this planet, whether they want to admit it or not. His music paved a future for minorities. His risks informed the modern artistic age. You saw him move and you knew, you just knew this was something special. Special isn't even the word for it. The man was magic, a sorcerer, something the world had never seen and never will again.

Last Halloween I participated in the Thrill The World event at the Long Center, whereby 881 Austinites joined forces to break the world record for synchronized dancing. The song was, of course Thriller. Such energy, to be alongside so many others with the same music, the same moves, the same excitement to be part of something really BIG. Old, young, dancers and non-dancers alike, lying there on the concrete in the hotter-than-we-wanted noontime sun, hair teased, pasty makeup running, clothes ripped, zombie'd out and pumped up, the event's organizer counted down on speaker phone from California and we collectively rose from the dead. The air was electric. It was more than a tribute – it was a worldwide event, a perfect salute to the man who started it all. It was the coolest thing I had ever done or been part of, the most moving performance I'd ever given. It was a big deal then, but now, as my friend Stephanie says, "It's monumental." I am beyond grateful for that moment with MJ. It seemed like he was hovering over the crowd that day. It was his spirit in all of us that made it happen.

Still here.

It’s been a long time. I’m clearing the cobwebs out of my brain and getting back to this. Because I could never write enough to express all that has happened in the last 6 months, here’s a little chronological collage. I'm simplifying this blog at the same time, planning for shorter, more frequent entries, with the occasional rambling piece of work. There’s a lot I want to say, so stay tuned.

Amanda's bachelorette weekend in New Orleans:


My last Spank Dance show - time to move on:


Yellowtape Construction Company's WARPSTAR SEXYSQUAD, a sold-out foray into sci-fi and lezzer beams, and belting. One of my favorite roles ever:



West Texas for our 3 year anniversary:

At long, long last, a NEW JOB:


Faster Than the Speed of Light! Another sci-fi adventure:


And finally, focusing on healing my foot. I got drunk and danced in heels on New Year's Eve, and 6 months later it still hurts. Me and the boot are BFFs. Me and the crutches are not on speaking terms.

It's good to be back. I'm excited!