Androgania

My curiosity has once again brought me back, like an addiction, as it has time and time again. I reach in my pocket and feel around for my pack of cigarillos. The flicker of the flame let the intoxicating flavour dance around my palette with such sweet delight. It was only once a month that I was able to catch a glimpse of my favourite performer, Androgania, at the Velvet Bordello. There is just something so enticing, so evasive and elusive about Androgania. I just can’t explain… or put my finger on what it is, but I needed to see Androgania again. Anxious to sneak into my private booth, I reach into my pockets and discretely pull out the appropriate amount that would permit me to press myself against the thin glass barrier that stood erected between me and the tip of my fantasies.

I feel the sweat beginning to mount its tension as I approach closer to the ticket booth. The ticket attendant smiles at me, and I try to look as though I had not been at every one of Androgania’s performances in the past eight months. Avoiding eye contact, I thank him and slither myself towards my booth. I had always been a fond of the atmosphere at the Velvet Bordello. Both women and men alike were packed in like canned fruits waiting to be tasted in ripe and syrupy perfection. There seemed to be no definable lines of who is permitted into this dirty little sanctuary. I shyly pass a woman who had caught a finely dressed gentleman’s favour on her knees just outside my booth.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, again avoiding any sort of eye contact. This place reminds me of a abstract cross between a fantasy Moulin Rogue and the reality of house where you saw men leave with devious smiles on their faces, only a few short minutes after their arrival. The Velvet Bordello is an escape – an escape from the noise of the city, the indifference of men in suits, the clapping of women’s heels and the yelling of the street vendors trying to sell you crap that you’d never use.

I take a breath, and the scent of sweat lingers in the booth from the drippings of the person who had sat there last. The booth is quite simple, about the size of a small bathroom stall, and the walls made of purple velvet are adorned with gold figures of faces and forms that looked like they were trying to escape the clutches of fiery hell. I am not sure if they are being expelled, or they are being drawn into the fire. But either way, each time I could not help but be transfixed by the expressions on their faces.

The lights dim and the tableau vivant takes position on the stage. I cross my legs…I know it is time. The first bead of sweat drips down my cheek, slips under my shirt and melts down the length of my back. The lights come on and I push myself as close as I can get to the glass without pressing up my nose and leaving marks of my anxiousness. The tableau vivant remains in pose, brightly costumed in regal adornments that look authentic to another time and place. But they are present only to bring a living picture to Androgania’s entrance. A white glove appears from behind the large, draping purple curtain. I swallow. The music resonates a rustled jazz sound through the speaker in my booth: “mon amour vous êtes retourné à mes chambres pour remplir avec mes plaisirs” (my love, you have returned to my chambers to once again fill up with my delights). I can’t blink; I am transfixed watching the subtle movements of Andogania’s white glove. Then, as a servant tends to a master, Androgania comes around the curtain with such control. She is there to please her audience—and I hope especially me.

All in black, Andgorania begins to move by swaying hips in a repetition that I quickly loose count of. The music taunts me: “vous ne savez pas qui ou que je suis, mais vous savez que vous me voulez” (you don’t know who or what I am, but you want me). Androgania’s lips are blood red and I think of her kissing me and leaving the colour of desire all across my face. Androgania seems to be well endowed by the lump I see in the front of his black trousers. I have never wanted something so bad, but I am not sure what it is that I desire at all. I become jealous when Androgania caters to the spectators on the other side of the circular room, all neatly tucked into their common-place booths. I had paid more-- I wanted Androgania more. In that instant, Androgania turns with a side step and begins to make neat circles round and round, until Androgania halts in front of my looking-glass. The music makes love to my ears and for the first time, Androgania stops, leans forward and looks right at me. “Si j'étais homme, me vous permets de soignez pour vous? Si j'étais femme, aurais-je privilège pour vous tenir? (If I were a man, would you let me care for you? If I were a woman, would I have the privilege to hold you?) I am mesmerized as I silently mouth, “Yes.” A slight, cheeky smile appears on Androgania’s face, then a spin, a bow of the head, and with a turn my dreams rush out between my legs.

I close my eyes as I feel the release of such a pure delight. How could I feel ashamed of fulfilling my mind and body with such a sheer emotional high? I watch while Androgania continues to walk around the room, and I can see that there is not as much care as when I was near. A top hat on the head, skin as soft as a pearl fresh out of water, Androgania’s image remains imbedded like a drill of deep discovery, within the concaves of my deviant head.
I light a cigarillo and took a profound breath. What a virile damsel in distress.

