Nudity is Only Skin-Deep

In 1999, when I was a cashier at a grocery store, there was a big advertising campaign in the deli. The posters said, "2000 is at the door. Answer it with cheese." Uhhh....

...

I remember walking with f00dave along a residential street. Some 10-year-old boys were playing street hockey, when they suddenly threw down their hockey sticks and ran up to us excitedly. "Can we have your autograph?" they asked Dave.

"Who do you think I am?" he asked, confused.

"You're Wayne Gretzky, silly!"

...

I was waiting in line for boxed lunches. The woman at the counter said, "We have a vegetarian option, a beef option, and a chicken option."

A clueless man asked, "Is the chicken vegan?"

...

In grade eleven, while in a haze of too much studying for final exams and not enough sleep, I, for some inexplicable reason, hooked up a piece of surgical hose to two high-pressure water taps in the chemistry lab and turned them both on. The hose exploded off one of the taps and sprayed everyone in the room.

...

When I was too young to walk, my father held me in his arms and I remember looking up at his nose and seeing nose hairs. I reached up to pull them, and he gently pushed my hand away saying, "No, no."

...

I remember knightky in wet, green Cornwall, creeping up on some furtive sheep amongst the standing stones and thatched roof houses. I laughed when he charged the sheep and they bolted, leaving him standing there in the sodden grass saying, "But I only wanted to give them scritches!"

...

When I was 9, I was walking with my family, my collie Shep, and her litter of hyper puppies across the dunes of northern Newfoundland. All of a sudden, Shep barked, and tore off across the dunes and out of sight. The puppies tore off after her. We crested the dune and they were nowhere in sight. We could, however, see a beached whale. It was moving. As we got closer, we could smell the rot and corruption, and it became obvious that the whale was moving because it was full of rolling dogs. Dad pulled them out, covered in maggots and slime, and he puked a few times while he threw them in the ocean to clean them off. They screamed and yiked like they thought he was trying to murder them, and every chance they got, they'd try to run back to the whale. We had to keep them all tied up for a few weeks lest they return.

...

I remember the time in university when my Victorian Literature prof., Dr. Bentley, gave us a very special Victorian Literature lecture: instead of talking about Wuthering Heights or Erewhon, he'd brought in the local Natural Law party representative, who spent the hour explaining to us how if Natural Law were voted in, that they'd teach us to yogic fly, make all home entrances southern ones, and prevent the birth of national enemies.

Why is it so many people can't see the beauty of their own potential? Why are so many people caught up in the cult of celebrity? Don't they know that they have it within themselves to shine, too?

I can't remember if I've written about this before, but I'm going to write about it now.

When I was a kid, I'd watch tv and movies, or read articles in magazines, and I'd see and learn about people with a vast array of skills, talents, and experiences. There were cowboys, acrobats, fashion models, chefs, businessmen, actors, body builders, authors, airline hostesses, scientists, hunters with spears, etc. I would always be amazed by these people. But I always considered them as something alien. Foreign. Other.

That's what other people did. It's not what people like me did.

I'd see someone with a big plate in their bottom lip, or someone walking tightrope, and I'd think how exotic that was. I'd see dancers with a pot of water balanced on their heads, dancing without spilling a single drop. And I'd think they had such a strange and different life, unlike normal people like me.

I was a normal kid. I went to school, and I went to the Kingdom Hall. The best I could hope for would be to marry a Jehovah's Witness elder and maybe be a missionary in one of those exotic foreign countries, and spread the word of God to the people who weren't like me. Heck, even the boys in the Kingdom Hall were more exotic than I was. They could at least carry the microphones around the Kingdom Hall or operate the sound equipment, because boys were important.

It never even occurred to me that I could go to university. I mean, it was strongly discouraged for Jehovah's Witness kids to seek higher education, except for maybe a trade. Higher education was a waste of time since Armageddon was surely just around the corner. And so I had resigned myself to the fate of waiting for Armageddon, and then for the resulting Paradise on Earth. That's when I might finally be accorded my chance to shine.

And so I was finishing up grade twelve, and my Dad unexpectedly mentioned to me that I might want to consider applying to university. I was pretty surprised, but sure, why not? If Dad suggested it, it must be a good idea. I applied to just one school. My grades were good, and I was accepted easily.

