Things to do in Denver when you're dead

When I am completely freaked out by something, I often, at the same time, get a wave of zen-like "whatever" wafting over me. In one second of contemplating an upcoming life change of major proportion, my brain will scream "aaagh!" and at the same time shrug "eh" or calmly say "hush now." I very rarely freak out. Well, I should say, I very rarely go into a prolonged tailspin of freakedoutedness. I'm not someone to break out in hives or hyperventilate at the thought of something unknown, nor do I go into days of panic. I just go "AAAAGH! [pause] OK done." Then I make a decision of some kind. It's like I have a pacemaker for my panic - panic goes off the charts and I get an electric shock of apathy or maternal hugs, or deal with it practicality, depending on the need. In a way I'm jealous of the tailspin people. Do I just not care as much? Should I be freaking out more? Am I repressing something if I just deal with things evenly instead of all bi-polar like?

If you don't know what I mean by OMG!/whatever. thought pattern, try likening it to how most people deal with the concept of death. I read a magazine article years ago about death and this young woman's comment has stuck with me. She said something like when she really thinks about death, it completely freaks her out and she wonders why everyone else isn't screaming and panicking and generally freaking out about it too. But they aren't, so she doesn't either. Sound a bit crazy-girl, but a lot of people must have had that moment: you freak out for a split second, and then you think "what are you going to do about it?" and move on to the next thought.

"What if I don't find someone?" "What if I can't get it up?" "What if I get cancer?" "What if I can't have kids?" "What if I don't get that job?" "What if I DO find someone but then he can't get it up and it's like that Charlotte and Troy on Sex and the City, finding out the goods don't work the day before the wedding but you're in the Vera Wang and that dude from Twin Peaks is in a kilt and there's no way you're going to stop it, you'll just have to paste your face over all his porno and make out with the hot gardener for kicks. And what if I can't have kids like the subsequent Charlotte-Harry storyline? Do I have to get a Cavalier King Charles spaniel and name it Elizabeth Taylor while my husband surfs Chinese adoption agencies? But then what if he does get it up and we do have kids and things are "normal" but then I get punished with cancer for having a perfectly normal life and die? Who's going to feed Elizabeth Taylor and how am I going to finish that video to my kids on how to bake a lasagna and put on makeup? Where's the Martha Stewart book on that? I mean who the hell really does that? I can't get it together to organize my photos when I'm healthy let alone create some self-absorbed time capsule out of hand made paper and creepy from the grave mother guilt while going through chemo. Why does Hollywood have to make me feel bad even in my final days because I didn't finish my death lasagna video?"

So the whatever is a survival mechanism. Without it, your mind explodes or you become terribly depressed or you pull an embarassing "This world is bullshit" Fiona Apple moment.

I'm moving to Denver and it will be OK. AAAGH! whatever.

Other than being felt up by a flower-wielding Filipino, Paris was great

It was Saturday and I was in Paris. You'd think that would be special enough, but no, without knowing it I had picked the coolest Saturday possible to be in Paris. First reason: twice a year, and only twice a year, every fashion shop in Paris slashes prices to clear out inventory for the new season, and this was the first weekend of Les Soldes. Second reason: as if in direct reaction to the fashion steals, that Saturday was also the day of the Pride parade. Purely coincidential, I'm sure, but half off LaCroix certainly makes me want to dance in the street.

I found out about Les Soldes and Les Gays from a CL poster who was an American looking for someone to attend Pride with her. It being the only sane post, I took a chance and emailed her. It turned out to be a great connection and we became instant friends. She was relieved to have an English-speaking pal to walk with her since her gf was out of town, and I was pleased to have someone show me around some of the less touristy parts of Paris. We poked in and out of the shops in the Marais, went to a cafe, and then caught up with the parade, which, apparently, was a lot mellower than the year before but still a blast. Every kind of person was out in the street, marching or watching; this was not a gay parade so much as it was a parade celebrating choice. Every kind of Parisian was there: gay couples, straight couples, children, eldery. I was impressed with the complete diversity of the population that came out that day, whether to march or watch, it was an amazingly inclusive and positive experience.

And what a party! Each float had a DJ and everyone danced alongside, and when the DJ built up the music and finally dropped the beat, the entire parade stopped and exploded in dance before moving on. The parade finished in the gigantic roundabout at the Bastille and the monument was covered in people as well as every other available inch of the square. The local gay radio station hosted more prominent DJs that played into the night.

So the day was a success. I had made a new friend, found a gorgeous bag at half off, got some great photos of the quirky French, and tromped down Saint Germain with ten thousand Parisians dancing and celebrating life.

Then on my way back to my hotel, a Filipino flower seller felt me up. I never thought I'd have to kick the ass of a drunk man smaller than myself but it almost came to that. He got an elbow and me shouting in two languages and I got groped. Paris is a relatively safe city, but it is a big city with plenty of crazies. And while some stodgy people might think the pervs were at the Bastille waving rainbow flags and dancing to the mixes of Boy George, I can affirm that, actually, the pervs were on the other side of the Seine posing as meager flower sellers.