I’m on hiatus from that antagonistic maw which is my Religion in U.S. Film class in order to blag. (I’m so dedicated that I am retyping the post that my browser just swallowed.)

I’ve been laying low– in recovery. Something I especially needed after I met a Brilliant, Groundbreaking, Important, French Man last Thursday evening.

But, Femmphane, you may ask, how would you know if a man was all of those things? You don’t usually stop to talk to men? You call all of your male classmates Brian!

I know. I know.

The answer is: Because he told me. I was surprised, too. I thought every man’s natural brilliance/relevance was self-evident and taken for granted. I thought they just assumed we knew? Apparently I was mistaken because there I was sitting (innocently*) at the bus stop, trying to read a decent chunk of The Ethics of Psychoanalysis when he approaches.

“Oh do you like the Lacan? I’m the author of a very important, unpublished essay on his work in French.”

“Oh.” He is massive, white, scruffy, and wearing a Harvard-crimson knit hat with an enormous H embroidered on it.

“Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

“Nope.”

“Well that stuff is impossible to understand unless you speak French and have access to a lot of unpublished, untranslated Lacan seminars. I could help you a lot. You could help me with my English.”

Yeah. I bet I could.

Weekend reprieve: sixth annual Sex Workers’ Art Show. Always a complicated experience. Not least because I have to curb the desire to maul the shouting guys in front of me. Afterwards we had drinks with half the cast and had a really productive rock/paper/scissors tournament. I can’t say how good it was to be around some familiar voices again.

*This is a technical term in my work which I use to mean 1) not antagonizing others First and 2) the protagonist of the story.

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