Música cachonda

ca-chon-da: adjective
1. Ruled by sexual appetite; in heat (hembra).

No se necesita plata pa' moverse, necesita onda y música cachonda
No tengo mucha plata pero tengo cobre
Aquí se baila como bailan los pobres

Live fast die young, bad girls do it well
My chain hits my chest when I'm banging on the dashboard

You pulled out my heart but I don't mind bleeding
any old time you keep me waiting

These songs are probably not the most productive for trying to write a Spanish essay, but I'll be damned if they aren't sexy as fuck.

We're here, we're queer

Kristy and I went to San Francisco for the Pride Parade today. BART was absolutely packed; it was like the bus I used to take home in high school. By the time we got to Powell, Market was packed with people and we couldn't really see the parade, so we wandered towards Civic Center, looking at booths and costume-watching and passing by stages and eventually finding a nice area with good dance music and a nearby Mexican restaurant with really cheap beer. Even though I dropped my camera and now the screen isn't working, it was still amazingly fun. And really, is there more you need in this world besides queers, beer, and dancing?

Can't read my

I hate the song "Poker Face", but I have to admit that swing dancing to "Poker Face" is a lot of fun.

So is swing dancing to "Single Ladies". But not so much fun is drunk people who can't dance at all trying to dance with you. The perils of being out on Lower Sproul with loud music at 1 a.m., I suppose.

Somwhere beyond the Seine

Kimberly, Janelle, and I went swing dancing last night. It's the first time I've been in over three months! I felt so rusty. Janelle and I were quite hesitant to ask people to dance at first, because I always feel like you owe someone a good dance if you ask them. Which is totally not true, but that's just how my crazy, paranoid mind works.

At the venue we saw things guy who vaguely resembled our friend Mikko, but when we danced with him, we found out his name was Brandon. (Another friend of ours is named Brandon, and he's actually had a long-standing crush on Mikko.) We literally cackled. Because we are mature, rational people.

Kimberly told me that when she was in Paris, she found a stretch along the Seine where people would swing dance every Sunday. My jaw practically dropped when she told me this. It's as though all my romantic illusions have come true. Some want to go to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower or the Mona Lisa or the Arc D'Whatever; I want to go for the swing dancing.



And I just wanted to say how proud I am of myself for this post's title. I think it's possibly the cleverest one I've ever written. Which says something really sad about me, if you think about it.