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Moonspeak

While mixing my morning, pre-work cocktail of Elderberry, Absynthe, and the blood of a Sleeping Dodo (no no no no no. Not her. A REAL Dodo. The BIRD), I was disturbed by an unnatural, electronic "BING!" (no no no no no. Not Crosby). It was the sound of an incoming e-mail, and in this instance it was an e-mail from Luna. She requested (if you can call a 84dB cry of "DO THIS OR I'LL KICK YOUR PASTY WHITE ASS ALL THE WAY BACK TO TALLAHASSEE!" a "request") that I pass on a short message to my Loyal, Devoted, Attentive, and mildly retarded Readers. And so, dutifully, I have.

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Without further commercial interruption, thus spake the Moon unto Thee, My Readers and Purveyors and Conveyors of Wishes of Wellness:

It’s hard to know where to start when thanking many people at once, so I’ll just jump in. THANK YOU to all who sent positive thoughts, energies and well wishes, not to mention a good dose of humor, my way as a result of the PL’s beseeching.

For those who have the talent of combining humor with recuperative urgings, it hurt to laugh so much, so soon after surgery, but the laughter buoyed me through the afternoon (and carried me through a rather tough Thursday evening). The encouragement and thoughts of so many people, many of whom I have never met, has been a boon for me. Thank you. I’m not one to be held down long by adversity, and I expect to be back on the dance floor (of all varieties!!) and the bike soon.

Thank you, Jim, for the full moon. I did notice it that morning just after I awoke. La luna was peeking between the pine boughs with wispy clouds shadowed by the moonlight, drifting across her beautiful orb. It was quite beautiful.

With that said, I’m going back to bed. I learned the hard way yesterday that I’m more human than Moon Goddess and need to rest A LOT to get over this ordeal.

Luna

Posted by earwicker at 09:13 AM | Comments (1)

Honeybees & Hillary Duff

Frustration continues to grow for Our Fearless Leader despite a wonderful dance partner, a small Gift, and a nice venue. Also, a DJ crosses the line one time too many. Hillary Duff and a turkey baster come to the rescue.

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Yours Truly has just returned from another night at Stratos, where he spent a nearly five hours on and off the dancefloor. This week he exchanged the Sweatless Genetic Mutant for a hotty with NADS, and had a great time. Actually, that's only a partial truth. The REAL truth is that the Salsa Pretender has hit a bit of a wall, and that he is frustrated thereby. The underlying problem is that I (for as we know, He is I and I am He) am generally too intimidated to ask moderately advanced women (and above) to dance. This is stoooooopid on my part, because these are precisely the women who can help me improve . . . but I'm so horrified of boring them that I sit on the sidelines, frozen like a deer in headlights. Oh well. At times like these, the Gift can be salvific. It hooked me up again tonight--this time with the indescribably sweet Vicky.

I have danced with Vicky once before, in Ramiro's Advanced class on a Sunday afternoon (while trying to learn The Matador). She was helpful then, offering constructive criticism, and was very kind again this evening . . . despite my three-move repertoire (up from 2.37 last week). Having watched her dance all evening (Denise and I agreed that she was absolutely adorable as we watched her being passed around from excellent dancer to excellent dancer), she is now WAYYYYY up on my list of favorite women dancers. Although her technical abilities are minion, they aren't the reason for my adoration. She ended up near the top of the list for precisely the same reason as Locklear did: she exudes joy and good-nature while she's on the dance floor. She has a fantastic smile, and has it cranked up to 11 the entire time she's on the floor moving (and off the floor, too; she appears to be a generally warm and happy person). Awesome.

Now . . . before someone (like . . . oh . . . say, Denise) sez "and what about DENISE, you jerkface??!?!?!" . . . let me clarify. Denise is an excellent dancer (far far far better than I am) and is great fun as a partner, I am lucky to have (been) found (by) her. But . . . her primary expertise is in a different style of Latin dance altogether, Danza Folklorico. When it comes to Salsa, she's good, but we're both still learning the moves--so we each need experience with more advanced partners as part of our recipe for improving. In this regard, it is MUCH easier for her to dance with advanced guys than for me to dance with advanced girls. Evidence: the guys were SWARMING around her this evening. Like bees on honey. If I had a dollar for every time some guy asked me "are you guys dating? No? So . . . it's cool if I dance with her?" I could retire and move to Europe, living out my Golden Years in my own private Villa, populated with an army of for-hire nubian sex-goddesses desiring to satisfy my every whim. I may have the Gift, but she has curves, grace, and an unlimited supply of stylish FMPs (I only have a couple pairs myself, and I ain't gonna wear 'em to any of these clubs, folks).

The end result is that Denise wins, hands down.