One day at the Kingdom Hall, one of the sisters (female JW) asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought about it for a minute, and then I said I thought I'd like to be a biologist.

Her mouth went from being shaped like a smile to being shaped like a cat's arsehole. "Biologists believe in evolution."

"Oh," I said, and then said nothing more. I'd been put back into my place.

Flash ahead to the next year. I was in university, now. I'd been taking a variety of courses, and meeting a lot of people far more cosmopolitan than I was. I met a few people who were radio DJs, another one of those things I considered glamourous and exotic. One day, I was having a conversation with an older woman in my introductory English class. I'm sure she doesn't remember the conversation. It was one of those casual, rather throwaway discussions. Just filling time, really. But it was pivotal for me.

I mentioned to her that a couple of my friends were DJs.

"You could be a DJ," she said.

I looked at her, startled. "Really?" I said.

"Yeah. I think you'd make a pretty good DJ."

I don't remember anything else in that conversation. All I remember is that was the precise moment when I realized, in more than just an abstract way, that I had the potential to do anything. And from that day onwards, if I decided I wanted to do or try something, unless there was a damned good reason not to, I went for it. Within the next week or two, I was getting training for operating sound equipment.

Screw living vicariously. I wanna live for myself.

I grew up differently from most people I know. Although I was essentially raised by the television, my family weren't huge consumers. We didn't buy a lot of stuff that most other people assume is what everyone gets at the mall. We grew much of our own food, like fruit and vegetables, and the vegetables we didn't grow ourselves, we still didn't buy at the grocery store. What potatoes we didn't grow ourselves, we bought from a farmer down the road. We raised our own animals for meat (pigs, chickens, rabbits, and once, a steer) and eggs (chickens and geese). My Dad hunted moose, partridge, and rabbits. We all went fishing for trout and cod. After school, my sister and I would pick berries, rose hips, and mushrooms. Sometimes we helped butcher chickens, and were part of a kiddy disassembly line plucking feathers, and pulling the guts out of chickens. Mom made a lot of the clothes my sister and I wore when we were little, and we wore a lot of hand-me-downs when we got older.

If something broke, we didn't just throw it out and get a new one. We'd fix it, instead. And so my socks were darned, and my trousers patched. Furniture would get repaired, and Dad would replace worn electrical cables on appliances.

I didn't have many toys. Instead, I played with my animals, read books, wrote stories, wandered through field and forest, or drew pictures. It was a childhood filled with hard work and lots of imagination. Maybe I didn't have fancy toys or new clothes, but I could climb trees, stand on the back of a cantering pony, build a camp fire, and tell you the difference between a doe and a stag's hoof print. Almost all of my meagre allowance went to purchasing stamps and stationery, for I had pen pals all around the world.

As I got older, I became more "civilized," I guess, for wont of a better word. I lived in a city, and was no longer able to grow my own food. Although I still went to the park to pick berries and herbs, this was only supplemental to my regular diet.

It was somewhere around my university years when I think I first heard, "You get what you pay for."

This was anathema to the frugal way in which I was raised. I was used to bartering and trading with other families, and when we did need to buy something, clipping coupons and looking for sales so we could save our money. And now that I'm well past my university years, I encounter it more and more. When free workshops are offered, attendance is often meagre, because how much value can something free have?

Some of the most lasting instruction I've ever received in dance has not been in a classroom situation, but around a campfire. I have learned incredible amounts of valuable information from libraries and off the internet.

Personally, I'm not fond of money. I think it's nasty, filthy stuff, and when I was a cashier at a major grocery store chain, I would wash my hands between shifts to get the grime of it off my hands. I won't deny its usefulness, but I believe that pretty much everyone is far too reliant upon it. To me, money takes the place of when a barter or trade is impossible or inconvenient. For instance, it doesn't make a lick of sense for me to offer dance or fitness instruction to my landlord, because he has no interest in it at all. But it makes perfect sense for me to offer dance lessons in exchange for other sorts of fitness or dance classes.

Over the past few days, I've been seeing a graphic which reads, "If you really want to Occupy Wall Street, do your holiday shopping at a small independent merchant."

