As in Dance, So in Love

Good dancers make good lovers, says survey

Men who know how to move on the dance floor know all the right moves in the bedroom, according to a new report.

Interesting article. I wonder what the real correlation is. The article touches on shyness on the dance floor matching shyness in bed, but not why, in any depth. (also, over-the-top flashy dancers...)

If you're so conscious of your body on the dance floor, I say, it implies you will be over-aware of your body in bed. In both cases, this means an inability to relax, and enjoy the moment, the motion, and -- let's be blunt -- the rhythm. 'Cause finding the rhythm is important, baybee.

I propose two major contributors to such self-consciousness:

1. insecurity -- about your looks, about your social standing (i.e., not wanting to look like a dork)
2. hyperconsciousness -- lacking the facility of being in the moment from a Zen perspective, unable to lose yourself in the task at hand. Overthinking the situation.

There's probably more, I've suffered from both, although once I'm dancing (vertically or...horizontally, ahem), it doesn't seem to be a problem.

Oh, but asking them to dance, and you can read that either way, is still mortifying. What if they say no? What if they hate my moves? What if? Well, if you don't ask, you'll never know, will you? So, how badly do you want this dance?

Anyways, a thought-provoking article.

Hats off to Scalzi, for the link.

Matters of Life and Death in the Feline World


1. food bowl to remain full
2. water dish -- clear, full, eminently splashable.
3. litterbox clean (or, operators standing by to open doors, windows and other avenues of exit to the outside)
4. attention when, if, and only as desired

Violate too many of those in short order and you may find yourself subject to a severe lesson from the outraged feline.

Take, for example, Number One Cat, Pepper. Pepper is smart. If she had thumbs, I'd hide the keys to my truck. Hell, she doesn't have thumbs and I should probably hide the keys.

Pepper has been subject to some indignities recently. Mom (me) out at all hours, lying down and doing situps instead of remaining stationary as a good heating pad should, reading thick books that take up lap room, not sharing the tuna, visiting friends instead of staying home to pet her and Number Two Cat, Gina.

Oh, the humanity. Or, as she puts it, mrow. (oh, the felinity).

So, this morning, within mere moments of filling the water bowl to its designated degree as specified contractually, I nattered about and paid a few bills, walked back into the kitchen and promptly fell prey to Do Not Mess With The Cat Lesson #1: copious quantities of water on linoleum is both invisible in dim light and very slippery.

I went from vertical to horizontal in 3.8 picoseconds, narrowly avoided breaking my leg or pulling any major muscle groups, and looked up to find the Lady of the House grooming herself in that way that communicates quite clearly that those big clumsy hairless thumbed cats lacking lightning-quick reflexes had better know their place and stick to it, by Bast, or there'll be hell to pay.

I stand, er, lay, corrected.

Pardon the Cynicism

Traffic Pollution Damages Male Fertility

Well. Now men have a real reason to be pro-environment, pro-electric car, pro-renewable-resources.

Verdi's Otello

Janis and I went to go see Verdi's 'Otello' Sunday at the San Diego Opera. We're the tall brunette and buxom blonde over on the left balcony, the ones cracking each other up during intermission.

No, no, farther over. Yeah. That was us.

It was, in a nutshell, wonderful.

Otello is, of course, a version of Shakespeare's Othello. Magnificent opening, set at the start of Act II of the play, when Othello arrives triumphant at Cyprus. There's lightning flashing, people running all over the place -- it was amazing.

You miss a little setup by starting in Act II, but also, oddly, I think, gain more insight into Othello's basic insecurity. He doesn't think he's worthy of Desdemona, which is what makes it so easy for him to believe Iago's lies. Iago, however, gets painted I think less complexly than he deserves. There's jealousy, and a lot of it, but there's also a delight I think in manipulating people for the sake of manipulation. He just can't resist.

Desdemona sings this lovely, light (not lighthearted, light, almost sotto voce) Ave Maria before going to what will become her deathbed. Subtly stunning.

All the voices were uniformly superb, the costumes fabulous, and the whole crowd boo'd Iago during curtain call, which he loved.

The sets, for every production we've seen, have been uniformly incredible. Just incredible.

This is the last opera Janis and I will go to see together this season (though I'm going to see Butterfly with someone else), and we're already making plans for a full 5-opera subscription for next season: Turandot, The Pearl Fishers, Don Carlo, Katya Kabonova, and La Traviata.