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Some Call It Dancing – Part Three

July 15, 2017 Leave a comment

“Ready”, Sylvia said.  She hung up the phone, stood and waited at the stage door.  The Red Foxx recording stopped abruptly in the middle of a dirty joke and Tony’s voice echoed flatly in the auditorium.

“Now ladies and gentlemen, the always exciting, sweet and slender ‘Angel”.  A ripple of applause was drowned out by the opening strains of Rod Stewart’s version of ‘Tonight’s The Night’.  Sylvia pushed the stage door open and strode proudly into the red spotlight, which followed her to centre stage.  She swung into her improvised routine, moving with slow, gentle grace to the sensual music.

The audience applauded appreciatively.  Sylvia, whose appearance fitted well with her stage name ‘Angel’, was a favourite with the ‘regulars’ at Paris Paradise.  Unlike any of the other girls, Sylvia looked into the faces of her audience during her performances.  The audiences were accustomed to the sulky, resentful expressions usually shown by the dancers.  But Sylvia liked showing herself, and she liked the easy money that stripping brought her.  The lonely, rejected men in the audience were made to feel warm toward Sylvia.  They saw her as a real person who existed in places not connected with her nude dancing in Paris Paradise.

Not until the song ended did Sylvia remove the outer layer of her costume.  The audience didn’t object.  She danced beautifully, and her warm, friendly personality extended out of the red spotlight, over the footlights, and into the hearts of the men in the audience.

The second song came on, and offered a change of pace.  Frank Sinatra’s voice filled the room with ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’, and Sylvia swung and spun as if the lyrics were guiding her.  Her long, well-shaped legs swept her from one side of the stage to the other, affording all members of the audience a close look at her muscled body.  This, too, endeared her to the audience.  Most often, the dancers kept to the centre of the stage, robbing those on the extreme left and right sides of the audience of a clear view of what they’d paid to see.

Sylvia’s routine unfolded like a flower, shedding petals.  Songs by Neil Diamond and Lou Rawls provided the balance of her music.  The audience applauded enthusiastically, whistled, and called for more… more… as Sylvia gathered up her costume and ducked backstage and into the dressing room.

After she showered in the small stall at the back of the dressing room, Sylvia came out to her place in front of the mirror.  She relaxed for a few minutes before dressing in her street clothes.  Marisa, a tall, lean black girl sucked on a joint and handed it to Sylvia.  Marisa was a transsexual in her twenties.  She was born male, and by the time she had turned nineteen, she’d had several operations to become the woman she always felt she should have been.  Her own father was the surgeon who helped her make the transition because he couldn’t bear to see her suffering as she did when she wore the male body that felt to her like a prison.  She had been a female in every way but physically and never knew a happy moment until she became a woman.  Finally, she took great joy and satisfaction in earning her living exhibiting her altered body.

“Ready”, Sylvia said.  She hung up the phone, stood and waited at the stage door.  The Red Foxx recording stopped abruptly in the middle of a dirty joke and Tony’s voice echoed flatly in the auditorium.

“Now ladies and gentlemen, the always exciting, sweet and slender ‘Angel”.  A ripple of applause was drowned out by the opening strains of Rod Stewart’s version of ‘Tonight’s The Night’.  Sylvia pushed the stage door open and strode proudly into the red spotlight, which followed her to centre stage.  She swung into her improvised routine, moving with slow, gentle grace to the sensual music.

The audience applauded appreciatively.  Sylvia, whose appearance fitted well with her stage name ‘Angel’, was a favourite with the ‘regulars’ at Paris Paradise.  Unlike any of the other girls, Sylvia looked into the faces of her audience during her performances.  The audiences were accustomed to the sulky, resentful expressions usually shown by the dancers.  But Sylvia liked showing herself, and she liked the easy money that stripping brought her.  The lonely, rejected men in the audience were made to feel warm toward Sylvia.  They saw her as a real person who existed in places not connected with her nude dancing in Paris Paradise.

Not until the song ended did Sylvia remove the outer layer of her costume.  The audience didn’t object.  She danced beautifully, and her warm, friendly personality extended out of the red spotlight, over the footlights, and into the hearts of the men in the audience.

The second song came on, and offered a change of pace.  Frank Sinatra’s voice filled the room with ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’, and Sylvia swung and spun as if the lyrics were guiding her.  Her long, well-shaped legs swept her from one side of the stage to the other, affording all members of the audience a close look at her muscled body.  This, too, endeared her to the audience.  Most often, the dancers kept to the centre of the stage, robbing those on the extreme left and right sides of the audience of a clear view of what they’d paid to see.

