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Happy Birthday to Elsa

You will have read elsewhere about my barista-buddy Elsa, the dancing fool. Well, today was Elsa's birthday. I think she must be about, what, nineteen? Twenty?

*innocent smile*

Anyhoot, Bimpe (BAD Bimpe, EVIL Bimpe) and I met up with Elsa, Kristi, and Heather for a lovely b-day lunch, cake, song, and some pictures.

Elsa . . . you rock!

Many happy returns, m'dear. Consider it a great gift to have friends who celebrate with you, cuz it don't always work out that way. Trust me on that one. I, for one, am honored to have been able to share your special day with you.

¡¡feliz cumpleaños!!

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 03:00 PM

The ¡Arriba! Amoeba

In which the Pseudo-Latino starts lessons with a new teacher and learns that he's not even a Salsa Pretender. Apparently he's the Salsa AMOEBA. No. Better yet: The ¡Arriba! Amoeba. Ya.

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(Shift. Gift. Adrift.)

Well. I'm biding my time waiting until I can head out to Sipango and pondering my first lesson with my new instructor, Ramiro. Yes. THAT Ramiro. His first task was to get an idea of what I did and didn't know, what I could and couldn't do. We started with cross-body leads, and wow . . . is he a picker of nits. Within 10 minutes he had deconstructed everything I was doing, shown me what was wrong with it and how to improve it. Then we started putting humpty dumpty back together again. Of course, when you're trying (once again) to think about every part of your body (its position, its motion, its degree of pressure, its correct "feel" and form) you tend to . . . well . . . suck. But gradually it came back together, better than when it began. Much better, even. We then moved on to turns--inside and outside, by themselves and as part of a cross-body lead. Again: deconstruct, suck, reconstruct. Better. Every nuance of my lead (or lack thereof) was scrutinized, commented upon, and improved--at least for the moment. Naturally now that I'm home, I can't even remember my name, much less all these details. Grrrrrrrrr. What was that guy's name? Romero? Roberto? Ricardo? RatBastardo? Oh. No. It was Ramiro. That's right. Ramiro.

After about 40 minutes of putting me through paces and tweaking things, he decides to have me do my basic steps alone, and talk about style a bit . . . and then comes the hammer: although my rhythm's right and I'm getting the hang of the basic steps, it turns out I'm working my legs completely wrong. Back asswards. I'm doing the "camel step," which means I've completely reversed which leg is supposed to be bent and which one is supposed to be straight. We spent the last 20 minutes trying to get me started down the road towards undoing 32 days' worth of Bad Evil Badness. It was awful. As though I'm not feeling awkward enough, I get to go BACKWARDS--revert to square one--before I can even get back to the point I'm at now. WooooHooooooo! Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, Kirsten Dunst.

I suppose it could be worse . . . I could be going out to dance tonight. Oh. Ummmmmm . . . well . . . so it's worse, then. But listen: the guy is an excellent teacher. He is picky, observant, he leads like a DREAM (I've never once danced the girl's part before, and he had me doing turns effortlessly), and he manages to be encouraging even while basically telling you that every muscle in your body is doing exactly the wrong thing. Although he's a bit pricey, I'm going to stick with him for a while and see how it goes. No one said it'd be easy, right? RIGHT??!?

Right.

So . . . that accounts for Shift and Adrift (we made a shift in my fundamental steps, so now I'm COMPLETELY adrift), but not for my favorite curse: The Gift. However, that'll have to wait until post-dance. Right now I need to change, lay down for about 30 minutes, and spend a little while de-camelfying.

Back later . . . .

[pause for several hours. It is now 1:51am on Thursday morning]

Wow. Sipango was UNBELIEVABLY packed. It was "first wednesday," which means that there is a very large latino group which meets right down the street and then eventually moves to Sipango. This was, I believe, my 5th consecutive wednesday, and it has never even been CLOSE to this crowded before. The dance floor made friday night Gloria's look vacant; sparse; undernourished. It was truly unbelievable. And although I was unable to dance freely at any point in the evening (it got so bad at one point that my partners and I were just dancing off in the wings . . . between tables), I danced continuously for nearly 3 hours. Salsa, Merengue, Bachata. DJ or band . . . it didn't matter. Dance, dance, dance. I danced with two newbies--Norma and Milly/Molly/Maggie (it's pretty hard to hear names out on the dance floor)--repeatedly, and with their intermediate friends Anne Marie (better than me, but not by much) and Stephanie until they had to leave (college gurls are SO much fun). I then simply moved around the room, asking just about everyone to dance who was alone and moving to the music. Most of these folks remained nameless (although I can tell you lots about their outfits, body odor or lack thereof, and what they thought of my dancing--facial expressions being very easy to read after folks have slammed a few potent libations), although there was one very kind woman named Elizabeth with whom I spoke a bit, even off of the dance floor (actually, she's one of the ones I danced with between tables; we never made it to the mosh pit/floor). I was convinced that Elizabeth was a Latino (I SWEAR she was dark complected and just simply had "the look"), but it turned out she was from Poland. She moved here from Poland 28 years ago, and told me she thought *I* was a Latino, because of my "passion for the music."

*sigh*

and then...

*laff*

If only passion translated to ABILITY, goddammit!

Anyway. I was talking to Elizabeth for a while when I noticed Kirsten Dunst (yup. She was there. Even waved and said "hello"--without, of course, asking me to dance. Heh.) and friend approaching. Kirsten went out on the mosh pit/floor to dance, while friend basically shoves me out of the way and starts whispering in Elizabeth's ear. Assuming Friend and Elizabeth know one another I move on and dance with a couple of other vivacious young (and I mean YOUNG) ladies. When I'm done, I sit near E-beth and we begin conversing again. She sez: "That girl was just HITTING on me!" I sez: "I can think of worse things to happen to me this evening." E-beth sez: "Well. If she hit on YOU, would that be worse?" I sez: "Ummmmm . . . no?" She sez: "You like Polish girls?" I respond appropriately (yes. "Appropriately"), and then we move on to discuss her preference for Mambo over Salsa. This leads to a discussion of Monica's and their sunday live band, Latin Fire. She's been there, and wants to hear that band again, which she likes better than Havana NRG (who were spot on this evening, by the way). I say: "We hope to see you there, Elizabeth" and gradually move towards the door . . . tired and a bit buzzed.

Tired and buzzed didn't stop me (as you can itell for yourselves) from coming home and documenting my pseudo-latino Experiences. Nor did it stop me from practicing the anti-camel step for 30+ minutes when I got back. What it did do is prevent me from moving on to discuss today's manifestation of the Gift . . . which was just TOO funny. But I've gotta save SOMETHING for tomorrow, eh? (Denise, if you're reading this, YOU were the Gift this time, if inadvertantly and indirectly).

Your fearless, peerless, and sneerless Leader,

---e[ch]

PS

Finally, a note to Santos follows.

NOTE TO SANTOS:

Dood! You are COMPLETELY, TOTALLY, and IRREVOCABLY INSANE. Stupid, too!

Posted by earwicker at 08:20 PM

Semi-Gift for Pseudo-Latino

Astute readers will have noticed that we never got to the "Gift" portion of last night's post. So sue me. I was REALLY tired, and had to get up and come in to work today (I know . . . I know: "how tired and lame is thine excuse, Oh Exalted One" . . . but how else am I gonna pay for dance lessons??) Never one to let down my adoring public, here I am again to describe the newest manifestation of The Gift.

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A few weeks ago at Sipango, shortly before the inaugural Verizon/Starbucks DanceFest, I was standing outside my place of business with a few coworkers (including one BADLY EVIL BAD nigerian who is VERY VERY BAD and VERY VERY EVIL *cough*)--enjoying our daily smokeless smoke-break. In my usual, boundlessly enthusiastic way I was dancing in place while we were discussing our upcoming outing. As this was going on, one of the non-smokeless smoke-breaking regulars walked out of the building and said something like: "Oh, cool! Latin dancing at Verizon. Nice." Being the chivalrous, gregarious, and decidedly non-surly guy that I am I spontaneously invited this charming and lovely young woman to join us on our Sipango Mission. She sez: "sure. I'll try to make it out. Send me the info." As this required an accessible modus sendus I snagged her e-mail address, learning thereby that said lovely's name was (and indeed, given prevailing cultural conventions throughout the known world, most probably still is) Denise.

So far so good.

Now . . . as it turns out . . . Denise has not yet joined us for any of our revelry, although she did make the attempt last wednesday (one of her many admirable qualities, it would seem, is NOT "orients herself and her automobile well geographically when lots of turns are involved"). This means we had no idea about her dancing abilities, interests, proclivities, or perversions. For all we knew, she liked to dance naked in handcuffs on slippery rooftops somewhere in the former Soviet Union. For all we KNEW that is. However . . . in preparation for THIS wednesday's event, Your's Truly sent a reminder e-mail to his local minions--including Denise. He also (in a burst of shameless self-promotion) pointed her towards this very site. A short time later, an IM window opens on his trusty laptop--from an unidentified IM'er with the handle "latinoDance" (not exactly it, in order to protect the privacy of the current Gifter). "LatinoDance?" he muses to himself, and types "hello?" It turns out that LatinoDance is none other than Denise. When asked to explain her IM handle, she sez (and I quote), "[it] was the name of my dance studio." To which Our Dearless Breeder, uhhhh, Leader sez: "YOUR dance studio?!?!?!," shortly before fainting and falling with a THUD to the floor of his cubicle. Denise sez "yes. I specialize in Danza Folklorico." (Our Favorite Dood didn't see this message, lying as he was on the floor of his cubicle in a state of semi-consciousness . . . but I have it on good authority that this is, indeed, what she wrote.)

Great. How do I do this? I am at heart just a dorky Software Architect. But somehow I have a 6th Sense. In any group, I will make the connection with "the one." The one who can, when I cannot. And here it is again. Now I will be tested again: can I dance passably with a beautiful woman who owned her own dance studio and danced competitively. Eh? EH!!!??!? But hey, no pressure, right Denise? (Denise swears she just goes out to "have fun," but I can tell: she has a hidden agenda. Probably some tall guy with a ponytail treated her badly in a previous life and she's out to kill him by embarrassing ME in effigy. Dunno. Some crummy, spiteful ex who walked out without warning or discussion, maybe? Could be anything. But SOMEthing's going on. Dancers are SNEAKY folks, after all. And she's out to ZAP me, I tell you! You can see it in her eyes. ).

So, although this is certainly an oblique instance of the Gift (I didn't actually get asked to dance, but the Gifter DID take steps which initiated a chain reaction which will undoubtedly result in me, the Giftee, engaged in something vaguely dance-like with the Gifter ), in my book (yeah, Blog, fine. Quit bein' so damned picky) it's close enough.

At this point, in my (always correct) opinion, The Gift is starting to get kinda spooky, no?

---e[ch]

PS

"Mr. Earwicker, sir, can you spell the name of your never-attending nigerian coworker?"

"Certainly I can, madame chairwoman: Bimpe, B-I-M-P-E, Bimpe. And furthermore I have determined that her name is rather Acronymic, as in . . .

B.I.M.P.E.

Boldly
Insulting
Me:
PROFOUNDLY
EVIL."

Thank you all for playing.

---ear out

Posted by earwicker at 12:43 PM

Open Your Eyes and Listen

Wednesday night's posting prompted my old friend Hartmut to offer some musings on the Mambo/Salsa distinction. Sit back, crank up your favorite tune, and listen in.

