Girlwich

It's a man. A man made out of tin. -- Dorothy.

It's Saturday night, and I've got that curiously empty feeling that comes from it being the night before my fortieth birthday party and not knowing whether anyone other than my two best friends will show (thank god for them, mind you); and having talked to my ex on the phone; and having forgotten to watch "House"; and having instead watched about half of The Two Towers; and having gotten knocked into and then stepped on by a small boy (whom I really wanted to grab by the scruff of the neck and pummel, but only afterwards, once I was unfortunately - or fortunately - out of range); and having had to cook the withered frozen spinach because I am all out of fresh vegetables; and having denied myself the pleasure of taking photographs on my walk because I really needed to be getting some exercise; and having spent the afternoon watching Elizabeth I (the one with Helen Mirren, who is just absolutely amazing in it, as she is in everything) - who had a very lonely life, all told; and wishing, as I sometimes do, to be a man.

It is that sort of evening. You know the type.

It's not that I mind frozen spinach so much, once it's cooked. It's just that it comes in that big block.

And I'd like to say the same thing about being female, but I'm not sure it'd be wholly honest of me. Oh, I have no plans to fake my way into mannery, whether surgically or otherwise. It's just that I sometimes don't really feel like I fit in this form. I hope I am not still feeling that way tomorrow, as I was planning on wearing a dress (over pants) to the party.

I'm not lesbian, or even bisexual, though I have some close friends in both camps, and I think I can honestly say I am cool with who they are and how they are and whom they choose to love (if that is ever a choice). But I really do feel some days that there was a mixup at the factory, that I've got the wrong equipment. It feels alien to me. Especially breasts. Those seem like the silliest things ever designed. Whenever I am bra-shopping, I just know that I won't find what I want, because what I really want is a garment that will take them away so I don't have to deal with them anymore.

But I digress. What I was going to tell you about was that we saw the Tinfoil Van again yesterday. And met the Tinfoil Man who goes with it. The sad thing (for me) was that the man had added things to the van, so that it was no longer a pure statement in tinfoil. To wit, this pic. He was also working on some other pieces of art involving heavy chains, hooks, what appeared to be a weightlifting bench kitted out as a torture rack, and some large, rather scary pieces of iron.

He declined to have his picture taken. But he didn't seem to mind me photographing the van, or else he was distracted by my very lovely friend Annabelle (a name given her not by her parents but by a bum in the park; we felt it suited her), who was allowing him to chat her up while I shot the van from every angle. Thanks, Annabelle - you're a trooper. Really, it's quite helpful to have a friend who is a bonafide knockout, because anytime you need a distraction, it's easy-peasy. Quick, look over there: beautiful woman sauntering down the street! Excellent, now I can hop over this barbed-wire fence and make off with this here motorscooter. And take pictures of myself doing it. Yahoo!

Before I go, in all geekiness I simply must add that there is another Tinman whom I think of when I hear (or type, in this case) that name. Less famous among the wider North American culture, but pretty well known among the Trek set. In an episode of Star Trek TNG, there was a highly, overly empathic Betazoid fellow, who was so attuned to the thoughts and feelings of those around him that he was unable to function. He eventually ran off with a biological spaceship-creature with whom he communicated telepathically.

It was a bit ironic that the spaceship creature was the one called Tinman, because it seemed to me that the empath was the one who suffered from an excess of heart. I know, I know, in the Wiz of Oz, the tin man has no heart, but in the end (in the movie version, at least), he's shown to be an old softie, organ or no organ.

I don't know why I mention this, except that having too much empathy has been a problem of mine, as well. It can be hard to shut out the feelings of others and care most about my own. So it's weird, I guess, that I also feel like a man, and a warlike man at that. I have no explanation to offer. It's just weird. And I'm having a weird sort of day. Speaking of empathy, Annabelle laid these flowers on the car's windshield as a gesture to soften the blow the driver would get when he or she found they'd gotten a parking ticket.

(Today's camera: tinycam)