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May. 13th, 2002 12:59 pmI have already hinted at my weekend: Man Ray and computer problems and some attempt at finishing a draft of my prospectus before meeting with the department this morning for the yearly "graduate student roundup." Unsurprisingly I did not finish a draft, and it would not really have mattered had I done so: it's already too late for formal approval this semester.
The meeting itself went well enough, with no surprises and some stern but friendly warnings.
Not much else to report, except that Hell at Man Ray on Friday was pleasant, uncrowded (disastrously so, from Cusraque's point of view; the least crowded ever, perhaps, about like a Wednesday night at midnight, or at least as I recall from not having been there in over a year), and most of the "dear god please let that be a drag queen" factor was confined to the front room. I won't bother to insert commonplaces about how different yet the same the crowd looked, or how little the set list had changed, which would seem true even if it had only been a month and not a year and a half since my last trek to the club.
As is usual for Man Ray, but especially, in my experience, for Hell, there was much "crossover" in restroom use. Two young goth women I didn't recognize came into the men's room while I was washing up; one went directly into a stall while the other stood outside to wait, affecting a nonchalance that seemed to prove its absence. "Men use the women's room to put on their makeup, so I don't see why we can't come in here to pee," she exclaimed to the room in general.
No one seemed to feel this observation of long-term practice merited comment.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to look at you," she assured the men at the urinals, voice dripping with sarcasm, exasperated that anyone would think she might even consider looking that way.
But no one was worried, and one man even said so. It's possible someone might have been afraid that she *wouldn't* look, but on the whole, I think the men's room crowd at that moment was rather uninterested in the matter.
And that's my restroom story of the day, complete with some sort of vague social commentary.
The meeting itself went well enough, with no surprises and some stern but friendly warnings.
Not much else to report, except that Hell at Man Ray on Friday was pleasant, uncrowded (disastrously so, from Cusraque's point of view; the least crowded ever, perhaps, about like a Wednesday night at midnight, or at least as I recall from not having been there in over a year), and most of the "dear god please let that be a drag queen" factor was confined to the front room. I won't bother to insert commonplaces about how different yet the same the crowd looked, or how little the set list had changed, which would seem true even if it had only been a month and not a year and a half since my last trek to the club.
As is usual for Man Ray, but especially, in my experience, for Hell, there was much "crossover" in restroom use. Two young goth women I didn't recognize came into the men's room while I was washing up; one went directly into a stall while the other stood outside to wait, affecting a nonchalance that seemed to prove its absence. "Men use the women's room to put on their makeup, so I don't see why we can't come in here to pee," she exclaimed to the room in general.
No one seemed to feel this observation of long-term practice merited comment.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to look at you," she assured the men at the urinals, voice dripping with sarcasm, exasperated that anyone would think she might even consider looking that way.
But no one was worried, and one man even said so. It's possible someone might have been afraid that she *wouldn't* look, but on the whole, I think the men's room crowd at that moment was rather uninterested in the matter.
And that's my restroom story of the day, complete with some sort of vague social commentary.