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"The word mambo comes from the Ñañigo dialect spoken in Cuba. It probably has no real meaning, but occurs in the phrase "abrecuto y guiri mambo" ("open your eyes and listen") used to open Cuban song contests. In the Bantu language of West Africa, mambo means "conversation with the gods" and in nearby Haiti, a Mambo is a voodoo priestess."

--from a short bio of Pérez Prado

What follows is a slightly edited excerpt from an IM conversation between the Pseudo-Latino and Mr. Mambo (aka Hartmut, now suitably remonikered). As a result of this conversation, I spent time doing a little online snooping and--rather than trying to correct flaws in the original dialog--appended some of my modified musings to the bottom of this post. Without further ado:

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hartmut:I was going to bring up the issue of "Salsa vs. Mambo". Because I have to say I don't understand what Elizabeth was talking about [in yesterday's post]. Somebody said something similar to me recently. What I had thought, up to this point and to the best of my knowledge, "mambo" can refer to a lot of things, but in that context I don't understand it. The meanings I know are:

• mambo as in "mambo craze", sort of a way for white people to refer to Latin-influenced music in the 50s and 60s;
• "mambo" as in the part of a salsa piece where the vocals and brass are silent and the bass, piano, etc. play a unison melody (a bit like a "breakdown" in pop);
• a ballroom Latin dance;
• and then various slang meanings that clearly don't refer to a specific style.

What's your understanding?

earwicker: Basically the same, except in addition I have read that Salsa is essentially a "vulgarized" street-Mambo, with faster music (I've not heard of any other music-based differences other than tempo alone) and that Mambo is generally danced on 2 instead of on 1. I've also heard some instructors claim there are two general styles of salsa: Cumbia-style, which is side to side, and Mambo-style, which is forward-backwards, but the "on-2" distinction is the one I hear the most.

hartmut:Interesting. So Elizabeth was talking about preferring one style of dancing over another, not one style of music over another?

earwicker: No. I think she was referring to the music. She said she found Salsa "too jazzy" and specifically wanted to point out that last night's band (Havana NRG) was not her style, whereas Latin Fire! (the live band from Monica's on Sunday nights) was better. More "mambo." However, as I was talking to an attractive woman who was just making friendly conversation, I opted to not argue the point right then. My mama didn't raise no fool, fool.

hartmut:As a dance style, I guess that makes sense, but I think one would be well-advised to remember it's a term coined in the US that might mean little to Latins living in other parts of America. I'd be curious to know what a Cuban living in Havana thinks when hearing about "mambo music". . . .

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If you spend even a little time investigating this issue, you'll find it divisive, and will discover that people are stupidly religious about it. There is at least one official body, the World Salsa Federation, which has made a thorough and admirable attempt to codify the different dance styles prevalent within the Salsa community--this includes separate standards (and even competitions) for New York style, LA style, Colombian style, Cuban style, "World Unified" style, and, of course, Mambo. Also discussed are Miami style, Puerto Rican style, and--on some other sites--such exotica (no, not eRotica, dorks) as Holland style and Israeli style (warning: this latter site is really badly designed and often takes a while to load)! Many different dialects of salsa have been documented in precise detail by the WSF, and it is safe to say that there are tangible differences between Mambo and the various other Salsas as regards dance style and technique. Whether you choose to view them as separate entities, or as different dialects of the same thing is a matter of semantics . . . and there is not a single issue of importance riding on the answer to that question. Not one.

When it comes to musical differences, the question becomes much more difficult to answer, which is fine, because it is profoundly unimportant in the real world (and even in the imaginary world). I have seen all sorts of claims regarding musical distinctions in the last couple of days: Mambo is faster, Mambo is slower, they're both just different names for "Latin Jazz," Mambo doesn't use brass instruments, or does so very rarely, on and on and on. Tito Puente (who really ought to know), sez: "We play the same music. Before, it was Mambo. Now it's Salsa." So who do you believe? The answer is . . . The Pseudo Latino.

And what does the Pseudo Latino say? He says that there is no clear answer to the question because the question is ill-formed and essentially nonsensical.

There are so many problems with the formulation it's hard to even know where to begin discussing the issue. Let's start with something simple: the dichotomy between recorded, archived, historical performances and the live, ever-evolving presentations of today's Salseros. Of course I can say (easily) that there is a difference between the output of Pérez Prado--the "Mambo King"--and the output of New York Salsa pioneer Willie Colón. We could discuss instrumentation, tempo preferences, or the role and extent of improvisation in their music--for starters. To designate one as "Salsa" and one as "Mambo" remains a mere historical conceit, however--and is not based on a deeper, underlying set of musical qualities that distinguish the styles. So perhaps we can label as "Mambo" the musical output of a short historical period (as Hartmut correctly points out in the foregoing dialog). We can do this because the performances have become permanent documents, and have ceased to live and breathe. Prado will always sound just like you remember him sounding. If we use this as our basis, we can label any current manifestation of Latin Jazz which reminds our musical ears of Prado or mid-50's Tito Puente as "Mambo." This is fine if we understand the limits of our claim. Unfortunately, most participants in these heated debates are not musically savvy enough to understand the technical assertions that are inherent in their proclamations of Mambo-ness or Salsa-ness. More importantly, they are intellectually unable to distinguish between simple surface similarities (instrumentation, key, tempo) and musical fundamentals (song forms, rhythmic structure and interaction of individual percussion instruments, harmonic progressions). And herein lies the whole stupidity of the question (or, more accurately, the stupidity of demanding that it have an answer): if Havana NRG (for example) is using an instrumentation similar to my favorite Jerry Rivera tune, with lots of screaming brass, very up-tempo, and Latin Fire! (for another) is Sax-heavy and reminds me of some old Tito Puente recording my Aunt Fifi played when I was growing up as a wee lad sniffing coffee beans in the fields of Juan Valdez, yet both are employing the same song forms and percussion patterns, there is no objective way to disentangle the issues and label one band's performance as "Mambo" and the other as "Salsa." It's merely a byproduct of my own idiosyncratic musical history and concomitant associations. For any but the most academic of purposes, the entire exercise is just stupid. True, one COULD devise a way to count the grains of sand on one's favorite beach . . . but rest assured that the SMART people will just be enjoying the sand and wind and waves without the drive towards pointless, greedy reductionism.

Sure. We could compile a huge body of latin-based musical output, and ask performers, composers, historians, and musically literate laity to categorize it according to various criteria--Mambo v. Salsa being one of them. From this excrutiating and nearly pointless descent into minutiae we could eventually draw some statistical conclusions: musically literate listeners tend to think Salsa is characterized by X, Y, and Z, while Mambo is more likely to replace Y with N and extends Z with a Q. But this amounts to little more than an opinion poll, and is of virtually no use in extracting concrete differences or settling disputes (beyond saying "MY view is more POPULAR than yours, nana nana booboo!"), unless you're one of those semi-lobotomized dolts who thinks that the majority determines what is Right and Good and True (in which case, go away!). The boundaries are too fuzzy, and stylistic cross-pollination and evolution fuzzifies them more every single day.

So where does this leave us?

It opens the door for me to tell you what matters (and you might as well take it as Gospel). What matters is that you are out there to express yourself through dance. Expression requires interpretation. What matters is the thoughts, feelings, emotions, and passions the music to which you are currently dancing evokes within you, and--naturally--how you choose to respond to that evocation. The words you apply to what you are hearing are, in this case, not very important. Your interpretation is the thing. If you think down-tempo minor tunes with trombones are "Mambo," and you want to dance on 2 or upside down from the chandelier wearing pasties and a g-string as a result, GO FOR IT! Just drop the urge to defend your interpretation of "Mambo" as the correct one, and lose the zealous, empassioned desire to treat it as an issue of global importance.

It ain't.

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 12:41 PM | Comments (0)

Maldad Menos Mal & La Luna

In which Badness becomes (a wee tad) less Evil, The Moon comes to Dallas, and the Pseudo-Latino eats with his hands and sweats with his heart.

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amigos---

I suppose I have to give credit where credit is due, and report dutifully that Bimpe aka Bad Evil Badness aka The Stander-Upper aka Maker Of Bad Excuses has redeemed herself slightly, leading Team Verizon in an evening that involved authentic African cuisine and dancing-off-of-the-face at the Salsa Pretender's usual friday night haunt: Gloria's. Dinner was fantastic, though not exactly the pure-bred Nigerian affair she had originally hoped to organize. The woman who runs the African Village Restaurant is from neighboring Cameroon (neighbor to Nigeria, that is. If you thought I meant "next to Texas," you REALLY need to get out a bit more), and apparently the dishes are very similar. Never one to repeat his mistakes, Yours Truly ate his Edi-Kai-Koh in moderation, determined not to repeat his near-regurgitory experience of two weeks ago. According to the menu, Edi-Kai-Koh is "West Africa's most popular vegetable combined with spinach and cooked with fresh meat and smoked fish." In my case the meat was Goat. Yummmmmmmmmmmm. Although they're all too happy to cater to squeamish Westerners afraid to experience life's small pleasures from new perspectives, you shouldn't be squeamish. Ask to eat your food in the traditional way, which means without silverware or utensils of any kind. You'll receive a big bowl of water to clean your hands and a side of sticky, mashed-potato-like Yams which you make into a ball and use to dig in to your delicious food. Right hand only, please (from africa.com: "Always eat with your right hand, even if you are left-handed. The left hand is traditionally used for other activities [ech: like, ummmm, y'know. THAT.] and to eat with it from a communal plate is considered especially bad manners."). Although it's possible that our cook/server just wanted to go home (we were the only ones there, and she's likely to've closed up early and headed home had we not arrived shortly after 8:00 pm ), she was a bit cranky tonight . . . and expect the food preparations to take a while. According to Bimpe, that's just the way it is with African cuisine.

During dinner we were joined by my best friend Karen, who is up from H-town for the weekend for a non-stop dance extravaganza--including no fewer than 4 hours' worth of lessons on Sunday and social dancing tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday. For reasons we won't discuss here, Karen has been dubbed "Luna" by a large and diverse group of cyclists from around the state of Texas and, not to be disrespectful of the traditions and ceremonies of others (particularly cyclists, who tend to wear their oversized and overly healthy hearts on their skimpy lycra sleeves), we'll honor this signifier here on pseudoLatino.com, too. So, Luna/Karen arrives just in time to get her hand (right only, please) dirty, scarf some grub, and head back to my place with me and Her Highness the BadEvilBaddy to change into some fancy duds and scooch on out the door to make the band's first set at Gloria's. Which we did.

Gloria's was even more packed than usual, a fact we'll blame on the holiday weekend, and I danced almost without a break from the time we arrived (11pm) to the time we left (2am)--with one exception to recover from being profoundly flushed and overheated. The floor was so crowded that there are now multitudes upon multitudes of folks out there whose ankles deserve an apology from my heels. As in:

ear's right heel: Ummmm . . . like . . . I'm, like, SOOOOOOO sorry dood. I just, well, I just didn't see you there. I mean, like, you're up atop that 6-inch high post and you're dashing about like mad; it was an ACCIDENT. Really!

girl's bruised, cracked, bloody ankle: YOU PIECE OF SHIT JERK! I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU, YOU LOSER WANNABE SALSA PRETENDING POSER ASSHOLE! DIE! DIE A SLOW PAINFUL HORRIBLE DEATH!!!!! MAY FLESH-EATING WORMS INFEST YOUR ARMPITS!

ear's right heel (sheepishly): so . . . like . . . ummmm . . . you wanna dance anyway?

Sorry folks. I'm doing my best. Really I am.