Ever Wonder? Bog Bodies

A bog body is a human corpse that has remained preserved for hundreds, sometimes thousand of years in the bogs (wetland) of Northern Europe, Great Britain and Ireland. The difference between finding a ordinary human cadaver vs. a bog body is the quality of skin and organ preservation that is in tact, due to the wetlands ability to conserve human flesh in such a unique manner. The moist atmospheric conditions of the areas where bog bodies have been found, show that the acidity of the water and the consistent dampness and coolness of the temperature help to mummify the body. The bog body receives very little oxygen, and the skin of the body changes to appear tanned. The skeletal preservation, on the other hand, seems to suffer from a archaeological standpoint, as the acid in the peat dissolves the calcium phosphate of bone. It is not however impossible for forensics to determine the marking that often led the individual to death, as often forensic pathologists have found savage broken bones, contusions and visual markings of severe torture on the bog bodies.



Grauballe Man, found in Denmark, dated to 290 B.C.

For an archaeologist and a historian, these remains provide a great depth of understanding into the lifestyle, class, appearance, diet and fashion associated with these individuals that lived during the Iron Age (around 12th century B.C.). Fragments of last meals have been discovered in the stomach cavity, and can be analysed alongside teeth to determine the age of the individual, and what the person ate throughout their lifetime. Radiocarbon dating can be used to determine the age of burial, age at death and many other candid details. At this time close to a thousand bodies have been found within these regions and combined with modern science, have been able to reveal individual detailing such has facial quality and hairstyling, alongside the more habitual behaviours of the civilization as a whole.



The Tollund Man, found with rope around his neck in Denmark, dated to 4th century B.C.

Many of these bodies have been located around areas that would have marked tribal borderlines during the times in which these individuals would have lived. Theory has been evoked that many of these individuals could have been sacrificial sacraments made to the gods by the Kings of these tribes, to prescribe him and his people triumph in the harvest of the comings seasons, victory at battle and to protection of their lands.

A Life in Wax

The Beginning of the End:
Another night alone in my bed. The thought of the way I had you beside me puts a shiver in my head.
Some days I am fine, some days I am weak. But not a day goes by when I do not submit to the way you made me feel.
Distances have abridged miles between us, emptiness seems to be the only sound that echoes between our two figures. The silence between us still seems so loud to me.
How come when I think of you, no matter how cruel you treated me, it never mends my broken heart?

The End of the Beginning:
I am so lonely. It feels so long ago that I felt good. I have succumb to the grace of love, the crazy craze of love, the truth of love. Only a fool is the one who really believes in love. If I could just make love to you one more time. This time I am sure we could make it right. You don't want me anymore. I know you are no good for me, you don't have what I need.

Then and Now:
Flashing lights of energies that have passed me by. Still motions captured in time, recollections flood the traps of my concave mind. Like a statue made of wax, to me you still seem real. Melted, disintegrated, aged and discoloured with time; is it normal that I still can't get you off my mind? I wish I could hate, beseech you, erase you. All I can continue to do is forgive you.

I am not sure if I am strong enough. Some days I feel as though I can never be the same again. I know I must try, or with the pain of abandonment and resentment I will die. For me, you must cry. With a steady drip, you must cool to dry.

Day Out, Day In:
The sound of a woman's voice comes through my headphones as I lay in bed. She talks about her struggle to grow beyond the pain. With the tragedy of growing pains she questions if she can survive. Misery is not sweet, it is defeat. I turn the music down and her voice grows louder. I turn the volume up and the pain seeps in quietly.

Concluding the Beginning of the End:
Look at what I have become. Not a day goes by when I do not think of you. Not a night goes by when I do not feel for you. I wish I could chase these blues away, but as every sad love song comes on, the smear of you across my heart seals my forever casted pain.

Rihanna : "Disturbia"

Hot, hot, hot! Her is the latest my Miss Rihanna. Under the direction of David LaChapelle, this video shows the influence of such videos as Marilyn Manson's "Beautiful People," Christina Aguliera's "Fighter," and Madonna's "Frozen." I will admit that I enjoy Rihanna more than many of the generic, younger female black artists coming out in the past two years. I still think there is room for her to develop her sound to better represent her island identity, but she is just beginning and I hope she enjoys success for time to come. That is, as long as she does not make a track as BAD as "4 Minutes!" Sorry Madge.