I did also dance with a woman named Lisa, who I approached for a couple of Merengues and who approached me for (god help us all) one of the two HIP HOP tracks that crept into the DJ's playlist this evening. Yes. I said HIP HOP. Lisa was lots of fun, and will probably have nightmares about my hip hop "stylings." I know I will. I had also hoped to get some Merengue tips from Lynette, but she was a no-show tonight. You will have to wait another week before Yours Truly can nail the double tunnel (NO! That's NOT what I meant, you naughty PERVS!) . . . .

And finally . . . speaking of the DJ. I felt compelled after yet another evening being jerked around by this guy to write a letter to the management of Stratos. I wrote the entire thing in Pig's Blood, sealed it in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnall's front porch, and will be sending it via Pony Express first thing tomorrow morning. My agitation level was such that I needed to share my thoughts with my Loyal Acolytes, so here it is:

To Whom It May Concern---

Let me begin by telling you how much I like your restaurant. It's cool. The "global" Greek thing is a nice gimmick, allowing you to serve mexican food and sushi (albeit mediocre sushi ) without confusing the local rednecks TOO much ("Hey Bobby Joe, them there folks is servin' MESKIN food at a GREEK rest-ront! Y'think they're COMMUNISTS??"). So . . . thanks for that. You've also got a nice dancefloor, a halfway decent waitstaff, and survivable prices. All these are things which I have learned to appreciate over the last 3 weeks. It's "wunderbar", as those pesky Germans like to say. It is therefore with heaviness of heart that I must draw attention to a terrible blemish marring your otherwise attractive little enterprise. This blemish is critical--unendurable, even--and must be addressed immediately. "What," you may rightly be asking, "is this blemish, Mr. Latino, sir?" "What," you may rightly be wondering, "is this tragic disfigurement you have identified, this BLIGHT on my otherwise fantabulous restaurant??" "What," you may rightly conclude, with exasperation in your trembling, uncertain voice, "is this stain in my proverbial panties????" Well sir, the answer is as brief as it is obvious: it's the DJ; your Friday-night Salsa-Butcher. To be a little more direct: this so-called "DJ" sucks ass. He's not just terrible, he's an abomination to mixers and spinners everywhere. He's an utter boob; a completely amusical affront to all humankind.

Allow me to put his abilities in perspective for you.

Years ago I attended a Rave in the Nevada desert. Just me and about 10,000 of my closest, underaged, promiscuous and chemically-altered friends. At some point in the evening I found myself in the DJ's booth with Hillary Duff and a turkey baster, pantless and soaring high on Ecstasy. Miss Duff, amid a fit of fervent basting, began stroking dear old Mr. Happy with a catcher's mitt she had borrowed from Rob Lowe while visiting the set of The West Wing (Hey. Don't ask ME "why Rob Lowe?"!! I didn't care at the time. Rather, Mr. Happy didn't care at the time). Her enthusiastic intentions eventually knocked me over backwards and caused me to perch, obscenely though uinintentionally, upon the DJ's mixing console--where I remained seated for nearly two hours, while Miss Duff . . . well . . . you can use your imagination for that part. What matters is that during this period my HEMMORHOIDS stepped up to the plate and did a better job of laying down tracks than that idiotic SpoogeSpawn TwaddleMonkey you employ on Friday nights to butcher Tune after Tune after Helpless Sweet and Innocent Tune.

Enough already!

As a loyal and musically sensitive customer, and in the name of all tasteful music lovers everywhere, I beg and beseech you to FIRE THIS DWEEB IMMEDIATELY, before your reputation is damaged irreparably and a host of abused visitors are forced to sue you for pain and mental anguish. You must get rid of him for the sake of the dancers, the music, and the last vestiges of my already thinly-stretched sanity. If you need help getting rid of him, please call me. It would be my profound pleasure to enlist the aid of my Uncle Vinny in the prompt resolution of this matter . . . if you know what I mean. If you, as a fastidious, upstanding member of the local business community, find this alternative to be too untidy then I must insist that you make a couple of points to your "DJ," and that you do so immediately.

1. The Friday-night clientele at Stratos is there to dance in various Latin styles, including but not limited to Salsa, Merengue, Bachata, and Cha-cha. Those who dance to these styles expect their songs to have BEGINNINGS and ENDINGS, not to bleed one into the other for 20 minutes at a time. I suggest that you visit El Tren Latino on a Saturday night and that you take notes
2. If you MUST splice, cross-cut, or otherwise butcher song beginnings and endings, please do so intelligently, at musically relevant moments within the songs. The last time I was brought close to climax so many times without a pay-off I was dating a . . . well . . . that's none of your business; suffice it to say it is profoundly frustrating

Please address these issues immediately, before my hand is forced and things start to get ugly. And I mean, like, LA MUJER MAS FEA DEL MUNDO ugly. Like, "Makes Rhea Perlman look like Michelle Pfeiffer" ugly. Ugly. Really Ugly.