In other ways, it was a great night. Both Baddy and the Moon allowed themselves to be my guinea pigs, and when there was even a LITTLE space on the floor I tried all kinds of new-to-me armwork, some of which even made sense. Not having a regular dance partner makes it very hard to learn such things, because generally--on the dancefloor--one doesn't want to practice at the expense of one's partner. That she kindly tolerated my experiments warranted a further reduction in Baddy's Badness, at least for this week. One thing I can say--from the depths of my suckage--is that I'm reaching a stage where certain things just start to work. I can sometimes (rarely, but rarely is a huge improvement over never, no?) get myself into various twists or pretzels and simply remember/invent ways to get out of them that make sense and are musical . . . without actually knowing a way out. At this point, I can't really lead these combinations completely or reliably, or execute them with precision or in tempo, but I can finally feel them . . . I can see them in my mind's eye as they are unfolding. This is a huge step forward for me, and hopefully some of you who have gone before me will remember this phase of your growth and take pity on the poor Salsa Pretender.

There is no question that I've come a tremendous distance in the last month . . . I danced the entire night without any unbelievable gaffs, and was able--for the most part--to immerse myself in the music and its rhythms. This is the whole reason I care about learning Latin dance to begin with, so feel free to cheer me on, here. This is a great milestone for me. And . . . I worked harder than I've ever worked on a night out . . . completely drenching myself with sweat and (as previously indicated) even becoming overheated and somewhat nauseated by my exertions. My clothing was soaked through, utterly, as my heart--inspired by the music--drove my body onwards. Heart sweat and beat heat. Joy.

Your (momentarily) Humble and Enthusiastic Dancing Fool,

---e[ch]

 

ps

Gloria's-specific comments: guys, TURN UP THE GODDAMNED AIR-CONDITIONING! We're spending a LOT of money in your club, and it was profoundly hot in there before anyone even started dancing. Also, the floor was ridiculously sticky. Much worse than usual. People come here to dance their faces off . . . please acknowledge this, ok?

 

[from dictionary.com] Usage Note: Traditional critics have insisted that nauseous is properly used only to mean “causing nausea” and that it is incorrect to use it to mean “affected with nausea,” as in Roller coasters make me nauseous. In this example, nauseated is preferred by 72 percent of the Usage Panel. Curiously, though, 88 percent of the Panelists prefer using nauseating in the sentence The children looked a little green from too many candy apples and nauseating (not nauseous) rides. Since there is a lot of evidence to show that nauseous is widely used to mean “feeling sick,” it appears that people use nauseous mainly in the sense in which it is considered incorrect. In its “correct” sense it is being supplanted by nauseating.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Thumbs Up!!!

To a degree unexpected, The Pseudo Latino experiences elation, and revisits--for the second time in as many days--HeartSweat and BeatHeat. He also re-recommends El Tren Latino as a great place to spend a Saturday night.

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After a long day recovering from friday night's dancing and libations, running errands, visiting relatives, and practicing some moves to bust, La Luna and I headed out to El Tren Latino. We rolled in around 10:30pm, and basically danced the entire evening . . . heading home exhausted and pleased shortly after 2am (ETL is open until 4am, but this whiteboy didn't have 2 more hours of booty-shakin' in 'im).

I highly recommend El Tren as a Saturday night destination if you have a partner and want a nice dancefloor with enough room to actually MOVE a little bit. It's basically a discoteque, and you should be prepared for lots of flashing lights, dry ice-induced fog, cigarette-induced smoke, and lots of drunken, macho latino males. All of that notwithstanding, the clientele has been universally friendly and seem to be a pretty jovial group . . . with lots and lots of regulars. I can't really tell you how great it is as a destination if you don't already have a partner, because thus far I've been with a friend or friends and had built-in partners. I CAN tell you that it isn't a hang-out for the dance crowd, and although there are often folks here who can dance incredibly well, you're not likely to find any of the local Salsa-scene hotshots.

Sometimes that's a good thing. Like tonight for instance.

Since La Luna knows all (2.5) of my moves, and is an excellent dancer, she can follow my leads even when they suck basketballs through a garden hose (which is to say usually), and so the Pseudo Latino managed to look like one of the better dancers in the room (while actually being one of the worst. Quite a cool trick, if you ask me). Part of this is because I wasn't oppressively aware of other--amazingly talented and polished--dancers swirling all around me, thinking "who let that pathetic geek into this club????" Part of it was because I was totally, utterly, and unreservedly into the music tonight . . . and the DJ was spinning some great Salsa tracks: medium up-tempo, very aggressive, with lots of syncopated punches and breaks. Part of it was that we practiced a couple of hours this afternoon and I was able to do/try some things without having to think about them too much. My comment from last night still holds: I have reached a point where I can experiment a little bit while dancing, without automatically screwing up my steps--or my partner's. When I say a little bit, I mean a LITTLE bit. Small. Tiny. But nevertheless cool.

During one extended sequence of dances, after a couple hours' worth of "warm-up," I was having a particularly good time and let myself get completely lost in the music. La Luna and I were having a great time (well, I was having a great time; incredible, actually; but I can't really speak for the Moonster. Maybe she'll pipe in and let you know if she was actually having fun or not). We finally decided we needed a break and were heading off the dancefloor, when IT happened. The most amazing thing. By this time the place was pretty crowded, and there was a large group of very unimpressed and surly looking vatos standing near the steps onto/off of the main dancefloor . . . surveying everything with stereotypical disdain. As we passed by, one of these fellows, who had been watching us off and on during the last sequence and whispering something to his buddy, makes direct eye contact with me, gives me a nearly imperceptible nod of his head, a slight smile, and . . . a huge thumbs up! I couldn't believe it. Dancing Salsa in a very latin establishment (tonight we were the only white folks in the entire club), Yours Truly got a THUMBS UP from a non-pseudo Latino! I'm sure I looked even more idiotic than usual after this because of the huge, idiotic, shit-eating grin I had on my face. A thumbs up from a disinterested, bored, surly latino! Dood!

The day that I get that response from a gifted latino partner with whom I have never before danced, you can just shoot me on the spot. My death will come at a moment of supreme happiness. But for now, this anonymous guy at El Tren Latino made me happier than I've been in quite a while. It was a sign of progress . . . of success . . . and (more importantly) a sign that the feelings I have for this music are coming across somehow.

Awesome. Truly incredible.

Stay tuned for tomorrow night's report from Monica's, after a full day of group lessons with Ramiro.

Your devoted and on-Cloud-9-perched,

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

Sardines. Salsa. Secada.

In which new meaning is given to the word "crowded," lessons unfold, and a name is dropped.

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You may have already noticed that Yours Truly is replacing the traditional Labor Day Telethon with a 3-day Dance-a-thon of his own devising. So far so good, . . . and that's why you'll not be surprised by yet another exhausting day of dance for the Pseudo Latino and his sidekick La Luna.

Our first goal this morning was to visit Estelle Saffron--earwicker's favorite massage therapist, who does day-time chair massage at Starbucks (near the corner of Belt Line and Preston). I highly recommend Estelle--she's an awesome person, reliable, and really good at her job.

After our short massage, Luna and I attended group lessons all afternoon at KC Dance Studios . . . with Ramiro and his crew. I participated in the intermediate and advanced Salsa sessions, and Luna held her own for an hour of advanced West-Coast (her dance of choice, which unfortunately doesn't hold any interest for me . . . for reasons to be discussed at a later date). One of the benefits of studying privately with Ramiro is participating in his group lessons for free (a good thing, considering the price of his private lessons). On this occasion, the intermediate Salsa combination we were learning was a good bit more complicated than the advanced, which for me only required one new step. But whatever. The sessions were good, and that's what matters.

We rushed home afterwards, got ourselves duded up, and headed out to Monica's--which was crowded far far far beyond our wildest expectations. Insane. I still can't come up with a good explanation as to why. Yes, I AM aware it was a holiday evening, smart ass . . . but that's not what I mean. Monica's basically serves two purposes; it is a nice mexican restaurant and it's a place to dance Salsa, Merengue and an occasional Cha cha to a live band. And although the dancefloor was (brutally) packed--as in elbows in the face and bruised shins packed--I would estimate that only about 1/2 to 2/3 of the crowd was actually there to dance or eat. What were the other 33.333% doing?? There was virtually no way to pick up hot babes or hot dudes, according to your gender and preference; there was no way to have much conversation, casual or otherwise; there was no way to get enjoyably inebriated--if that's your thing. Picking up hot babes requires space to move freely from babe-1 to babe-2 to babe-n; and it was all one could do to squirm one's way through the mashed and sweaty throng. Conversation (another prerequisite to babe-scoring, for those of us who have a brain atop our necks as well as at the end of our more southerly accoutrements) was thwarted by the inability to hear (funny, that) and the inability (see foregoing) of moving through the crowd to meet someone. Inebriation was very possible if you could find your way to the bar (see foregoing), but would have been a drag: no place to sit, nothing to do (remember, I'm discussing the non-dancers), no way to meet people (generally requires "conversation," see foregoing), no way to move around (see foregoing), which does have the advantage . . . I suppose . . . of making sure one doesn't hit the floor when one passes out. This latter would have helped out a ghost from my past--once upon a time in Amsterdam. But that's another story.

So why were all these MULTITUDES of non-dancers at Monica's tonight?

One of Life's eternal mysteries, it is. To remain ever unanswered. Perhaps they were all there to see me, in my new duds? Ok. That wasn't it. I have delusions of CANDOR, not GRANDEUR. Heh. Maybe they were there to see jon secada, who spent his evening at Monica's? Nah. That wasn't it, either. I can definitely say they weren't there to listen to Latin Fire, who had--in my profoundly informed opinion--a terribly off night.

I spent almost my entire evening on the dancefloor, and I can't tell you how many times the percussionists got off from one another just slightly, causing me to hesitate and readjust my step. The first time or two I thought maybe it was me. Too little sleep finally catching up to me and affecting my concentration. But no. I started paying careful attention to the band at that point and noticed lots of subtle confusion in their performances. The musicians were even giving one another nearly imperceptible dirty looks. Maybe they were just nervous because jon secada was in the house? Dunno. But they were definitely not on . . . not tonight. Then again, neither was I, so I'll forgive them. This time.

Speaking of my inadequacies this evening, I want all you proficient dancers out there to know just how intimidating it is to dance in your presence. Keep this in mind and use your powers for Good, never for Evil (yes, I know I use this phrase too often. Get over it). It's not as though you're watching me, of course, but just the simple possibility that you might unintentionally see me dancing (perhaps while trying to avert your eyes, as from the scene of an accident) and instantly see through my thin veil of pretended ability is enough to make me start sweating. [note to the uninitiated: at Monica's there is usually a table or two off to the side of the stage where the "real" dancers congregate. This table is directly adjacent to the dance floor. Full view. And dancers, being dancers, tend to watch the dance floor when they aren't on it. So what I am referring to is this High Council of Dance--comprised of talented and attractive folks--holding Court over the floor on which I find myself dancing; feeling naked]. Despite my abhorrence of all motivational speakers throughout the known universe, I remembered their favorite piece of advice and tried to leverage it to my advantage: when you're performing, just envision the audience in their underwear . . . cut them down to size. Well, what a STOOOOPID idea that was. Have you SEEN these dancers?!? These people would actually look GOOD dancing in their underwear, goddammit! (And some of the ladies are dancing in outfits that don't take up much more real estate than their undies, anyway.)

