Since I have been bee-keeping, lot of lovely people I know have responded kindly and enthusiastically. This new hobby has co-evolved with a new me.... an alcohol free mediatation queen lite version that has been trying to embrace the local sustainability culture in West Footscrazy, be more community minded, and since The Rover has gone, a bread baking hippy version of Sir has emerged.
However, the wrath of my internal "HotHead Paizan" will never be quiet it seems. On Friday I dragged myself out to the local Art Gallery/Gorge-little-shop opening of a fairly famous local artist. Her work is amazing. Known locally for her paste ups of flying women and children on the sides of local buildings and pubs, her painting were much more sinister and technically brilliant. The crowd that gathered however.... this is another story.
Sir waits for hir friend.... outside this gallery that is located on a local main drag.
A grey haired older lady walks past with a very stiff queer looking daughter who wouldn't meet my eye. The lady say "Iya can't cope with this! I can't seey wot I'm dooing! Its like a sauna!", glaring at me, as she pulls off a feather red masque and pulls down her integrated sunnies over her eyes. Little beads of sweat have gathered on her top lip, the only part of her that cannot disguise her uncomfortability in being so close to a butch woman who has no interest in her.
Middle aged anglo couples cruise along the street and slow down, in the same manner as when they see a car crash, FOMO written all over their faces as they wonder what is going on. A street party? People like us having fun?
A group of obnoxious boy spawn "play" on the grass of the vacant lot behind Sir, their dads, gourmet beers in hand, "supervise". One boy head-butts another after an altercation about whether a mutual friend is "sexy" (strange) and the butted babe runs to dad with a bruised lip. That strange way that out of control little people seem to be able to run at a 45 degree angle to the ground....
Around the corner "white guy cooks Thai" is lurking, selling another cultures food in bucket loads to hetero-normative guests of the opening. The Brown peeps in cars also slow down... to raise their eyebrows in surprise and wariness at the growing conglomeration spilling over onto the road and footpath.
My friend arrives and we walk in to the gallery. It reeks of alcohol and most people are already toasted. Sir's alcohol receptors begin to fire. Slight tremors and twitches threaten. We look at the art. It is good.
Then, out of nowhere, a lady who look vaguely familiar has launched into a full greeting accompanied by a boozy kiss. Who is this lady? She delights in telling me that she has worked out where she knows me from, yammering about a long gone close friend, her funeral and her partner. Click!! I've got it... but she continues.
>Oi've seen ya around sao many playces!! But Oi knowe where I knowe ya from now!! It's not work!!
>No says I.
>and its not Women's Health West!!
>and its not Community Housing!!
>No shaking head
>Sao good to see ya!
She is very excited that she has had her moment of clarity, the drunken brain wave that is soo important to the imbiber yet so boring to the onlooker. Deep breath. Sir remembers not to be judgemental. Move away slowly and leave the building. Like Elvis.
My moment of clarity came later, with a conversation with my wife. About alcohol. It steals your brain, robbs you of your creativity and all the bits that make you interesting. At least to the sober person.