Get on it. Now.

Sincerely,

The Pseudo Latino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Earring. Chihuahuas. WWF

Another trip to H-town commences.

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Travelled down to H-town with the Pseudo-Chihuahuas. Stopped along the way to visit Luna and her Madre, and to watch a flick called "The Girl With A Pearl Earring." As a brief aside, I recommend this flick as an example of the ways in which PROFOUNDLY SHITTY AND ILL-CONCEIVED MUSIC can ruin an otherwise decent film. Oh well. Despite the aural agony to which I was being subjected, the Chihuahuas had a good time romping about in the yard for a couple of hours, and were even kind enough to pose for the camera once, along with Luna and the PL.

After the flick, I loaded up the kids and headed on to the Pseudo-Latino Family Estate where I spent time catching up with the Family Matriarch, Señora PseudoLatino and watching the BOOB TUBE for a couple of hours before hitting the hay. In order to make this day a truly Latino day, I switched the channel to Fox for a while and watched the WWF, where a wrestler named "Latino Heat" (unfortunately) got his ass kicked in a tag-team match with some ugly white boys. If only the PseudoGift had been there to show them how it's done (if you wanna know what Denise and Wrestling have to do with one another, you'll just have to wait. Pay attention. Be vigilant. Persevere)!

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Missing Monica's

In which Monica's falls by the wayside, the PseudoGift meets Ratbastardo, Tequila proves uplifting, "Tits and Ass" causes laughter, Traffic proves Evil, a bladder is put to the test, and The Pseudo-Latino gets kicked--repeatedly--to the curb.

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Headed out this morning for coffee at Montrose staple Brazil with the charming and anti-maternal Christa, during which she learned that

1. young, badly-behaved children can spit their food VERY far
2. dogs (conveniently enough) like to eat these half-masticated projectiles directly from the floor
3. 90 decibels is (1) the threshold of pain and (2) achievable by food-spitting, unruly girls who need a serious smack on the ass and a more intelligent set of parental units

In my ongoing quest to serve as the Pied-Piper of Salsa, I have extracted from Miss Christa a verbal statement of intent to visit Dallas and to dance Salsa during said visit. Cool. Being a shrewd negotiator, I was required to promise--in return--to help her sail a boat in the nude . . . ummmm . . . I mean "NOOD." Ok. So she didn't make me promise. The truth is that I BEGGED her to ALLOW me to ride along. It was embarrassing, actually. I was kneeling on the floor in front of her chair, in the middle of a crowded cafe, blubbering obsequiously.

Needless to say, she kicked me to the curb and sent me on my way . . . mumbling something about elevators not going all the way to the top.

Elevators?

I then started back DFW-ward, stopping once again to visit Luna--this time: Lunch and about 15 shots of espresso. I refrained from anymore begging, my sore knees and bruised ego fresh in memory. I did, however, make a suggestion involving her surgical drain and a skeevy regular at a Blues bar she frequents.

She got a funny look on her face, kicked me to the curb and sent me on my way. . . mumbling something about bricks and loads.

Bricks?

Fine. I figured "maybe it's just not my day," so I switched on the cruise control, popped a mix-CD into the player, and settled into the sounds of Salsa. The weather was sunny and nice, the road was long, my Pseudo-Latino heart was full of love and goodwill. Life, as they say, was Good. Time passed, and so did Huntsville, Madisonville, Centerville, and Buffalo . . . . I was going to make it to the 5pm Group Lesson with time to spare. But then it happened. Traffic stopped. It took me an hour and 15 minutes to travel one mile. ONE FUCKING MILE. 75 minutes. Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. No one with whom a lonely and agitated Salsa Pretender could converse (my cellphone had mysteriously entered into "Analog Roam" mode at precisely the moment the traffic stopped. Bastards!). My hopes for a lovely afternoon of dancing morphed rapidly into the reality of an afternoon spent contemplating the upper limits of Pseudo-Latino bladder elasticity.

ARRRrrrrrrrggggggggGGGGGGGHHHH!!!

Whatever. The forces of The Universe (which generally obey my every whim) were silent this afternoon, though I once thought I heard the sound of giggling, likely directed at my pain and misfortune.