Ok. So that wasn't the solution. But I really was distracted. Nervous, for no good reason at all. And the physical exhaustion from little sleep and lots of exertion over the course of 72 hours was starting to take its toll. Not being one to give up easily, I refused to leave the dancefloor, and eventually, after slogging and flailing through several songs, I started to loosen up and relax. "Never give in to your fears," sez the Pseudo-Latino, who managed to represent himself passably on at least a few songs . . . in between smacking people in the face with Luna's elbows, stamping on her toe HARD during an ad libbed pretzel (hey, it was a very fast Merengue; I get into it; what can I say?), and further offending the occasional ankle of the occasional, unsuspecting beauty. Didn't get any thumbs up this evening. Can't win 'em all, I suppose.

Enough for now,

Your Still-Pretending Salsa Geek,

---e[ch]

 

Estelle Saffron
Professional Massage Therapist
972.788.548
BigDMassageDiva at-sign att.net
[earNote: I wrote the e-mail this way so she doesn't get spammed by any scumbag who scrapes our beloved website for e-mail addresses]

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Just Say "No!"

Herein lie a few of the reasons why Friends Don't Let Friends Dance Swing; brought to you by the self-appointed Czar of America's War on Swing: the Pseudo-Latino.

Yes. It's a rant. Get over it.

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I suppose it's time to subject my intrepid readers to a first rant, which can be summarized pithily and thusly: swing sucks. I don't care which coast, I don't care what version. Swing sucks. I intend to clarify and defend this statement, natch . . . but before I do, let me say that I owe a large debt to west-coast swing as it is danced at the Omni Hotel here in good ol' DFW. During the month of July (a shaky month for the PL, for personal reasons) I wandered (read: was dragged almost forcibly) into the Omni with Luna, an experienced dancer of C&W and a big fan of West-Coast, on two different occasions. We both sat on the sidelines watching and commenting on the various dancers. My comments were always based upon three non-technical factors (the only commentary of which I was capable); (1) are they dancing musically?, i.e. do their dance-related choices correspond to the music being played? (2) do they have good rhythm? (3) is their movement fluid, natural, and--as a result--sexy? There were a few dancers (all women) who caught our attention on all these points, and the whole exercise--watching, evaluating, and discussing the dancers--reminded me of a long-dormant passion of my own. Yes, I mean Salsa. Duh. So, you see, I owe a debt of gratitude to Swing and to Luna for drag . . . ummm . . . taking me to the Omni.

Bestowal of credit having been successfully accomplished, I reiterate vituperatively: swing sucks. Big swollen 'nads.

In order for me to claim that something is good or bad, I obviously need to provide you with my criteria for evaluating such things. Fine. Here is what I value in life and art and love: sincerity, respect, loyalty, authenticity, honesty, substance, complexity, craftsmanship, curiosity, open-mindedness, intelligence, perseverance. What I despise: dishonesty, duplicity, superficiality, genericism, intolerance, flightiness, stupidity, plagiarism (the opposite of authenticity). These are my criteria. I've had a pretty good time finding these things in art and life (love is a different matter, but hey . . . can't win 'em all).

Now, with that in mind, let's talk about the Ongoing Plague of Suckage known as "Swing." Hopefully it is clear that I don't think Swing dancers are doing something easy, or that they are technically deficient (as dancers. On other levels I'm not certain. *cough*). I am technically deficient. Ability has nothing to do with my Crusade to Not Let Friends Dance Swing. Nope. I'm most emphatically not talking about the dancers, but the dance itself. No. Not even the dance, rather the entire culture that is Swing. Actually, this already gives Swing more credit than it deserves. Swing has no "culture." It is a superficial, regularly recurring fad perpetrated largely by aging, generic, middle-class white folk who wouldn't know passion if it gave them the Mother of All BlowJobs. Swing has no music to call its own, unless you (incorrectly) want to limit it to music of its origins--music that is now 60 - 70 years past its sell-by date (and was pukey, generic whiteboy bullshit even then . . . an already pasty-faced rip-off of authentic musical expression happening elsewhere). It does not grow out of any cultural tradition or experience. It is a fad in the same way as plaid or polka dots. Superficial. Without substance. Generic beyond compare. There is no one in the world dancing Swing who isn't self-consciously a "Dancer," by which I mean that there aren't untrained kids dancing Swing at parties or clubs or anywhere else. No one gives a shit about Swing except for people who have decided to fill their leisure time with bloodless, formal, ballroom dancing. No one. And again: how could they? There is nothing to give a shit about, except for the actual mechanics of the dance. You can't care about the culture as you can for, say, Hip Hop or virtually any Latin genre. . . because there is no such culture. With the exception of an historical interest in long-dead music, you can't be interested in the music for its own sake as you can for, say, Argentine Tango or Cuban Danzon or Dominican Merengue. Even C&W is associated with an evolving musical tradition, fer chrissakes! But not Swing. No.

"[Swing] is not music dependent, (meaning that) IT CAN BE DANCED TO ANY 4/4 time music available. The basic music for West Coast Swing is generally the Blues which, is generally made up of swung eighth's (shuffle rhythm). However many dancers also like dancing to the more up-tempo rhythms of Funk, Disco, Jazz, Soul, Motown, Beach, Techno, Rap, Pop, as well as Country, Big Band Swing, Retro, and even some Latin. As long as they can count it and feel the "swing" or pulse of the Down and Upbeats and is basically of good rhythmic sound it becomes a song you can dance West Coast Swing to (however, it is not swing music)."

---from streetSwing.com's excellent history of swing dancing

So . . . fine. Swing is a Dancer's dance . . . but that is ALL it is, and that's reason A-number-1 why it sucks. It's a bunch of steps. Period. Why should anyone care? (Answer: Friends Don't Let Friends Dance Swing)

By way of contrast, consider an involvement with Argentine Tango. To engage oneself with Tango requires the engagee to learn about (and, hopefully, participate in) a living, breathing cultural heritage; an ongoing and ever-evolving tradition. It requires understanding the passions and upheavals which forged that tradition and which find expression in a unique intersection of music and dance. It involves the entire political and social history of a nation and its people. To learn Swing involves learning . . . ummmm . . . dance steps. That's it. Nothing more. Not a single thing.

Zip.

Nada.

Nix.

Null.

Zero.

That's the embodiment of superficiality. It's the Biggest of all Big Woops. That the dance merely gloms on to whatever music its practitioners happen to be fascinated with at that particular moment is the embodiment of genericism and flightiness and disinterest and (in some cases) disrespect. It's the Blandest of all Blands. It shows an utter lack of curiosity and indicates a non-existent drive towards authenticity. Swing is a cultural parasite, which I suppose bodes well for its continued survival in some form or another . . . but bodes ill for it in all other ways, and qualifies it for Major Suckdom. Let's listen in:

Buffy: "hey, biff, do you think this music to which we're dancing might possibly have a tradition of its own??"

Biff[munching on a container of Freedom Fries]: "Who cares, buffy? We're just gonna blindly co-opt for our own ignorant and vapid purposes everything we encounter, according to the dictates of whatever passing fad we happen to be following at this particular moment! It's the american way!"

Buffy: "Oh. Of course! You're right Biff! [coyly] Now let's go home and fuck while watching Melrose Place!"

[stay tuned next week, when Biff has a heart attack, joins the young republicans, rediscovers jesus, and gets a divorce after learning that Buffy . . . gasp . . . during her college days . . . groan . . . once experimented with Ecstasy and . . . slept with . . . gag . . . a . . . WOMAN!!!]

And that's about enough said for now. Yup. Swing sucks. Just say "NO!" to Swing. Friends Don't Let Friends Dance Swing. Etc, etc, etc.

End of Rant for Now,

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 08:05 PM | Comments (2)

the polar bear club

Back in Reporter mode, the Salsa Pretender visits La Esperanza for a third time and returns with good news.

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After two attempts and as many failures, I returned this evening to La Esperanza, 2662 N. Josey Lane (near the intersection of Trinity Mills Parkway and Josey), taking Jonathan's advice from my last attempt and arriving about 9:30pm. The place wasn't exactly hopping, but the Spanish-language Soaps had finally been replaced by moderately loud Salsa tunes and a handful of folks milling about. There were four guys standing outside as I walked up, all talking about the Houston Salsa Congress which took place last weekend. Of the four, two were instructors/dancers one hears about around town: Jonathan and Luis Delgadillo. The other two were quietly practicing steps and rehearsing arm-work with invisible partners . . . . I gulped, and wandered inside, ordered a coke, and sat down.

Now it's one thing to dance in the vacinity of accomplished dancers when you're on a crowded dancefloor. It's easier to believe you are just an anonymous blip in a large, faceless mob. What was going on at La Esperanza was something altogether different. There was a single couple dancing in the middle of the floor, and as Jonathan and crew rolled back in they all made a circle around these two dancers . . . everyone watching them intently. So I'm thinking the odds of me dancing while 5+ experienced guys stand around me observing me intently are about the same odds that I'm gonna get an erection while swimming with members of the Polar Bear Club at some remote outpost in Siberia in, oh, say, mid-January. There were only a couple of women there, and lots of guys, so they just kept passing the girls around and trying out this, that, or the other move while the other folks waited, watched, and tried to analyze what they were watching.

Meanwhile, I sipped my coke--trying to blend in with the tile floor and become invisible. I walked outside for a few minutes, and most of the guys came out after me. Some came out to smoke, others just to take a breather and enjoy the weather. They all introduced themselves, asked my name, asked if I danced, and for how long, and with whom I studied. They were friendly and encouraging folks, to a man. While we were standing there another couple arrived, a young black guy in a muscle shirt and a latin woman named Esmeralda. All these folks knew one another (further aggravating my "oh god please find me a place to hide quickly" reflex), and were talking about various clubs and DJs and events and "man, did you see that Colombian Chick at AJ's last weekend????" and the like. A new song comes on, and Esmeralda perks up, grabs her dood (let's call him "Bob" for now), and goes inside to dance. And whoa . . . these guys are GOOD! Esmeralda ("I'm rusty! I haven't danced in three months.") is throwing in shakes and slides and jiggles and undulations in every tiny pause, and "Bob"--who it turns out was a monster break/hip-hop dancer before he got interested in Salsa--is throwing K-FUCKING-KICKS into his routine!!!

Bastards! Evil Rat Bastards! Ego-crushing Bastard Rat Scumbags!

What's a poor Salsa Pretender to do at this point? I sat and watched all these amazing folks dance for about an hour before I received a salvific phone call from Luna, and used that as an excuse to get the Hell outta Dodge. . . unscathed.

If this is what La Esperanza is actually like on a normal Tuesday afternoon, I highly recommend it for intermediate-and-above dancers (which does not, sadly, include Yours Truly). If you bring your own partner, it'll be better . . . but the folks hanging out were really there to practice, learn, and generally have fun dancing Salsa. They did not appear to be there just to show off, and were not behaving competitively or just generally wanking. Jonathan in particular was regularly and eagerly helping folks put the polish on their moves, and he was doing so in what seemed to me to be a supportive way. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seemed to be a nice group of folks. So, give it a shot. I'll be showing up again from time to time, but I don't know that I'll be dancing anytime soon.

The water's still wayyyyyyy to cold for . . . well . . . y'know.

 

 

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Finding Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair

The Pseudo Latino shares a very sad discovery about former Salsa World Champion Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair--long-lost brother of a faithful reader from Winnipeg, Manitoba.