My question is why do we need to do shopping for commercial holidays at all? Yes, I enjoy picking out gifts for people. But does it need to be limited to certain times of the year? Why is there such a compulsion to go to the malls in late November and early December to buy what is often shopworn, factory-made stuff? Why is there such compulsion to buy, buy, buy, especially when so much being offered for sale is not so great?

Back when Windows 95 came out, I remember being in a computer shop when a woman was purchasing a copy of the software. Ends up, she didn't even own a computer. She didn't want to be left behind. She was buying it because all the commercials were telling her she needed it.

How many useless (to us) things have we purchased? Do we need to buy another video game, or another toy? Do we need to buy certain education when knowledge is free to be had with a minimal bit of typing?

So says me, in my room overstuffed with books, clothes, and crafting supplies. It's giving me something to think about, at least.

I've been disquieted by one of the feel-good memes floating around on the social media sites lately. It is superficially adorable. It starts with a picture of a cute little girl hugging a dog. Then the flavour text goes on to say how the girl and the dog were inseparable until the dog died of old age. The little girl was devastated, so the parents explained how the dog had gone on to Heaven to be with God.

The little girl decided to write a letter to God with a few instructions as to what the dog liked, and included some photos, so God would be sure to recognize the dog when he showed up at Heaven's gates.

The letter was mailed to God, with lots of stamps since Heaven is a long way away. Some time later, there was a letter in responses, ostensibly from God, thanking the girl for the letter and saying the dog was happy, etc.

Now, all sorts of people are all melty and gooey from this, but I was left saddened. I'm sad the girl lost her dog. I really am. I even got a bit teary eyed, dang it! But I'm also sad that so many people are taking part in an elaborate ruse, when reality can be acceptable and reasonable to children. Things die. It's sad, but death is a part of life. And when they die, all sorts of fascinating processes take place, like decomposition, and fertilization of the soil, and regrowth from that rot. Fido isn't in heaven, but Fido could very well be helping new trees to grow. The bugs and worms that eat Fido get eaten by birds which get eaten by cats which contributes to the cycle of life. And yes, this same cycle will allow some other little girl or boy to have their very own dog who they love and who loves them back.

I have a mutant hair that periodically sprouts from my right forearm. I named it Harry. It's a long, black wispy hair, and definitely stands out amongst the fine, short, almost invisible hairs which otherwise populate my forearm. I'm painting away in my china painting class today when I notice Harry for the first time in a few months. "Well, hello there," I think.

And then I note a similarity between Harry and the individual hairs on my paint brush.

Has anyone ever made a paintbrush out of mutant arm hairs? I'd be willing to give it a go, but with how sporadically Harry reappears, I think it might be decades before I'd harvested enough for a brush.

Yeah, I'm weird.

I was bullied as a child.

I often wondered why I was singled out in particular. Was it because I was weird? This was surely a huge part, but I knew it couldn't be the sum total, because I knew a couple people who I thought were just as, if not more, weird than I was, and they were not picked on. Was it because I was smart? Partially. I did extremely well in all my courses, and people picked on me for this, but one of the most popular guys in my school was neck and neck with me for grades. Was it because I practiced a different religion from the other kids? Again, I'm sure it was a huge part. Jehovah's Witnesses come across as better than thou, with not accepting Valentine's cards, birthday presents, sitting out the Lord's Prayer and allegiance to the flag, etc. But I knew another Jehovah's Witness kid who was not picked on. Was it because I was the new kid? Wore hand-me-downs? Was funny-looking? Wore glasses? Had no boobs? Didn't have a boyfriend?

Eventually, I figured out that it was because of a combination of all of these things and more, which set me apart as greatly different from the kids who picked on me.

I was punched, pinched, tripped, shoved, slapped, spit on, wedgied, kicked, or crammed into lockers and garbage cans on a pretty much daily basis at school from about grade five on to high school. I had my school books and notes stolen during exam time (I aced the tests, regardless). I was called names and verbally abused on an hourly basis. I didn't fight back. I believed it immoral to do so, because of the teachings of the New Testament. I had a literal belief in turning the other cheek. Turning the other cheek, however, just means you get matching bruises.

