Oh, so tired

by

But in such a good way.  I spent a marvelous weekend catching up with friends that I don’t often get to see, let alone spend time with for more than a few hours.  I got amazing Joan and Tami time, with a quick dash of Pell.  I danced my bottom off, drank a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot of coffee, and slept in a hotel bed for the first time in a while.

Which, I was just thinking I will be doing again next month as I head down to Austin for my first visit to the state of Texas for some bike riding with my friend Lizz and some hanging out that has been literally years in coming.

The only thing about staying at a hotel that I don’t care for is the food.  I was at the mercy of what the hotel had to offer and it was expensive and not so tasty.  I at least had the fore sight to throw a few apples in my bag, and Pell brought me more (thank god!  And coffee, double thank god), and a couple of protein bars.  Had I known, and now I sort of do, I would have definitely did a quick trip to the market to have some other things on hand.

This is the penalty for staying at a hotel by the air port.  Which is good to remind myself about, you are a bit trapped and don’t have much around you, so you eat and drink what the hotel has to offer and even a decent hotel, like the Hyatt, doesn’t have the same kind of quality I’m used to making for myself.

So, I did a little market splurge and headed over to Whole Paycheck.  I mean, Whole Foods, after a delightful lunch and stroll about North Beach with Ms. Joan.  I got a beautifully cut pork chop, organic, some gorgeous strawberries, my first asparagus of the spring and a few delicious apples.

I made myself a blackened tarragon pork chop with an onion, garlic, sea salt, and black pepper rub, pan roasted asparagus, and a spinach salad that I tossed with a fig infused balsamic vinaigrette and roasted strawberries.  The roasted strawberries where my touch of brilliance, if I do say so myself.

I found out from a pastry chef at Hawthorne Lane, Marika, that strawberries when roasted are sweeter.  Turns out the heat breaks down the fibers in the fruit and the natural sugars are enhanced, the sweetness is brilliance, with absolutely no sugar added to it.  Holy lord, are they good.  And the perfect foil for the pork chop.  My tummy is happy and full.  Albeit, I had a moment where I had absolutely no desire to write or post to my blog, I got all kind of food coma’d out and felt like a nap.

But a full weekend does not preclude prepping for the week to come.  I still have laundry going and I needed to do some general house keeping stuff and give the cats loads of attention for the time I was away.

I also was trying to research the slang term “head” and couldn’t find what I was looking for.  Although, I know exactly what it means, and I was thrilled to be called one this weekend after dancing my ass off during a deep house set that I got to be up front and personal for.  I get lost in-house music.  It becomes a deeply spiritual, ecstatic kind of dance for me.  My brain is gone and my body is moved by the spirit in the music.

I used to be a little shy about my love of house music, it seemed like there was a bit of back lash a kin to what disco went through when it’s time in the clubs ended (although disco really isn’t dead, hello Gaga).  So many people seemed to associate it with techno.  Which I am also a big proponent off.  I love minimal techno, all sorts of electronic music and obscure music that I just stumble upon–like Northern Stomp.

Anyway, I got my dance on.  I was seriously moved.  And I felt absolutely euphoric.  The best way I can describe it to my friends, which I know they understand, is that it’s a good show when I stop wondering about what boy is going to dance with me.  Where’s the action at?  Who’s going to approach, who’s not, whose eye am I trying to catch.

Because dancing for me is an intensely private thing.  I wind up getting so caught into the music that I lose myself, close my eyes and just let it take me over.

I ran into the dj after the set was over, randomly as I was walking down a corridor of the hotel I was staying at and got to personally thank him.  Thank him for playing vinyl, first and foremost, there is an audible difference to my ear, it’s richer and more nuanced and I can totally appreciate a dj working the magic of a laptop, but an old school two turn table coffin with Technics and a mixer really does it for me.  It’s just lush.

And he told me, he was playing for me.  He thanked me.  He said that it didn’t matter if he was playing for a room full of people if no one really got the music.  But he said that I and the guy off to my left, who was also into the music the same way I was, getting his own groove on whilst I did mine, had made his night.  There were a lot of young kids on the floor and they definitely danced hard, but I let go.

And in letting go, surrendering to the music I was suffused with something greater than myself.  And the dj acknowledged it, the importance of those one or two people in the crowd which can really shift the set for him.  He said I worked it out and he was so happy to play for me.

I was beyond happy to dance.

He said it was fantastic to have a few “heads” in the house and it made his night.  Well, mr. dj, you made mine.  Thanks for the fantastic set and the awesome compliment.

Now, I can go pass out, I have a little sleep to catch up on.

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