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Friends---

Recently, a lonely reader from Winnipeg, Manitoba (and who from Winnipeg ISN'T lonely?) wrote to the Pseudo Latino and asked if I couldn't help him find his long lost brother and former Miami-Style Salsa World Champion--Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair. Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair disappeared many years ago, and his whereabouts have become the subject of endless gossip. An aura of Myth has grown around this man and his disappearance. However, being the generally helpful, caring, sensitive, and brilliant guy you all know and love, I set to work immediately to unravel this mystery and assuage the grief of my sad little Manitoban reader. My methods are similar to those used in The Zero Effect, which you should all amuse yourselves by renting immediately (after your grief subsides, that is). Naturally, you will not be surprised to hear that I was successful in my Quest. Perhaps too successful. I have enclosed a copy of my findings letter so that you may join my Manitoban friend, who we'll call "Kyle" to protect his true identity, in his grief . . . and perhaps offer him some condolences.

My dearest Kyle---

Whether parting the Veils of Legend is desirable in case of your long-lost brother, I know not . . . but I can tell you sincerely how horribly saddened I am by that which I have uncovered at your request. For that reason, this must be a brief correspondence; the burden of what I must now tell you--the pain with which I know that you, dear friend, will of necessity be saddled--has left me emotionally distraught and without the reserves to carry on for even the most meager syllable more than must be. What I now relate has come to me indirectly, but the various and sundry sources are reliable. Trust, therefore, in the veracity of this finding: Your brother, friend and former compatriot Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair has become the drug-addled, live-in lover and confidant for a wild and nomadic pack of genetically altered, transvestite Platypi in Northeastern Australia.

It seems that sweet Nick, down on his luck and without the guidance of Toobu (a nubian manslave with a terminal strain of fetid gingivitis and a newly minted Ph.D in astrophysics who jilted Our Hero after discovering that his, Nick's, manhood--far from being the authentic, powerful Totem that Toobu had come (quite often, actually) to love and to know, biblically--was in fact a prosthesis stuffed with catnip and juniper berries), stumbled one drunken evening into a strange Wyoming carnival.

The carnival was owned and operated by a methamphetamine addict named Loopus McPhierney, who had, many years back, suffered what we can refer to somewhat generously as a "fall from grace." Loopus had been a brilliant geneticist in the famed post-graduate program at MIT (where he once starred--under the Pseudonym "Ben Affleck"--with his talentless hack lover Matt Damon in a pathetically useless film--formulated for the mindless, under-educated masses--about the melodrama of being a misunderstood pretty-boy pseudo-genius in a society that prefers dumb blonde fratboys with fat wallets and large cocks) until that fateful day when, in a Thurmanesque case of white-powder drug-induced confusion, he inadvertently snorted the results of one Professor Attmor Hunvarc's youngest stepson's blueribbon science fair project--which contained large-yet-unequal quantities of nutmeg and Old Spice. On that day, Loopus--who inexplicably kept dipping his nose in eggnog and wrapping it in brightly-colored bows with cards addressed to "Dear Dad"--was driven from campus in shame, his shiny reputation and bright future ruined.

(Oddly enough, on that very evening, at a local Tupperware Party, he met a young African astrophysics student whose given name shared certain idiosyncrasies with his own. They shared thoughts on the Greenhouse Effect, Markov Chains, and the mysterious Blue Liquid used in American tampon commercials. Yes. The young nubian was named 'Toobu' and he would later prove instrumental in leading our Hero, Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair, full of liquor and despair, away from the Hills of Tennessee and the loving arms of his first cousin Beulah Pearl ( a.k.a. 'Three-tit McGraw') and towards the wide open spaces of the American frontier ).

Now Loopus was many things, but a quitter he was not. He was a survivor, and survive he did. Loopus wandered aimlessly throughout the underbelly of middle america, snorting whatever he could and sleeping with women distinguished one from the other only by the scent of their AquaNet and the shade of their obligatory blue mascara. Here and there he tweaked a strand of DNA for fun or profit. Word of his talents and his willingness to use them began to spread almost as quickly as his addiction grew, and this unfortunate confluence of talent and craving brought him, after 11 long and lusty months, into the San Fernando Valley and the debt of the heartless, criminally insane Italian-Armenian drug lord and taxidermist Benny "BlackSea" Samisian.

As it turns out, Benny BlackSea had dreamt of creating an army of genetically and genitally altered Mercs ever since his oversexed childhood as a for-hire Turk-slayer in the heartlands of Mother Armenia. The killers that Benny dreamed of were not human. Rather they were created from various and sundry aquatic members of the plant and animal kingdoms and were known--in his imagination--as the Merchant Marinelifes. Why marinelife? Well, Samisian's earliest experiences of orgiastic delight involved an adorably overstuffed likeness of a certain duck-billed evolutionary anomally given to him (while she was on top) by his 'Aunt' Louise (who was from Down Under). His ongoing sexual maturation became uniquely onanistic and indelibly linked to the presence of this (now rather crusty and utterly disgusting) stuffed animal . . . yet, gradually, he sublimated these memories and turned them against himself in a virtuosic melisma of psychic self-flagellation, ripening a desire within him to see his mutant army led by these Furry Evil Amphibians with Enlarged Genitalia, who would be known far and wide only as the Dick-Billed Platypi or, perhaps, The Waddling Death. These soldiers--ruthless and deadly, yet cute as buttons--would be the most ferociously efficient and unswervingly cruel killing machines ever commanded by Mankind.

With the fortuitous appearance of Loopus McPhierney, Benny's dream was within his greasy and furtive grasp.

For three years, Loopus was bound naked to a swivel chair and forced to work night and day. Gradually his technique was perfected; an army formed; his creations taken away and trained to thirst for blood. Their first mission would be to assassinate Bush and Dick and to cast the blame on an iraqi serial sniping terrorist. Eventually (so went his fantasy) his army's work would capture the popular imagination and lead us into a nuclear Armageddon--leaving Benny Blacksea as Lord and Ruler of the world. Unfortunately for the Megalomaniacal AntiHero of our story, Loopus learned of Benny's plot and created a plan to escape which involved the Village People's Greatest Hits (on vinyl), the leftover dermis from Cher's (a.k.a. Cherilyn Sarkasian--Benny's second cousin twice removed) most recent facelift, and the complete works of John Waters (on DVD). Using only his Prince Albert and a turkey baster, Loopus was able to inject a special mutating strain of DNA into the a special Nasal lubricant enjoyed by The Waddling Death and escaped during a wild and chaotic Mardi Gras celebration when the reprogrammed and now cross-dressing Platypi pummeled Benny "BlackSea" Samisian to death with their Taffeta-covered tails (word on the street is that VP's "In the Navy" was playing when Benny breathed his last). As the puddle of Benny's blood spread throughout the dance hall, panic broke out and McPhierney was able to escape with a band of loyal and thankful mutants across the Nevada desert. He arrived two weeks later in Southern Wyoming, where he purchased a travelling carnival and went into hiding with his genetically altered friends.

Fourteen months passed before Our Hero Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair arrived at that very carnival. He had just hitched crosscountry in a pair of worn out Calvin Kleins, a "Vote for Nader" T-shirt, and a pair of bowling shoes. Why was he here? It is hard to say, but in retrospect the clues seem to indicate that he was there seeking lost youth, innocence, and a gold-plated pubic hair from Greta Garbo which he had lost in a seedy all-black bar somewhere in East St. Louis (but that is another story, to be told some other time). Exhausted and lonely, Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair wandered into the tent where a barker had just announced a show by "Fox, the Severed-Yet-Talking Head" and hid in the shadows of the back row. The show began. Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair listened sadly as Fox told the callous, unfeeling audience of his, Fox's, impotence and mounting financial worries in a post-dotcom world of economic uncertainty and eroding morals. Fox asked for a male volunteer from the crowd. Everyone laughed--not understanding the post-modern resonance of Fox's brilliant, symbolic satire as Fox snapped his teeth in vain, attempting to violently emasculate the somewhat shocked volunteer.

Our Hero was overcome with melancholy and thoughts of juniper berries. Hadn't they read their Foucault???

Groping in the darkness for some--any!--distraction, he mistakes the nose of a nearby Platypus for the phallus of his long lost Toobu and begins to beg for forgiveness and to orally pleasure the beast, whom he, in his distress, truly believes to be his disinterested lover of days gone by. Impressed both with The Dawg's mastery of his gag reflex and his fluency in a little-known, sub-equatorial dialect of Swahili, the somewhat perplexed Platypus (no one had ever called him "Toobu my precious" before) slips Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair a Rohypnol, binds and gags him, and sends him--in the cargo bay of an ex-FBI agent-turned-lesbian-trucker named Starling who wears a wallet chain and blue Tevas though pretending to be interested in men--to San Francisco where he is placed immediately onto a Russian freighter bound, after a quick stop for Vodka and Borscht in Vladivostock, for the shores of Northeastern Australia. The captain, a Merc-friendly Orangutan indebted to Loopus McPhierney for an incident involving a small baggie of Crystal Methamphetamine two Christmases prior, has agreed to transport Our Hero to his fate: a life of abject slavery in the Outback, wiping his ass with crocodile skins and fulfilling the every whim of his captors. In order to guarantee Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair's cooperation, the Captain administers--thrice daily--a potent cocktail of heroin and some mysterious, unidentified-yet-familiar Blue Liquid (yes. One and the same). Weeks before their arrival in Rockhampton, Nick "The Dawg" Sinclair is an incurable addict, dreaming of maxipads. He is now willing to do anything for a fix, and has become the sultry, effeminate, bisexual lover for an entire pack of transvestite Platypi, to whom--as you now know--he has been delivered.

I do not know if there is anything which can be done to rescue your old friend from his fate, Kyle, but I suspect not. The last data I received (just this morning) indicated that he was taking hormone supplements and heading towards Mount Isa with the Platypi and a didgeridoo band led by three dwarven Aborigines who have eaten their own Testes as part of an ancient and Holy ritual. I hope this information, disturbing though it certainly is, will help to answer some questions and, thereby, at least partially put your mind at ease.

Your friend in Dance and Life,

---earwicker[ch], aka The Pseudo Latino

Posted by earwicker at 11:31 AM | Comments (2)

Camel No More

The Pseudo Latino works the basics . . . and WORKS the basics . . . and WORKS the basics . . . and WORKS the basics . . . and WORKS the basics . . . and . . . well . . . you get the idea.

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Lesson Numero Dos with Ramiro this evening. It went very well, despite making me feel from time to time as though I had two left feet. Or three. I'll keep this short and sweet. Ramiro is an excellent; teacher, busting my chops for the second time with unerring attention to detail, and refusal to let me go forward until I demonstrated an understanding of the current (usually minute) issue on which we were working.

He is profoundly aware of every single nuance of the lead, and I could feel my frame solidifying as we went.

Fantastic.

His teaching reminds me a bit of the way instructors work at a Music Conservatory (and yes, I do know how they work from experience, doh!), only a bit less crotchety and certainly less stuffy (none of my teachers at Eastman ever corrected me in flamboyant you-go-grrrl! style--as in "NO you Dih-dent! Grrrrl! No you DIH-dent!!!" when I repeated a mistake just addressed and corrected. )

But this ain't Eastman, yo.

Posted by earwicker at 08:25 PM

Armani Chimps & ChickenChoke

You just never know what's gonna happen on Wednesdays at Sipango. The Pasta Primavera was above average, but the dancing . . . ? Your Fearless Leader was frightened. Terrified, even.

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Well . . . yet another great evening at Sipango, although things were a bit on the strange side. You all know by now that I'm willing to make fun of myself as a dancer. This is because I simply can't do very much. My repertoire, as they say, is limited. Despite this, I am very confident about the few things I can do on the dancefloor. I can dance musically and expressively, and have fun doing it--which I believe comes across to my dance partners (and somewhat counterbalances my glaring flaws in all other dance-related respects). I say all this because I can honestly say, without including myself, that there were some of the absolute WORST dancers ever at the club tonight. And I'm not talking about first-timers. Three characters in particular stand out.