Ok, there are two instances I can think of in which I did fight back. But only two, until a few years later. One time, while a tough girl named Joanne was punching me and pulling my hair, I managed a weak flail back at her. She responded by beating me even harder. Once, I was thrown to the floor by a group of teens while they tried to shove some substance or another up my nose. For once, I fought back fiercely. I didn't know what they were trying to put up my nose. I knew it was some sort of drug, but I didn't know what kind. But though I fought as though my life were at stake, there were too many of them, and they managed to get whatever it was up my nose.

Terrified, I went to the bathroom and blew my nose until it bled, and then scoured it out with scratchy brown paper towel until the blood ran freely. Shaking, I walked to the principal's office. A teacher saw me and yelled at me, telling me to get back to my home room. I tried to explain what had happened, but he just yelled at me more. So I went back to class, wondering if I was now a drug addict, or if I'd be having hallucinations.

Later on, I found out it was just a nasal decongestant.

I came home with lots of scrapes and bruises. I don't think my parents ever noticed, because I was a rough and tumble kid, and I received far worse in my own farm and forest misadventures. Between the regular poundings I got at school and the (literal) horseplay at home, I developed a very high pain tolerance. I remember being slapped repeatedly across the face by a girl named Laura, and interrupting her to tell her she had an eyelash on her cheek. She stopped slapping me, and with my directions, found the eyelash and flicked it off, then resumed the slapping. I thought this was pretty funny, and my smirk just made her slap me more. I wasn't too worried. She couldn't hit for shit, anyhow.

I was starting to hate myself as much as the other kids hated me, and maybe even more. But the physical abuse stopped when I was in grade ten. I rejected Jesus's turn-the-other-cheek saying. I deserved not to be pounded upon any more. I grew out my fingernails and started carrying a heavy purse. I slashed and gouged a bully with my nails (like Beecher from Oz, but without the fatality) until he finally left me alone. He never touched me again. I smashed another over the head with my purse. Again, he never touched me after that. I still got plenty of verbal abuse, but by this point, I was pretty immune.

When I've mentioned this to some people, they've had a look of commiseration and/or pity cross their faces. They tell me they are sorry. But though I can't say I ever enjoyed being bullied, and in fact harboured lots of violent fantasies, they didn't revolve around me hurting or killing my aggressors. One of my most-visited scenarios was a terrible bus accident, in which I single-handedly rescued everyone from a fiery death, and then they all realized I was a big, damned hero, and stopped picking on me.

Why didn't I wish actual harm came to them?

Because I felt sorry for them.

Yes, really.

I knew what was happening to some of my bullies. A girl used to beat me up for choice bits of my lunch. She was not being fed at home. Her father was pimping her out to his hunting buddies. She and her brother had whip scars across their backs.

Another girl used to beat me up all the time. She didn't beat me up too hard, though. I knew she liked me, and hitting me was how she showed it. I was always nice to her, and although she was very strong, her beatings were all for show. They never hurt me. And if she saw anyone else hit me, she would beat them into the dirt, not sparing any of her strength. I was her bitch, I guess. Anyhow, she was, herself, beaten at home.

Almost every single kid that picked on me had something truly horrible happening to them in their home lives. Some were molested by their father or uncle. The uncle of one had made the dog have sex with her when she was still a toddler because he thought it was funny (the police came and shot the dog, but didn't take the kid away or arrest the uncle). How could I feel sorry for myself, when all I had to worry about were a few scratches and bruises?

Of course, knowing that I knew these things just made them hit me even more.

Many of the worst bullies never did graduate from high school. Some dropped out, or were pulled out, of school before they even started grade ten.

I guess the point of all this is yes, being bullied sucks. But sometimes, being the bully is even worse. And do you know what? It takes a damned lot to cow me, now. I survived a rough childhood, and I think I'm all the tougher for it. Where are my bullies, now?

Decades ago, when I first started exercising in earnest, I went in to see my family doctor for something or another. At one point, I mentioned to him that I'd started pumping iron. He got a strange look on his face, and then cautioned me to "Be careful." According to him, a common issue with women who started working out and putting on muscle, is that if they ever stopped working out, the muscle would turn into fat.

Since I knew pretty much nothing of anatomy at the time, I remember thinking, "Well, I guess I'll just never stop working out."



Of course, his cautionary tale is pure hogwash. Muscle cells are not the same as fat cells. And while yes, if you stop exercising, you just might get fat, it isn't because you had muscles beforehand. It's because you're not exercising. And if you're eating as much as you were when you were building those muscles, but no longer are burning off all those calories maintaining muscles, guess what? Caloric intake is now greater than caloric burn. Ergo, fat.