Sylvia’s routine unfolded like a flower, shedding petals.  Songs by Neil Diamond and Lou Rawls provided the balance of her music.  The audience applauded enthusiastically, whistled, and called for more… more… as Sylvia gathered up her costume and ducked backstage and into the dressing room.

After she showered in the small stall at the back of the dressing room, Sylvia came out to her place in front of the mirror.  She relaxed for a few minutes before dressing in her street clothes.  Marisa, a tall, lean black girl sucked on a joint and handed it to Sylvia.  Marisa was a transsexual in her twenties.  She was born male, and by the time she had turned nineteen, she’d had several operations to become the woman she always felt she should have been.  Her own father was the surgeon who helped her make the transition because he couldn’t bear to see her suffering as she did when she wore the male body that felt to her like a prison.  She had been a female in every way but physically and never knew a happy moment until she became a woman.  Finally, she took great joy and satisfaction in earning her living exhibiting her altered body.

This is not Bigotry

July 14, 2017 Leave a comment

I am going to avoid forming friendships with two groups in the future. One group is the Jewish cult of Hassidic people. The other group is black people. I know how it can look like bigotry, but I am not against any kind of people in general. Let me explain.

I have had friendly relationships with three black people; two women and a man. All three disappointed me. They took advantage of my sincerity, my ability, and in general, they each, in separate friendships, disappointed me. Of course I will meet with and talk with other black people, but I will shy away from forming any kind of friendship or relationship. I have befriended three different black people in three different environments. They did not know each other. Each one, in ways similar to the others, betrayed my affection.

Similarly, I am never going to form a friendship with a Hassidic person. I have done business, and formed friendships with three Hassidic families. We enjoyed many conversations, teaching each other things from our separate societies. Each was a separate relationship, in business and in friendship. Of course, they knew each other, because they are all connected within their division of the cult.

In spite of very comfortable relationships, each of the Hassidic businesses cheated me. They refused to pay bills, even bills that I had to pay to my suppliers. They would pretend the colour was wrong, or the type was wrong, and used that to justify their thievery.

I did some research into how orthodox people can be crooked. What I learned is this; they have a connection with god, and their allegiance is to god. That’s why they pray 4 or 5 times a day. Their connection with society, however, is unimportant. It doesn’t count, as long as they’re in god’s good books. If one is not a practicing orthodox Jew, one does not qualify for honesty.

All religions, in one way or another, are built with the same self-importance.

Some Call It Dancing – Part Two

July 14, 2017 Leave a comment

Head down, walking faster, Sylvia scuttled past the line of men who stood against the back wall, staring at Duchess as she dropped her sequinned top onto an on-stage sofa, revealing bold, unnatural silicone breasts.

As Sylvia passed, each man suddenly became aware of her, and turned to watch her hurry into the dressing room at the opposite side of the dimly lit auditorium.  The rows of theater seats were filled with men who were eagerly staring at Duchess, waiting for the magic moment when she would snap off her G-string and reveal her shaved pubic area.  The management didn’t make it mandatory for the girls to reveal their privates, but Duchess always did.  She needed the extra ten dollars that Borden, the manager, paid for any show in which the girl showed it all.  In truth, Duchess also enjoyed the thrill she got from showing everything.

Inside the long, narrow dressing room, girls sat at the counter that ran the length of the room.  Large mirrors were mounted on the wall over the counter, each illuminated with glaring bulbs.  The counter was littered with a variety of cosmetic bottles, jars, and occasionally, pieces of costume.  A red feather here, a crumpled G-string there, breast pasties and other of the strippers’ paraphernalia.  Of the eight small chairs that sat at the counter, three were empty.  One was Sylvia’s, one was for Duchess who was nearing the end of her on-stage stint, and one was for Rickie, a girl who had the day off.  Other dancers, in various stages of undress, occupied the other five places.  One of the other dancers, a woman who looked a bit too old and bulky to show herself nude for a living, sucked on a small brass pipe and expelled a stream of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling.  She looked over at Sylvia who was undressing hurriedly and putting on her costume in layers of opposite order to which she would remove them on stage.

“Better hurry, Angel.  Sounds like Duchess’s music is about to end”, she said.  At that moment, appreciative shouts and applause were heard from the audience.  “There goes her g-string”, the woman said as she put the small pipe to her lips.  Sylvia didn’t answer, but calmly continues to dress in her layered costume, checking each garment in the mirror before her.  The door from the stage swung open and closed again as Duchess entered carrying her discarded costume in a bundle held to her chest.  Her very white skin glistened with sweat.  The sound of a Red Foxx comedy recording could be heard through the door.  It filled the intermission between acts.  Within a few minutes Sylvia was ready, touching up her makeup in the mirror.  An intercom phone on the wall rang.  She reached for it and held it to her ear.  Tony, who was on duty in the control room, said it was time to go on.