1. Let's call this guy Emiliano Della Serra. Della Serra is a character from the early-80's flick An Officer and a Gentleman. There is a scene rather early in the film which takes place at a formal ball--thrown for the new Navy Trainees--where the Della Serra character prowls the dance floor looking for promising babes; when he spots one he slicks his stubbly hair back, stands up straight, and moves in for the kill. Well, Dallas has its own Della Serra, and he's on the prowl every Sunday at Monica's and most Wednesday's at Sipango. He's disgusting. You can watch him circling the club, always looking for women who have never danced Salsa before so he can "impress" them by "teaching" them his . . . ummmm . . . "moves." This guy couldn't keep a beat if he had a metronome surgically implanted in his rectum (a bit of surgery I might consider performing myself, if he keeps up this routine), and he never, EVER, asks anyone to dance who is even marginally aware of what they are doing. He's like a character out of a really bad sitcom. Last night I was watching him try to teach a woman (who had very good rhythm) how to follow a cross-body lead. It took him half the song to demonstrate something that he should just be able to DO (there's a reason it's called a cross-body LEAD, fella!) Anyway, Della Serra is god-awful. Just look for the guy pulling half-lit secretary types out on the floor at Monica's (he likes wimmins with larger frames, so if you're taller than 5'7" and have CURVES, you may wanna RUN SCREAMING IN PANIC FROM THE ROOM, CRYING OUT FOR SALVATION FROM THE LOCAL AUTHORITIES if this guy ever walks your way) and flailing about arhythmically. There's a chance you may also be able to identify him by the ticking sound coming from his ass . . . I've just about had enough of this guy!
2. Take your pick: we can call him either MonkeySpank or ChickenChoke. This one I've not seen before, but omigod . . . once was definitely enough. Technically, he has a few decent combinations in his arsenal, but you've gotta see him dancing his basic in frame! His left hand is pumping the woman's right straight up and down with every single beat as though she had her well-lubricated palm wrapped around his throbbing manhood (which I'm hoping desperately was not the case). If any of you sang in your high school/college/church choir and had the typical hack choral conductor, you'll know the motion I'm talking about. Karate chops. Monkey Spanks. Chicken Chokes. And again, surgically implanted metronomes could not get this man to approximate a beat.
3. The Drunken Businessman. TDB was probably in his early fifties, inebriated, and asked every scantily clad twenty-something woman in the club to dance. The one or two that acquiesced were treated to something that looked more like Tai-Bo than Salsa, and which resulted in other couples being knocked about the head (through no fault of the woman's). The best we can hope for is that TDB gets locked up for DWI and subsequently sodomized by escaped Chimpanzees from the top secret governmental "Salsa Experiment"--highly intelligent chimps trained to dance LA-Style Salsa while wearing Armani Suits and smoking Dominican Cigars. After the experience, we could rest assured he'd never dance again.

Anytime you doubt your basic ability and musicality on the dancefloor, remember: you could be one of these guys.

Fortunately, once the band started their set, better dancers moved onto the floor and things improved. Speaking of the band (Havana NRG, as usual), they broke out a new version of one of my faves, El Cuarto de Tula, which was obviously based on my favorite recorded version, by Truco & Zaperoko. Cool. Anytime that song comes on, my day is bound to improve, and improve it did. I danced for about an hour (not great, but passable, with a very nice woman named Denise, and her friend--whose name I couldn't quite hear), went home exhausted (mostly from lack of sleep the night before), and that's about it.

Sorry for the lack of entertainment this evening, but I'm a bit tired and trying to catch up on my sleep for a trip down to H-town on Friday.

Later,

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Ethel. Cecil. Ghost.

A trip to Houston starts with a fantastic reunion and a trip into the netherworld.

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Never one to pass up a chance to experience a bit of High Culture, Your Dutiful Pseudo Latino left work a little early today and raced down to H-town for a performance by Ethel, a NYC-based string quartet. The quartet was formed by an old friend of the PL, Todd Reynolds. The concert was presented by Houston's Society for the Performing Arts in Wortham Center's Cullen Theater. The last time I was in this hall, it was with a wonderful young woman whom I had introduced to the music of Philip Glass, who was in town with his ensemble to perform his soundtrack to Godfrey Reggio's visionary film Koyaanisqatsi. [It should be noted that this performance provided me with the most beautiful cinematic experience I have ever had.] Although this woman has since (figuratively) died, her ghost was floating about in this hall tonight, craning for a view of the stage and groping inappropriately. Creepy, it was. For my readers' edification, though, I feel compelled to provide this brief glimpse into the world of Mystery and Imagination.

[Riddle me this: what do Gravity's Rainbow and Koyaanisqatsi have in common? Eh? Any takers?]

In any case, what matters NOW is that I haven't seen the Toddster in a coon's age . . . probably about 8 or 9 years . . . and arrived excited by the opportunity to see him in action. Although this isn't a concert review, I will say that the concert was disappointing, and I was forced to tell my old pal that the program was "mind-numbingly homogenous." There was a time, years ago, when he and I were in a different sort of contemporary music ensemble. That band, full of youthful idealism and enthusiasm, once attended a concert by a rival NYC group. On our way to the show, in the subway, we were treated to a performance, on Steel Drum, of Leonard Bernstein's "America," from West-Side Story (the PL DESPISES musicals, with an absolute purple passion, but that's a story and an argument for another day). To a man, we were struck by how much more full of life, sincerity, energy, and passion was this performance than the bloodless living death which our rivals perpetrated on stage shortly thereafter. Well, after listening for the last 6 weeks to various Latin groups in the DFW area, I had to draw a similar contrast here: Ethel is seeking to break new ground and play interesting-yet-accessible music for a new and varied audience. But the music they played is actually LESS compositionally interesting, less complex, less sophisticated, and less passionate (by far) than anything I've heard Havana NRG or Latin Fire! perform. And I include here the simplest Merengues and Bachatas. (Unlike the early NYC experience we had, I can NOT fault Ethel's energy and passion as performers. They just chose--for the most part--awful music. Fault them for programming, not performance.)

I attended the concert with best bud Karen aka Luna, and went out after the show with her and Todd to a great little Montrose hang-out called Cecil's. The last time I was in this bar--at least as far as I can remember--I was there to meet a beautiful young woman dressed (rather provocatively, for my benefit) all in black, and found her perched seductively upon a bar stool, awaiting my arrival. Whoa! She certainly made me glad to be alive at that particular place, at that particular time. Although she has since died a tragic and profoundly unnecessary (figurative) death (for yes, this ghost is one and the same; having followed me from Cullen Theater all the way to Cecil's Tavern, via Diedrich's Coffeehouse), the ghost was haunting the hallowed halls of the tavern tonight and I offered a brief word of exorcism to the hovering spirit: Lebe Wohl, mein Schätzchen!

Apparitions aside, Todd, Luna, and I spent a couple of wonderful hours deconstructing every single aspect of the concert: performance (moderately good), programming (profoundly awful), and audience response (polite but bored) amongst many other topics. It was fantastic to see Todd again, and I feel certain it won't be another 8 years before we have a repeat.

Tomorrow night we'll be back in full Salsa mode, so stay tuned.

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

Chihuahuas and a Kooky Spook

In which the Pseudo-Latino gets another visit from the Living Dead, a car gets towed (but not mine!), Merengue #4167 forgets the magic word, and some Pseudo-Chihuahuas are prepared for the Return of the King.

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Pseudo-Chihuahuas

So here we are again. Day two in Houston, and this time we're back to the tunes that make Your Hero tick.

Before we get to the musical part of today's programme, I'd like to introduce you to the real reason for my Houston journey, Katje and Matthew--the Pseudo-Chihuahuas. They may not look like Chihuahuas to you, but I assure you they are. Or at least (if you remember those old analogy questions from your SATs and other standardized tests):

Matthew and Katje are to Chihuahuas as Pseudo Latinos are to Cubans (or Dominicans or Puerto Ricans or . . . ).

In non-pseudo-ality--aka in actuality, in fact, in deed, in reality/truth/non-fiction--they are Great Danes. Blue Merle Great Danes. And together they weigh in at about 325 pounds; a lot of dog, by any standard. The truth, should we care to admit it, is that the Pseudo-Chihuahuas deposit large piles of you-know-what that are at least as large as their South of the Border namesakes.

I travelled south this weekend to retrieve these lovely specimens of doghood from their grandmother's house, where they have been resting and convalescing from their owner's recent bouts with insanity (I know, I know . . . you've NO IDEA what I'm talking about . . . "clearly," you're saying, "the Pseudo Latino is the sanest of the sane." And he is, naturally. Nevertheless . . . . ) With unbounded enthusiasm, I spent the day frolicking with these lusty mutts in the Back 40 . . . playing Frisbee, brushing what appeared to be 3 fur coats' worth of dog-hair from their smelly bodies, and washing them thoroughly to prepare them for the journey home. "Dogs," the PL advises his readers, "kick ASS!" Especially Pseudo-Chihuahuas.

Expect to hear more about these animals in future stories, and--if you're REALLY REALLY NICE--perhaps to meet them some sunday evening out in front of Monicas. But you'll HAVE to ask me nicely.

Ghostly Coincidence

Ok. So the afternoon was spent preparing the PCs for tomorrow's ride home . . . but the night was devoted, once again, to dance. Luna and her friend Robin did some investigating, and found a few options for us. My only request was that we go somewhere with live music, if possible. It was this request which led to the the strongest appearance yet of the lady ghost. After I was already underway en route to our first choice--Club Salsero, I got an incoming call on the Lat-Phone from Luna. We were changing our plans and meeting at Elvia's instead. Fine, I thought. At this point, I heard no bells ringing. I took an earlier exit off of the Beltway and headed North on Fondren. But suddenly, as I turned in to the parking lot, I heard a voice in my ear saying "ooooooooooo . . . . OOOOOOOOOOOOO" in that ghost-whispering-in-your-ear-during-a-scary-ride kind of way. I even thought I felt something lightly touching my neck. I shivered. As the valet takes my car away, I walk into the club and once again the Ghost appears. Standing a bit awkwardly or timidly . . . and in a decidedly not-yet-dead manner . . . is The Girl. She appears to be remembering something; sadly. I try to ask her is she had been here before, in an earlier lifetime, but as soon as I speak she disappears. By this time Luna is looking at me strangely and the waitress is wondering if perhaps she shouldn't refuse to serve me. Or maybe she was considering calling the cops, or the guys in the white coats. I try to snap out of it as the DJ blasts Merengue #4167 (the only one ever written without using the word "Corazon") and drag Karen out onto the dancefloor until I'm sweating bullets. Things improve.

But suddenly there it is again: the hovering Spirit . . . reminding me, or so I think, of a day long ago; of well laid plans to learn Love and Salsa--on schedule and under budget; once a week; at this very spot; on Saturdays. "Idealistic, sure," I thought, "but possible." Little did I know. A billion screaming deaths of possibility, hurled now by this Apparition from the farside. Lobbed from harbors safe and distant. A Ghostly Babe dipping and dodging, feinting and taunting. Then, suddently, gone. Poof! Gone.

"How odd," I thought--sipping my beverage and waiting for the band to start.

And about that band: they ran the gamut from utterly terrible (first tune, out of tune--wailingly bad in all respects) to moderately acceptable on a couple of cuts. For the most part they were just NOT ON. Either of the two main Dallas orchestras beat them silly, even on an off night. I can't remember their name, which is good for them, I suppose, as they avoid some pointedly bad publicity at the hands of Yours Truly.

