Becca's Blog

One of those aha moments.

I was just catching up on podcasts, and listening to an old Science Friday episode about hominid fossils. I've always been somewhat interested in anthropology, and someday I'd like to have a decent grasp of the scope of human evolution (that is, how long have we actually been here?). It seems like it's a straightforward fact that I should be able to just learn, but it's slippery, and I can't conceptualize it.

This podcast actually helped me a bit to put into context all the "x million" and "x-ty thousand years ago" numbers that get attached to Lucy and Artie, and all the other fossil remnants of our ancestors. The guest expert mentioned (casually, as if it were an obvious point) that there have been many hominid species: Neanderthals, homo erectus, australopithecus, and plenty more. First little zing of an aperçu: Oh. Homo sapiens is a species like golden eagles and redtails are species. I love reminders that we people are just animals. And I like that we (homo sapiens, that is) aren't solitary or unique; we're part of a big family, and we used to have a lot of relatives.

As the interview continues, the expert describes how homo sapiens moved into territories and extirpated the other hominid species wherever they migrated to. Then the full realization dawns on me: Homo sapiens is an invasive species, like cowbirds and mitten crabs and thistles. We aren't the chosen species—we just won, a long time ago.

It's kind of obvious once yout think about it. I just appreciate that we are no better, or necessarily worse, than any other species. We do have unequaled power to wreak havoc, which is very unfortunate. It's good that we also have the power to control our environment-destroying tendencies, if we will.

And nature lovers tend to get all judgey and hostile about invasive species like house sparrows and starlings, but we're no better. I really like that idea.

Reading a Book a Day, Every Day

Last Oct. 28, on her 46th birthday, Nina Sankovitch read a novel, “The Elegance of the Hedgehog,” by Muriel Barbery. The next day she posted a review online deeming it “beautiful, moving and occasionally very funny.”

via www.nytimes.com

I don't think I'll ever try reading a book a day, but this does remind me that I've wanted to post reports on books I've finished, particularly those that make me think.

Lately I'm reading The Yiddish Policemen's Union, which is very amusing. I'm loving the alternate reality and the hardboiledness, but I have to wonder: Why are some Yiddish words in the glossary in the back but not others?

A sorta fun thing I'll probably never do again.

(with apologies, respect, and affection to David Foster Wallace. RIP.)

Jane knows someone who's involved in a performance troupe, and she was invited to come to a pre-Halloween show at the White Horse Inn, our local gay bar. From what Jane knew, this would be a drag king show.

Now, we are the sort of ladies who are plenty educated about feminist theory and queer and gender issues—on paper. It's pretty much all book learnin', not from extensive field studies.

But we decided to be adventurous and take our vanilla selves down to this show, despite its being Sunday and a school night. I considered wearing the black lace top that only comes out for trips to nightclubs, and rejected it as trying too hard, in favor of sporty casual. I shouldn't have. Lacy and frilly would have been right in the spirit of the thing, and likely would have gotten me more attention from the strippers.

Yep, this was not a drag show, but a queer burlesque night known as Debauchery. It's homegrown and organic, with proceeds benefiting local queer organizations like Femina Potens.

Jane did tell me that if I bought her a lap dance, she would kill me—and she made me sit on the aisle.

We did get into the spirit of the thing: laughing, whooping, and tipping along with the rest of the crowd. Before the show started Jane and I were chatting about not really knowing how to air-kiss gracefully. Gracefully tucking currency into a stripper's, erm, garments is also a life-skill I have not mastered. Thankfully, it was OK to just throw money. (I know, weird, huh?)

When I was, um, flirted with by one of the dancers I ended up with one of his little fake horns stuck to my sweater, which I didn't realize for several minutes. A girl nearby thought it was uproarious that I had "a horn stuck to my titty." I returned it.

Before the show we felt like we'd entered a time warp, since the music was the same as we heard in gay bars 25 years ago: Vanity 6, Prince, the Eurythmics. I bet the DJ played "Meeting in the Ladies Room" at intermission, after we left.

When we left, we found our car had been broken into--the contents of the glove box were on the seat. Since we've never had a car break-in in all the years we've lived in San Francisco or Berkeley, we felt we were overdue and weren't too upset.  There was nothing of real value in the car, but they took Jane's stack of CDs. We have no idea whether insurance reimburses for stolen Dixie Chicks albums. We were rather surprised at what neat and considerate burglars they were—they broke only a little side window, and they didn't dump our maps and registration on the street or in a trash can.

All in all, it was a pretty big adventure.