It's not exactly rocket science.

I remember asking this same doctor why I couldn't get rid of the itty bitty bump I had on my lower abdomen. I told him I did hundreds of crunches, but if anything, it was only getting bigger.

Ends up, I had built up my abs so much through all the crunches that they just stuck out in a way I wasn't familiar with. That little bump just happened to be muscle, not fat. Fat doesn't flex, and I could flex that bump on my belly.

My doctor neglected to tell me that you cannot spot-reduce fat. It is physiologically impossible. If I have a pot belly and do a thousand crunches a day, that alone will not give me the abs of a Calvin Klein underwear model. The only way you can spot-reduce fat is surgically (ie. liposuction).

Let's say you're pretty darned chubby all over. You have a spare tire, pot belly, wobbly upper arms, and maybe have back boobs, too. If you do a thousand crunches a day, you will not suddenly have a six pack, but still have your fat everywhere else, too (well, with 6 billion people, I suppose there is the possibility for this happening for one person on the planet, but it would be a freakish occurrence). Likewise, if you do a gajillion bicep curls, you won't suddenly have super-slim arms, but be fat everywhere else.

When you burn fat, it burns all over. You may have a genetic predisposition toward burning fat in one area first, and another area last, but it will generally decrease all over your body. So if you work out and eat right, you might find yourself slimming down in general everywhere. Though maybe, those saddlebags or the potbelly might hang on much longer than you'd like. Darned fat and genetics. Grr!

Fat is a curious and pernicious body part. Fat cells can get bigger. They can also increase in number. Once you've grown fat cells, they're there permanently (save through liposuction). Fortunately, just as fat cells can get bigger, they can also shrink.

So getting back to those abs, there's a common saying: Abs aren't built in the gym; they're built in the kitchen.

You can take a look at the strongest guy (or gal) you know. Unless they're a bit of a genetic mutant (and probably well under 30 years old), they won't have a well-defined six-pack unless they eat carefully. Almost everyone, whether or not they exercise, already has a decent set of abdominal muscles. The reason why they can't be seen is because they're hidden by fat. It doesn't take much fat to hide that definition, either, which is why a well-defined abdominal region is one of the trickiest things to gain.

In order for you to be able to see your abs, you need to get your body fat to be low enough for the abs to show. For men this comes out to be a body fat level below 10% body fat and for women below 13%. Typically, guys that have a well defined "six pack" hover at around 6-7% body fat and women at 11-12%.
- (from Bodybuilding Abdominals Training Guide)

This fat percentage is lower than the average for healthy, fit adults. The so-called "ideal" body fat percentage for men is around 12%, and for women around 20%. Both of these are still too high to show off those belly muscles. And since in the US, the average body fat for men is 25%, and around 35%-40% for women (from The Average American Body Fat Percentage), six-packs are a rarity.

I eat well, and my body fat percentage is under 20%. But I do not have a visible six-pack. This is me, stretching up super-tall as of this morning:



I hope to compete in a fitness competition this fall, which means I have to clean up my diet even more to show my abs. Wish me luck! I'm gonna need it.

Oh, by the way, my old doctor lost his license. Not because of his bad fitness advice, but because he was perving it up with his patients. Oy....

When I teach fitness/dance, invariably, someone will ask me if I have any children. When I say no, they laugh, point at me, and say, "Oh. That explains it!"

I do not agree with this. First of all, being child-free is not a recipe for fitness. Regular exercise and a healthy diet are. Case in point, I'll bet you know of many, many, many child-free women who are not in shape, because they eat poorly and do not exercise. And yet I know of lots of mothers who are far more fit than I am, because they do. There are plenty of moms who are professional athletes, dancers, and body builders.

Having a kid might slow you down for a bit, when it comes to fitness. And physiological changes can also come into play. Even if you're fit, you may have a different build than before pregnancy. But having children is not a reason you cannot get yourself in excellent physical condition. Stretch marks do not prevent you from being fit.

I am not about to get knocked up to prove a point, but if you pick up a copy of Oxygen magazine, for example, and flip to the back with all the pictures of competitive body builders, you'll see that a fair percentage of them are mothers.