Figlio Perduto

We all live only to die.
But life is too short to waste a day crumbling with worries about feeling like death.
Today I heard the news of a young boy who has lost his mother. She is gone.
The idea of thinking what that boy is going through makes me feel sick in the core of my stomach, I feel lighter in my head and I feel the shadows of darkness fill the water in my eyes.
How can life be so cruel to those who actually try to be good people, kind people, people who give love as much as they receive it.
On some days like today it all just seems like a sick joke to me. Like we have all been placed here to see how human we can really remain amongst all the withdrawing hands, careless secrets that are passed on through a chain of burning ears, all the people that will choose themselves before you time and again. Sometimes it can be such a lonely road.

I can't help but wonder if this is really the way that things are meant to be. I wish I could hold that boy close and tell him that everything will be alright, but I know right now that is untrue. I can't comfort the loss of the idea of a memory that may fade in time, a touch that you may forget to feel, the voice that you sill struggle to hear the sound of tuck you in at night.

A child's pain is incomparable to our own because they already have to see so much pain and suffering from such a young age. A mother's touch is like a security blanket that hides away all the monsters and keeps the shadows at bay in the lure of the blackness of night. I think of how destroyed I would be if I could not have my mother beside me and I am not a child anymore.

We all live only to die.
I pray that there is some salvation of all the pain, all the struggle that is taken to elevate your mind at this endless game. Today my thoughts are with this boy, every second, every breath. I know that it is the time to mourn and cry, but I suspect that his mother will remain the apple of his eye.

Brother Brother

I can't seem to forgive you, for no matter how I try I see that you care for no one other than yourself. You are cold and calculated, you hold the lock but you watch to see others fumble with the key. Have you ever stepped outside your selfish ways to see that there are many more things to life other than your immediate fulfillment and concentration on winning over things that will surely pass.

Your a empty little man. You manipulate, you cheat and you lie. You have no empathy and you care for yourself as if you were someone who mattered more than anyone else. You are not. If you hear the things that people really think about you maybe you would see how little it has done to win people over as your friends. You can not keep a friend if you do not what it is to be one. Grow up, you are lame for acting like half your age. Communicate using words, not yelling at people like they are under your control and are to cater to the bar that you ask them to jump.

I listen to you yell and my ears bleed all the years of frustration and abuse I have taken from you. I know that blood runs thicker than water but it was not my choice for us to be so indifferent. I can not imagine that I would be as slimy and judgemental with my friends as you are. I think that if I was, I would at least learn with time.

I know from the measure of how I am with my sister that you have done nothing to encourage me, believe in me, help me or be there for me over the years. I use to sit quietly and watch you abuse me through your words and your insensitive actions. You teased me for being the way that I am. I am different then you and for this I am glad.

One day you will see, what a separation of mountains stand enforced, permanently between you and me. I would have hoped that you would have learned from the way that we saw our parents argue, the way that you saw the struggle of mom with dad. The bruises of skin and emotions led me to think you would re-consider your jaded devotions.

I was wrong.

FUNNY Alicia Keys vs. Rabbit MTV Commercial Spots

These are a couple of my favourites of my boo....I laughed my ass off! Well...not quite? It's still there (0;

Goodbye Golden Girl: Estelle Getty Dies at 84

This news is simply devastating, in the words of Blanche Deveroux. Dear, sweet and beyond cute, Estelle Getty passed away this morning at the age of 84, her son confirmed with a statement. Her family and friends were at her side in her home in Los Angeles home and 3 days short of her 85th birthday.

The time could not have been more odd for me. The Golden Girls have always been and remain one of my favourite shows of all time. Last week a friend of mine gave me season one on DVD and I watched 15 episodes in 3 days. So good people. The joy that Estelle's character, Sofia Petrillo has given me with her blunt tongue and through prancing around with her little straw purse and judging people is beyond imaginable. You can't forget her "picture it, Sicily..." stories. Though she was little, she packed a most hilarious punch and a mean left hand! Her comedic time was genius, her punch lines are unforgettable. I, in fact remember watching The Golden Girls with my Ba (grandma) and her telling me that "the old woman" was her favourite. My Ba had an appreciation for the funny when she saw it.

Getty had been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia but she has been suffering from poor health over the recent years. In 1988 Getty won an Emmy for outstanding supporting actress in a comedy series for her work in Golden Girls.

Goodbye my golden friend, you will be missed and remembered.