Bad band aside, the dancing was all Good Times. We were joined eventually by Luna's dancing buds Robin and Steve, who are (shame shame shame) primarily [pause to insert gagging sounds here] SWING DANCERS. Apparently Robin, at least, is quite good at it . . . though both hubby and wife spent most of their time sitting idly by and watching the PL and Luna (poor thing) dance their bahooties off to Merengue after Merengue after Merengue, a few Salsas, and even a Bachata or two. WooHooo! Fun. Sweat. Beers. [editor's note: upon leaving, we were to discover that Houston remains the King of Car Towing, as Robin and Hubby tried in vain to locate their car. With some Lunar assistance, they did--I'm happy to report--recover the vehicle. Robin and Steve: sorry about your car! Next time, when you get an unresponsive wrecker driver on the phone, try asking "Dood! Where's my Car????"]

The Club

Elvia's Cantina is to be warmly recommended if you happen to be in or around Houston. It is similar to El Tren Latino, with a crowd comprised largely of latino non-dancers (by which I mean they aren't the type obviously practicing new moves; though don't misunderstand me: there were definitely some very good dancers present. Light years beyond Your Loyal Salsa Pretender) who are there because they love the music and the culture. By 11pm the place is very crowded, both on and off the dancefloor, and the wait staff--though competent--was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Service, in other words, was slow. One big complaint: the sound set-up in this club is awful. If you are forced to dance near the loudspeakers which line one wall of the dancefloor (and roughly 1/8th of the dancers at any one time will be in this position) prepare for glaring, biting, ugly, and painful trebles to violate your eardrums. Full penetration, baby. No lube. No reacharound. And this is coming from someone who LOVES high volume jams (and . . . ummm . . . penetration). These speakers need to be suspended above crowd level, and there is really no excuse for not taking care of this detail in a club that has such a wonderful stage and consistently hosts live music. It's unprofessional and stupid. Just FYI. Otherwise, this place is a keeper. Check it out.

Oh. . .

and watch out for the Ghosts.

---e[ch] aka The Pseudo-Latino aka GhostBuster III

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

Night at the Round Table

In which it turns out that I'm a WANTED MAN (and not just in the obvious ways), I'm forced to watch people dance SWING, and I sit in a most unexpected place. . . withOUT dancing.

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After a long drive home from H-Town with the Pseudo-Chihuahuas, I headed to KC Dance Studios for my new Sunday afternoon routine: Intermediate Group Salsa at 5pm, Advanced Group Salsa (if I can find a willing partner) at 7pm . . . both led by King Nitpicker, Ramiro, aka Ratbastardo, aka ExcellentTeacherMan. It should be said that the ride home took longer than it usually would have because Yours Truly found out that he's a Wanted Man. Yes, dear friends. There's a WARRANT out for the immediate and unquestioned ARREST of the PL. Of course, it's not for anything truly interesting, like murder, rape, stalking, or eating french fries naked in Tiananmen Square while being orally pleasured by a rubber-clad Paris Hilton. Nope. Not moi. Rather, the last time I went to Houston, I was rewarded for my vehicular cautions and courtesies with a speeding ticket (87 in a 60. Ooops), and simply forgot about it. This means I neither sent in my payola nor appeared in court as mandated somewhere upon my Pocket-PC printed ticket. Oopsie. DFW's Salsa Conscience is now a fugitive from justice. Please write your congressmen and women on my behalf: FREE THE PSEUDO-LATINO! VIVO EL PSEUDO-LATINO!!! Etc, etc.

Moving along to the post-fugitive portion of our show, the PL had a good ol' time in the intermediate lesson, dancing mostly with a Ramiro regular named Diedra, and occasionally by himself (cuz there didn't be nuff gurls tuh go roundz, yo). I don't know what the dancing equivalent of onanism is, but it's damn near as fun as its namesake. Well, not really, but . . . well . . . nevermind. Ramiro was in top form today, having a gay old time (yuh. In whatever way you wanna take it) and just bustin' all KINDS of moves. He was having lots and lots o' fun . . . particularly in the swing class [insert gagging sounds here] which Yours Truly was forced to sit through while waiting for the Advanced Hour of World Unification Salsa Power to kick in. Though I'll admit that it was pretty cool to watch Ramiro and his dance partner doing their schtick. They're quite good, despite their poor choice of "dance" styles. But anyway . . . during the intermediate class I ended up having to dance with him for a while, and after we stepped through the combination of the day, he was expecting me to actually, like, ummm, LEAD him in a, y'know, like, DANCE or something. If you want to know what "intimidating" means, try leading your profoundly gifted dance instructor in a dance. Fuck me GREEN! This grasshopper isn't ready for that test yet. So I tried to lead him in a couple inside turns, and he sez "what the fuck was THAT, gurl?? Do I LOOK like a slingshot to you?!?!?!" and this "gurl" was thinking "no, you look like a fucking RATBASTARDO who scares the bejesus out of me" and instead saying "no. You don't" in his meekest voice. Being the teacher that he is (eg. Excellent), he immediately forces me to repeat the whole thing, as the woman, and shows me how it should feel, what I'm supposed to be telegraphing, and exactly how LITTLE force is required to "spin these bitches 'round!" Gulp. Ok. So I repeat what I've learned. "NO!" "Again!" Again, I lead it. "YES! Now . . . did you FEEL that???" he asks. Assuming he's not talking about, well, that, I admit that I did, indeed, feel it, and he moves on to his next victim. When I'm done sweating and my pulse returns to its normal state, I think: kewl.

And so it goes.

Now comes that actual break for that nasty cultural cesspool referred to by some as "west-coast swing," and then back in action for the advanced class, and something called "The Matador." This one just 'bout did me in. It combined two things I'm still profoundly mediocre at: a back spot turn and a Pretzel, with the guy doing the turn and ending up in the Pretzel before doing the second (easier) half of the combination. I just could NOT get it. Finally, a wonderful new dancer who goes simply by A.P. comes to my rescue. A.P. is an advanced beginner, but is already entering some pro-am type competitions and was excellent at breaking it down for me. As soon as I got the feel for it, I had no trouble repeating it with all my other partners (the women rotate so you get to dance with everyone) . . . which is not to say I was able to master it or repeat it well, just that I was able at least to perform the combination without screwing it up for the ladies who so patiently tolerated my Pseudo-Latino Non-Pseudo-Flailing.

I had a great time this afternoon, and learned that these people basically show up every weekend, and that Ramiro repeats the combinations (or parts thereof) regularly so that everyone can really nail them and add them with some degree of confidence to their repository of bustable moves. Fine by me.

Skipping out on intermediate ChaCha, I ran home to chill with the Chihuahuas and take a shower before my usual Sunday evening outing to Monica's. I really only have a couple of points to make about Monica's tonight. (1) Latin Fire was definitely back in groove, sounding nice and tight; (2) Thank GOD tonight wasn't a holiday. Unlike last week there was plenty of room for dancing, conversation, and whatever it is that floats your boat; (3) Emiliano Della Serra was sitting outside, after Ramiro's usual beginner lesson routine, chatting up the man himself. Talk about FUNNY. This guy is just too amazing. Clueless, rhythmless wank-bunny from the far reaches of HELL; (4) I was asked by Ramiro to sit at (be still my heart) the TABLE OF THE HIGH COUNCIL OF DANCE which, a mere two weeks ago, caused me such anxiety and trepidousness (yes, I know the word is "trepidation," but Arthur Yoria doesn't, and you shouldn't TELL HIM, either. Though you should listen to his music. It's pretty good for a coconut like yoria. Actually, it's just plain good).

For the first time in my dancing history (all 6 weeks of it), I didn't dance a single tune. I was just too overwhelmingly exhausted to do anything, so I came straight home, snuggled with my two hairy four-legged beasts, and went to SLEEP! Forgive me, dear reader, if you have a kind bone in your body, for the Pseudo-Latino is tired, so go ahead . . . ask:

Womb? Weary?
He rests. He has travelled.

With?
Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad the Kailer and Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer.

. . . and nora rejoices, naughty fuckbird that she is.

With that oddity of my Odyssey, I bid you all a fond, fair, and well-needed adieu.

Your Salsa Pretender,

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

Birth of the Moon

Today's Pseudo-Latino News of note: Today was born of sea and sky the Great White Moon. May Luna live long, prosper, and continue to wreak Havoc and Mayhem on Men and Tides and Menstrual Cycles for all eternity.

All you folks give a happy birthday shout out to the PL's favorite toleratrix of his Dance "moves" . . . Karen aka Luna aka The One Who Unfortunately Chooses to Dance Swing.

Like Mr. Joyce sez, babe: Teems of times and happy returns.

Enjoy it.

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 03:32 PM | Comments (0)

Pleats. Beats. Feets.

Another Sipango evening finds Our Hero contemplating embarrassing erections, unusual rhythmic patterns and their effect on various Salsoids, and DFW's Salsa cliques. Oh. And wishing his old (and now oldER) buddy Todd a HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

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After finally getting some long overdue sleep, the Pseudo-Latino was able to face his day with partially renewed vim, measurable vigor, and even a smidgeon of vitality. Today's Salsa pretentions began with my weekly private lesson, where I was systematically humiliated and frustrated by the Dance Instructor of Vicious Ability (D.I.V.A.), my favorite and yours, Ramiro. Today we reviewed all of last week's work, and then added various combinations from last Sunday's Group Workshops. The manner in which I SUCK at "The Matador" was demonstrated to me by D.I.V.A. in excrutiating detail, amongst other ego-deflating joys and delights. Remember the Mantra: Deconstruct. Suck. Reconstruct. Deconstruct. Suck. Reconstruct. (D.C. al Fine.) Today I got to be the girl more than usual, as D.I.V.A. tried to demonstrate an endless stream of subtle nuances required to correctly lead the combinations we were reviewing. Very fine points were made about the precise amount of pressure to apply with hand X while positioning hand Y closer to body part Z and when I didn't understand he just made me his bee-yatch for a few bars and whizzed me through the combination. Made my damned head spin, it did. He led me effortlessly through things I have never even THOUGHT about doing, from the woman's point of view, and he did it so that I both felt and looked graceful. Me. Graceful. Imagine dat! Every time he does this I find it absolutely and profoundly impressive. Ladies: is it not an intense turn-on to dance with a man who can lead you effortlessly yet masterfully through your paces . . . always with you in mind? If you say "no," you got some 'splainin' tuh do.

But enough about THAT.

I headed out about 9:30 as the Faithful All-Things-Salsa Observer (FATSO), navigating reflexively towards Sipango. Autopilot, all the way. I arrived to find fellow Salsoids Amber and Ben waiting, looking somewhat tired and not a little . . . well . . . bored. Amber is a stewardess . . . ummmm . . . I mean FLIGHT ATTENDANT and had been awake since 4:40am or something like that and was claiming exhaustion. Well, ok. I guess. I'm an easy-going guy. I'll buy it. Just be glad that our friend Elsa wasn't here, she'd have smacked dear Amber silly (Starbucks folks can get a bit testy when other people complain about getting up "early." Although I think the Donut Guy might get away with it).

Despite her "long" day, Amber scored numerous points with her biting sarcasm and quick wit regarding the ever-present Emiliano Della Serra, stalker of chicks and hack dancer extraordinaire. Completely by accident, Della Serra actually asked a woman to dance who knew what she was doing. Ben, Amber and I watched this poor woman suffer (and she was expressing extreme existential angst with every pore of her being) through an entire song with this rhythmless sack of chicken droppings. During the proceedings Amber leans over to me and sez: "Like . . . what's with the package on this guy???? Is that a sock? What is that??!?!" And sure enough, poor Della Serra's package was protruding a bit more than a modest male would desire his package to protrude in public, and it was . . . well . . . not flattering. Least of all to the poor horrified woman who was dancing in its immediate proximity, grimacing fiercely. With submissive and all-consuming deference to my VZ crew-chief, Chairman of Thursday Madness International, I informed Amber--honestly and with exacting accuracy: "it's not his package, dear, IT'S THE PLEATS!"