A cursory online search for "fit moms", "athletic moms," etc. will garner you lots of proof that it can be done.

I believe that regular exercise and good diets are for everyone, and wish more people would take better care of themselves. You can set an excellent example for your children, and raise healthier kids, too.

Over the years, I've studied a lot of different dance styles, both in classroom and workshop situations. I've also seen lots of dance performances, and I've noted a few patterns about the relationship of dance to music.

1. Dance is the visual representation of the music, and enhances the experience by combining visual with audio.
   
2. The music is mostly irrelevant to the dance, and if the movements coincide with any part of it, it's coincidental.
   
3. The dance is done only to the rhythm of the music, and the music is therefor interchangeable, so long as the music has a coinciding number of counts for the choreography/combination.
   
4. The dance is representative of the theme of the song, rather than the melody/rhythm.
   
5. There is no music at all, and the dance is performed in silence, or the act of the dance itself creates music.
   

#1 is something I see very frequently in improvisational belly dance, and is how I generally treat music/dance, when I perform. I do not necessarily believe it is the superior way of doing things, but it appeals very much to my personal aesthetics. Maybe it's a synaesthesia thing, but when I hear certain parts of music, it feels/looks like certain body movements to me.

I have seen #2 in contemporary and butoh performances, where the music and dance sometimes seem at odds with one another. I think this may be intentional for the purpose of shaking up the viewers' perception a bit, and perhaps keeping them off balance.

I have also seen it with bad dancers, who have a wooden ear and/or no sense of rhythm. I've also seen it with inattentive dancers, who are more concerned with going through a series of tricks and combinations, and are completely ignoring the music.

#3 I've seen in a lot of classroom situations, and in choreographies which are based on counting, rather than anything else to do with the music, specifically. It is especially easy to replace a dance done to one 4:4 or 3:4 time signature song with another. Just adjust the speed of the dance to the tempo of the piece. I personally find this the least interesting, but in terms of teaching, it is the simplest--especially when drilling technique.

I have also seen it in square dancing, where the dancer is using the music for rhythm, but the voice of the caller for combinations.

#4 is something I've seen in contemporary dance, as well. I have also used this a few times, while using dance as a story-telling medium. I have also seen it when a dancer performs to dialogue or poetry.

#5 is something I see in percussive dances, like tap, slap dance, etc. I have long wanted to experiment with this in different ways (ie. wiring up parts of my body so that different movements would play different sounds through a computer), but I do not have the technical know-how. If someone wants to collaborate with me on this, let me know!

There may very well be other patterns, but these are the ones I've noted. What are your opinions on the topic?

A few days ago, I saw a flier advertising light rail transit in Kitchener. It said that if such a thing came to pass in my city, I would not need to worry about getting a second car. I was boggled. A second car? I've never had a first car! And do you know what? I function perfectly fine without owning a motorized vehicle. I don't need one. At all. Within the city, I walk, bike, or, when the weather is too inclement or I'm sick, I take the bus. It's been this way for me in every city where I ever lived.

My art instructor was pleased when she saw me bike to her class. She says she likes to bike for fun, too. I told her I bike pretty much everywhere, and often year round. It's not specifically for fun. It's my main means of getting around town. She was very surprised when she learned I don't own a car, and have no intention of getting one.

She kept asking, "And that works for you?"

And I kept saying, "Yes."

She asked how I got to Toronto, and I told her I just catch a bus. And commuter trains will be yet another option come the new year. It's a hell of a lot cheaper than paying for gas, parking, insurance, and vehicle maintenance.

In the odd occasion where I need a vehicle, we rent one. It's worked out just fine.

Walking and biking keeps me in much better shape than riding in a vehicle, too. Bonus!

The only places where a vehicle was needed was when I lived with my family far out in the countryside. There is no public transit in rural areas, and everything is so far apart, that bicycles, walking, horseback, and dogsleds just don't cut it. But we still used non-motorized means of transportation as much as possible. Our winter's wood supply was carried on wagons and sleds. We would take a horse and buggy to the corner store when I lived in Newfoundland. It was much cheaper than driving the truck.

I entered a draw to win a car, yesterday. In the odd chance that I win it, I'm selling it. I can use the money for much more useful things.