Sucking the Solstice Out of Life

Photo: This is what happens when I don't blog for a few days--the city turns into a naked, chaotic, fiery hot mess.



I woke up Saturday morning and thought, why does it smell like old feet, dirty hair, desperate optimism, and Nag Champa? Then I remembered: the Solstice Parade. Was it said with a dismissive hand wave and an eyeroll? More like an offensive hand gesture and a sleepy return to bed. Solstice doesn't hit my radar, really; it doesn't make sense to me. It's an entire parade thrown by borderline yuppies, enjoyed by current yuppies, hosted in the yuppiest place on Earth: yuppie-infested FREMONT. Now I'm sure that a few ex-hippies (read: older men with beards and Teva's, older women carrying Ayn Rand books, sans brassieres) celebrated the restorative properties of le soleil and Vitamin D through the entertaining melee that is the Solstice Parade, but most of them probably just complained about crowd control and 'the good old days'. That's what I would have done. I find it slightly ironic that we, as a city, celebrate The Sun--the same city that has been withholding sun from us like a woman withholds youknowwhat from youknowwho; it feels almost spiteful, no? I know I sound like the Sunlight Scrooge, but I was not in the mood that day to sit in traffic on my way to work, just so a bunch of sweaty naked adults could painfully perch upon leather bicycle seats in the gray Seattle weather. Bleh.

We ended up at a Solstice Party that night, thrown by Miss Sara Rose; I invited Griz, who met us there, and we had a blast. As Solstice parties go, it was very ...Solstice-y. Older men with long hair and Teva's, check; painted fairies spreading forced, drunken cheer to the masses, check; vegans galore, check; more than two guitars being played, check-check; a ruinous, neverending Beatles sing-along (also entitled: Abbey Road Is Now Dead To Me, Thanks To You Douchebags), checkitty-check; the smell of hemp, incense, and dirt, triple-check; laughs, good times, and a gay redneck rapper drag queen: priceless.

After the party died down, the Esq, Griz and I were huddled around the barbecue outside; we were roasting marshmallows to make S'mores, and barbecuing the boys' sandalwear. We rotisseried the be-Jebus out of their shoes so they could have warm feet; I thought it was innovative, if a little princess-y. Griz played the gee-tar (he's better than I thought he'd be), and serenaded us with a few ditties (good voice, too), while we sat under the peach tree, eating S'mores and settling into the night. At one point, this one guy rolled up and started talking to us, and his voice--his heavenly, dreamy, hysterical voice--made me send out this text message to the guys: Is his accent for REAL??? Gay redneck rapper drag queen?! OMFG! I figured out that he sounds like Terry from Reno 911 and Eminem. A very strange combination. Strange and exhilarating, that is.

It was nice seeing everyone at Sara's--she always has the best parties, even if they're Solstice parties. I remember the real Solstice parades, back in the day....

Back when I was young. Sigh.