Finally the band starts. Havana NRG, as usual. The first tune was Chan Chan, the opening track from the Buena Vista Social Club album (a must have, by the way). The Havana rendition of this song is decent, but every time it comes on I wonder what would be the best way to dance to it. Technically, this tune is NOT a Salsa, though everyone dances Salsa when it comes on (awkwardly, I might add). Amongst other things, Salsa tunes are based on an interlocking set of repeating rhythmic patterns which spread themselves symmetrically across (depending on who you ask) one bar of music, or two. Bottom line is that the measure(s) divide into 4 + 4. Chan Chan doesn't do this. If you listen to the performance you hear very strongly a division of the measure(s) into 3 parts: 3+3+2. This slight shift in the "meta-pulse" of the song is something that most dancers don't pick up. They just find themselves at odds with the beat more often than usual, without understanding why, and hence the dancing is perceptibly more choppy and awkward than usual. Anyway . . . if anyone has any thoughts on this, I'd love to hear 'em.

Havana was in standard form tonight, neither smoking nor sucking . . . at times a bit distant--which seems to be the case more often than not, to be honest. Part of this is that the band just doesn't seem to be very excited about playing. While this is a common symptom of groups that perform a limited repertoire day after day after day, it's part of their task as artists to ensure that the audience never picks up on it. These guys, though, rarely seem happy. For instance, it struck me long ago that I have NEVER (not one single time) seen the keyboardist (Mariela Suarez, the only woman in the band) smile. Never. Ever. Not even for her picture. Mariela: SMILE DAMMIT! YER PISSIN' ME OFF!

Moods aside and moving right along . . . the second tune morphed from Chan Chan to ChaCha, which I still don't know. . . so I stayed on the sidelines until the third song: a straight-forward Salsa. Amber and Ben haven't been out for a while, but they were cranking right along with lots of nifty twists and turns and flips and flops and zips and zings and other items of coolness. I dragged a poor hapless victim out on the floor as well. Things went passably well, considering I had undergone my usual D.I.V.A. Deconstruction earlier in the day. B & A graciously pretended that I had improved since last they witnessed my quasi-rhythmic flailing, at El Tren Latino. Yuh. Right.

In direct contrast to last week, there were many excellent dancers out and about tonight. One group that arrived en masse was the Jonathan Contingent. It's interesting to me, as a beginner and outsider, to observe the various Salsa factions in the DFW area. The two groups that I'm aware of thus far (and I know there are others, but can't quite identify them yet) could be labelled as The Feets and The Others. Jonathan et al are definitely the Feets. They are VERY preoccupied with fancy footwork, in some cases to their detriment (at least as far as my taste is concerned). Jonathan, however, is not one of those cases. He was dancing with a girl I recognized from La Esperanza, and they were definitely smokin'. The problem I have with a couple of guys from this group is that they become so self-absorbed in their own moves and looks that they (1) have no chemistry with their partners (even though they are doing many technically demanding things with grace) and (2) they come across as arrogant and aloof, rather than confident and accomplished. One guy in particular, whom I really cannot stomach, has this bizarre affectation with his head--it moves choppily from side to side while never quite looking at the woman before him--which reminds me of the old Gilda Radner character from SNL, where she acts like a semi-autistic child, rolling her head about randomly while various things go on around her. Keep in mind that this dancer, whom we'll refer to as HORTON, is amazing from a technical point of view (or appears to be so to one of my limited perceptive abilities). But the guy is totally LAME when it comes to chemistry and charisma. [note to Horton: Dood . . . it's only PARTIALLY about the chops. It's ultimately about the MUSIC and the BABE! Quit primping and start DANCING fer chrissakes.]

Also present were Roberto (of Roberto and Sandy fame), a number of Ramiro's regulars, and several folks I recognize but am not yet able to categorize. Lots of talented folks, for sure. Of course Kirsten Dunst was there, in full actress mode. After my initial encounter with KD, where I danced . . . well . . . let's say "badly" and go from there, I have become her hardly-noticed-yet-to-be-avoided-if-possible super-hero in training, aka Peter Parker. During a break, she walks up, gives a half-hearted smile, dumps her purse on my table and asks: "do you mind watching this for a minute?" before showing me her back and heading off to dance with someone who actually CAN dance. Oh well. My Spidey Sense will kick in soon enough. I'll show HER, dammit! More importantly, however, is the other blonde (no clue what her name is). This woman is decidedly hot. Decidedly. It is always a pleasure to watch her dance, for--unlike HORTON--she pours out her love of the music while she is dancing. She is always having fun, and genuinely expressive. She dances particularly well with a fellow I call "The Beret," who is also a jovial sort. Watching the two of them together is a joy . . . zero affectation, zero pretention, just passion and loads of good nature and good will. Folks like these two are my role models as I continue along my path away from Salsa Pretenderhood.

Thanks guys!

And that's all he wrote for now,

---e[ch]

ps

Still no sign of Sine Nomine. She seems to've disappeared. If you're out there Nameless One, show your face once again so we can align it with that wonderful name I just can't remember.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

Patterns. Palsy. Package?

Tired of fighting for a few inches of dance space at Gloria's, the Salsa Pretender decided to check out an untried venue and was (for the most part) pleasantly suprised by what he found when he got there.

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Tonight I sought out a new venue and a new experience. Since Gloria's has been undanceably crowded the last few visits, I decided to check out Stratos as an alternative. Stratos is another of the places where Ramiro aka Ratbastardo does his beginner Salsa lesson schtick. According to the Dallas Salsa Web:

Stratos
2907 W. Northwest Hwy, Dallas 75220
(214) 352-3321 
Restaurant and club Salsa, Merengue, Cha-Cha, and Bachata on Fridays. Salsa lessons by Ramiro Gonzalez at 8:30 pm. free admission. 65% salsa with a nice wooden floor.

You'll not be surprised to learn that the "8:30pm" indication is in Latin Time, and that it didn't start until about 9:15 or 9:30pm. While waiting, I sampled Stratos' Gyro Platter, upgrading my side order from fries to their "Mediterranean" Salad--basically just a foofoo Greek Salad (excellent, but no match for the Greek Salad at Star Pizza in H-Town). Both Gyro and Salad were scrumptious, and I took a look at some of the other dishes being served around me. It was all nicely presented and prepared, and I recommend showing up a bit early and trying their grub.

When the lesson finally rolled around, it started a bit slow, with only about 8 people on the dancefloor, and only three guys total (including me and Ramiro). Guy number 3? Yup. EMILIANO DELLA SERRA!! How lucky am I, eh? I made sure to stay on the other side of the group, just in case he was experiencing any further problems with his packaging this evening--although I didn't make any attempts to observe its condition--there are some things that even I am not willing to do to keep my faithful readers informed. Please get over it.

The dancefloor itself was like walking on a sheet of ice. I have NEVER experienced a floor this slick, it was awful. Ramiro informed me that it is usually nowhere near so dangerous . . . but tonight was frightening. Everyone was constantly on the verge of losing their footing and had panicked looks on their faces waiting to see if they'd be the first one to do an unassisted inside turn using their ass as point of contact and rotation. One good thing about a slippery dance floor, though: one is forced to take small steps. VERY small steps. And since overly large steps and gestures are the primary banes of beginners like me, the slick floor turned out to be a great training aid. As did my three dance partners for the evening: Lynette, Norma, and Ellie. I danced first with Ellie, who is a ballroom dancer and who loves west-coast swing. She looked at me funny when I said "well, it's a good thing we aren't friends yet!" I didn't explain. When the first Merengue segment came on, Lynette asked me to dance and the fun really began. She's apparently a long-time Stratos fixture, and loves Merengue. We were spinning and bouncing and frolicking about the floor, with me improvising whatever I could as far as arm-work goes . . . but it turns out Lynette was holding out on me. I kept getting myself, or her, into these wonderfully twisted pretzel positions that I had no idea how to get out of . . . but Lynette DID know . . . and that's when the fun really began. We were doing all kinds of behind the back wrap-arounds and--joy of joys!--a double Tunnel!!! Arms are tied in a big knot, Girl tunnels through guys arms, Guy tunnels through girls arms, Arms are no longer in a knot. It looks really cool, and I've been watching folks do this for 6 weeks; finally someone showed me how to do it. I was ecstatic.

Drenched in sweat and with nasty, garlicky bad breath and a dry mouth I took a short break to rehydrate. This lasted for no more than 3 minutes before Norma (who obviously knew what she was doing and seemed to be friends with Ramiro) asked me to dance. Salsa was playing. Fine. I'd rather dance Salsa than hydrate anyway, right? Or sleep. Or eat. Or . . . well, anyway . . . you get the idea. So . . . Norma's a pro. Excellent dancer. And very patient with my limited repertoire and not-infrequent screw-ups. I tell her (as I tell everyone who's clearly better than me) that I've only been doing this a month and a half. She smiles, and tells me "it must be in your blood, then." I say "what? Terminal whiteness? Yeah. That's in my blood." She smiles. After a while, either bored or curious to see what I can do, she sez: "want me to show you something?" To which I (duh) say "sure!" So out comes "The Butterfly" and "The Sombrero." BadASSSSSSS! The Sombrero, which isn't actually very difficult, is another one of those things I've been watching couples do from Day One of my Salsa Journey and BADLY wanted to add to my bag of tricks. Well, now it's there. The Butterfly didn't quite end up in my memory . . . but that's ok. I at least know what it's called when I see it, and I can ask King Nitpick to show me in an upcoming lesson. I even had the nerve to practice my Matador a few times, although I look more like a mascot for the Cerebral Palsy convention than a Matador.

Speaking of the King, he was in rare form tonight. By which I don't mean his usual flamboyant self, but really mellow, casual, and chilled. He stopped by my table, sat down for a while, and we talked about his upcoming trip (some two-week long competition/convention/party excuse--he leaves tomorrow), his lack of packed-ness and propensity to procrastinate in such matters, and even about the hysterically bad Della Serra, who seems to follow Ramiro wherever he goes. He even danced quite a bit . . . I guess procrastination is a HUGE motivator in his life: who'd a thunk it? He's human after all!

The DJ was spinning good tracks, but he still kinda sucked: his transitions were poorly chosen and really choppy.

One final comment: there was one couple dancing who attracted my attention repeatedly. A stunningly beautiful woman in a very classy dress and heels, and a man--perhaps late 40's--also dressed nicely. If you've ever seen Assassination Tango, you know what this woman looked like while dancing. Omigod, folks . . . women were born to dance and there is nothing sexier than a woman who can move like that. Nothing. Not possible. No way. Uh unh.

---e[ch]

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Rilke. Dance. Women.

Because I'm always looking out for my readers, and hoping to lead them down new paths--primrose and otherwise, I thought I'd share a . . . POEM . . . with you all. Yes. A poem. Don't panic, guys. Poetry can be a wonderful thing. It's ok if you read it. It won't make you into a homosexual or make anyone think your penis is small. Really. I promise.

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As I sat reading some poetry this afternoon (for yes, Your PseudoDancing PseudoLatino is intelligent and sensitve in addition to being a profoundly mediocre dancefloor Wannabe), I pulled out my collection of Rainer Maria Rilke