 

Some Call It Dancing – Part One

July 13, 2017 Leave a comment

Yonge Street was teeming with traffic.  Downtown sidewalks were crowded with young men who lived in the inner-city core, lounging in front of the bars and clubs that line the broad street.  Other young men from the suburbs walked up and down, obviously out of their element, visiting the hectic downtown area looking for excitement.  It was the usual Friday night scene, typical of a warm summer night.  Cars lined up, patiently creeping from traffic signal to traffic signal, curb cruising as the young occupants gawked at the characters on the sidewalks.  The festive atmosphere permeated the entire scene.  It was always so – summer Friday nights, with high-school youths enjoying an after-school adventure, mixing together with urban sophists, drug dealers and users.

Even in her street clothes, which consisted of loose, baggy, faded jeans and an old cotton top with crudely stitched repairs on several of the seams, Sylvia Vichnorski did not go unnoticed.  Even as she scurried down the street hauling her gym bag, the sensual movements of her walk attracted unwanted attention.  Some young men tried to see her face as she passed.  There could be no eye contact.  She kept her face tilted down and to the side, avoiding any possibility of connection.

She hurried across Dundas Square, past a giant, brightly-lit music store.  Deftly side stepping some boys, who tumbled out onto the sidewalk, excited about their acquisitions of the latest popular music discs.  A few more steps and she turned into a narrow doorway between a pawnshop and a pizza parlour.  A small marquee with blazing bulbs declared this entrance to “Paris Paradise – GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS – Toronto’s most beautiful nude dancers”.

Barely slowing her pace, Sylvia hurried up the steep, narrow stairs, struggling with the heavy gym bag.  The pounding sound of bump and grind music poured down the stairs.  She heard some men enter behind her at the bottom of the stairs and almost ran the rest of the way to the top.  She thrusts open the door and hurried into the darkened theatre amid the deafening music.  She glanced at the stage where a red spotlight was following a semi-naked girl who was writhing with bored repetitiveness.  She felt a moment of relief, knowing she had not missed her show.  Duchess was on stage, and Sylvia knew that her music track had another six or seven minutes to go.  It meant Sylvia had enough time to get ready to go on.

 

Rituals

July 12, 2017 Leave a comment

Rituals organize our lives. We ritualize our days, and have special rituals for some days. Monday to Friday, we do our morning ablutions, maybe eat something, and hurry off to the job. Throughout the day, on the job, a ritual of productivity proceeds. The journey to the job and the return to home at workday’s end are also rituals. Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday might be rituals unlike the workday rituals, but rituals all the same. Those of us that embrace religion have even more rituals. It matters not which religion one chooses to follow, rituals will be a big part of it.

A young couple lived a neatly organized and busy life. They lived in a small bungalow with just two bedrooms. They planned to have a family after five years, when they could afford a larger home. The second bedroom was Richard Stern’s office, in which he worked on line for a large transportation company. Mona Stern, Richard’s young wife, was a tax consultant. She worked for a large accounting firm. She was a certified public accountant, and had risen to become supervisor over a staff of nine. It was one of several ‘cells’. The company found that ‘teams’ in separate cells were more productive.

Mona Stern enjoyed her rituals. She’d rise at six in the morning, go straight to the bathroom to relieve herself and to shower. She would wear the outfit she planned the previous evening. In the small kitchen, she would enjoy her orange juice, rye toast and coffee while watching the news and weather report on her tablet. After the weather predictions, the sports news came on. Mona turned off her tablet, put it into her handbag, and left for the walk to the office. It was five blocks to her place of business.

By eight o’clock, Mona Stern was striding happily along Acorn Road, observing the many small, neat bungalows similar to her own. Ancient Oak trees shaded the street until the next corner. The busy rush hour was under way on Charles Avenue as it was every morning. As on every weekday morning, Mona turned right and strode along the narrow sidewalk. Old industrial buildings encroached on the sidewalk. They were remnants of the industrial revolution and had stood empty for decades. Mona ignored the cars lined up at red lights. She enjoyed her walk every morning, and was comfortable in the familiar routine that she had been repeating every morning for five years.

In the next block, an old building that had been a garment factory was to be transformed into luxury apartments, with the high ceilings and huge windows as selling points. The fact that there was a change taking place along her route after five years was just a bit unsettling. It altered the routine walk to work.

There were pickup trucks along the curb. Rubber cones were guiding the heavy traffic into one lane, around the trucks. High up on the roof parapet, people were installing a heavy beam to project out from the building. It was needed to create an elevator of sorts, to carry up workers, equipment, and materials. Mona was annoyed at the traffic clamour, and hastened her pace, to escape the irregularities.

At that moment, the rooftop workers faltered in their job. The beam dropped, slowly rotating top to bottom. It did not hit the sidewalk lengthwise. End first, the beam struck the old concrete walkway, pierced it like a piecrust and buried itself two feet into the ground. It hit the spot where Mona Stern had been, a second before she hurried to get away from the cacophony of car horns and engine roars.

The blasting sounds of the beam demolishing the concrete right behind her startled Mona. She jumped and turned around to see dust and particles swirling around an eight-foot tall steel beam. A nearby worker asked if she was okay, but Mona didn’t answer, she just strode on her way to her office. She used a quicker pace than her usual, ritual stride.

Throughout the rest of her day, Mona Stern struggled to do her work on the Dominica and Bolivar account. She struggled to stay focused while she assigned her team to various parts of her employer’s largest and most profitable account. The dropped beam, and the vast repercussions that might have come had it hit her, invaded her mind. She sat at her desk and analysed the routine that she knew so well. She began to question the wisdom of so regular a routine. Perhaps a change of situation, rather than a predictable routine, would be safer and perhaps beneficial. Mona resolved not to follow her usual, routine stroll home.

The office closed at four-forty-five. Mona Stern took the time to leave her files in impeccable order, her desk clear and the tools of her profession alongside her computer keyboard. She left the building moments after her staff and coworkers departed. In her normal routine, she would turn left and stride the route home. On this occasion, Mona turned right out of the building and strode in the direction away from home, husband, and fallen beam.

With no preparation and little thought, the young woman strode as far as the train station and boarded a train because it was leaving soon. Mona Stern didn’t care where the train was going; she just needed it to be free of routine.

At the point where the train journey terminated, Mona left the train. She attained an apartment, a professional position, and a new life. She fell in love with a co-worker that fell in love with her. They moved in together. Meanwhile, the young husband back home was frantic with worry. It seemed the authorities could not find Mona because she changed her name to Rose Kroll.

Rose Kroll, formerly Mona Stern, lived with her new husband in a neat bungalow within walking distance of her office. Her new husband began to work from home designing furniture. Every morning Rose showered, enjoyed orange juice, rye toast and coffee while watching the news on her tablet. When the weather forecast ended and the sports news came on, Rose Kroll left the home to walk to her office.

It’s Good To Be A Canadian

July 1, 2017 Leave a comment

My parents were born in Canada, and my grandparents were born in Europe. They were driven from their homes late in the 19th century, and through much hardship and deprivation, started over in Canada.

red leaves

I’m happy and proud to be Canadian, and I enjoy the friendly encounters one has in Europe, when one wears the Canadian flag or Maple Leaf symbol. It should be a sign to the Usas (we don’t allow the name ‘America’, so it’s now Usa. Canada is much more of North America than is Usa) that their flag elicits animosity while ours elicits warmth.

Canada is 150 years old today, and celebrations are rampant throughout the land. Laughter and happiness among all the people, comprised of families from throughout the world. They are not segregated, no matter who or from where.

 

Two People are Questioned…

June 27, 2017 3 comments

First to face the inquisitors is a mature person, basically intelligent and well educated in top quality schools. The inquisitors lay out a conundrum for the wise, mature, intelligent person to consider for one calm, thoughtful hour.

The conundrum is this: The leader of a nation lies steadily and obviously, while the truth is evident to all. The leader fails to deliver, or attempt to deliver the promised needs of the general population. He tramples the nation’s laws, rules, and constitution and steers wealth to oligarchs while wreaking hardship and health hazards on the average citizens.

The question to the intelligent person is this; can you find reason and justification to believe in and support such a national leader? Consider carefully for one hour.

The hour passes quietly as the educated person analyses the conundrum. At the hour’s end, the person admits that there is no way to not hate and reject that leader.

The second person to be faced with the conundrum is a handyman that lives in government subsidized housing. He said he didn’t “need no stinkin’ hour. It’s obviously Trump, and Trump is the best, straightest president ever, and the media is all lies and fake news.”

And so falls the hard-earned dominance of the USA. They’ve got it coming to them.