Rather than arriving at 4:30, I got home at 6:00pm, had a few minutes to put on my dancing shoes and head back out for a case of Advanced Salsa Abuse at the hands of Ramiro. The main difference this time was that I managed, through irresistable charm and/or incessant irritation to get Denise The Pseudo-Gift (and possessor of NADS) to join me. After reading about Ramiro's classes and lessons at such length, and after hearing me sing his praises (although often sung in a melismatic string of expletives), Ms. Denise finally has her own experience from which to draw. She got the FULL Ratbastardo treatment, ranging from disgust to praise (though I'd wager she's already forgotten the praise part; it's somehow much easier to remember getting slammed), in a group lesson that lasted almost 2 hours. Dunno about the PG, but the PL had a great--if occasionally frustrating--time. Par for the course. [note to self: try to avoid Golfing metaphors, as Golf is a game we despise and which deserves nothing but ridicule]. As it was already nearly 9pm, the group made ready to head to Monica's for the usual libations, self-expressions, frustrations, and fun. In deference to Denise's glorious and awe-worthy NADS, Yours Truly offered to serve as a guide . . . after a brief stop at Pseudo-Latino World HQ. What happened instead was FANTASTIC. The lovely Denise and I never left HQ. Instead, we practiced, practiced, practiced, and practiced some more. I have been dying to do this for weeks now: to spend a few hours with someone going over and over and over the things that I almost know, but which I have not had an opportunity to nail down. And FINALLY it happened, all thanks to the beautiful, directionally-challenged, musical, dance-loving Denise (although she did complicate matters by chanting REPEATEDLY, and at the most EVIL of times--right in the middle of some combination or another, "Dance 10, Looks 3" from A Chorus Line). So, Yours Truly is counting "1-2-3, 5-6-7, 1-2-3, 5-6-7" and SHE is counting "Tits-and-ass, Tits-and-ass, Tits-and-ass, Tits-and-ass." Laughter ensued, but no boob jobs. And no wrestling, either (for more information on wrestling as it regards the PseudoGift, you'll have to keep a careful eye peeled to future posts. Cuz it's definitely coming).

After a few hours of this, some dinner, a nice conversation, and a couple high-end shots of Tequila Denise--like Christa and Karen before her--kicked me to the curb, hopped in her Batmobile and headed off to the Land of NADS (after, naturally, asking me to verify her route back to freeway) . . . mumbling something about short buses.

Short buses?

Although I missed Monica's, practice was more important. Trust me, the innocent heels of a thousand women will thank me for my efforts. Or, more likely, they will thank DENISE for HER efforts (and patience, and tolerance, and grace, and all those other good things which characterize her so aptly). And you, Dear Reader, may just be one of them.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

L.O.A.F.S. (Luck Of A Fashion Slut)

Hell yes, I mean me. How I've become an FS and why will have to be discussed at a later date (if you ask nicely). What matters for this installment of As the World Yearns is that my Fashion Sluttiness resulted in something unexpected, something cool, and something fun (all of which are, in point of fact, the same 'something').

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Well, what an unexpected and pleasant surprise today turned out to be.

As my Loyal Readers are well aware, Tuesdays are generally Salsa-free, but my recent conversion into hardcore fashion-slut seems to've changed that state of affairs--albeit unintentionally. "How could that be?" you may ask. Well . . . shortly before EOB today, I sent a brief IM to the PseudoGift aka Denise aka SistrahSuplex inquiring into her thoughts on the subject of, oh, say, seeking out the Kenneth Cole shop at the Outlet Mall I have been told exists somewhere on 75N. Her thoughts amounted to "sure, I'd LOVE to go shop for expensive clothing at half-price!" And so, my friends, that's exactly what we did. And though I'll have to explain my recent fetish for KC and Perry Ellis at a later time, what matters here and now is that we went, that we shopped, that we found some nice things, and that we left the mall shortly before 9pm, famished.

As we debated what it is that we should eat before I returned PG to her automobile, we sort of went on a mini adventure . . . riding down Harry Hines and discussing the true nature of all those "Modeling" and "Massage" studios and basically having a good ol' time. Realizing that we were near Stratos, I suggested that a Gyro might be a good cure for what was ailing us and we headed over to my usual Friday night haunt for some "global" grub. It had never crossed my mind that they have dancing at Stratos several nights of the week, so it was with some surprise that we entered to find a group of 20-plus intermediate dancers on the floor taking a lesson in ballroom dancing . . . more specifically, the Waltz. Fine. We took a nice booth overlooking the dancefloor, ordered our dinner, and watched the lesson with interest. As it concluded, the instructor informed everyone that there would now be open dancing: some Country-Western, some Tango, Cha-cha, and some . . . SALSA. Yes friends. Salsa.

Guess what Denise and Yours Truly did for dessert? Yup. We danced. Salsa.

WooHOO!

It turns out there is ballroom night here every Tuesday, and my assertion that folks who primarily dance ballroom are utterly passionless, expressionless, bored, middle-class white folk was further corraborated. That being as it may, we had a GREAT time nonetheless. Salsa is salsa, even when most of the people dancing said Salsa look like they have corks shoved up their asses halfway to East St. Louis.

Dancing is great, and the Pseudo-Latino is very lucky to have friends like SistrahSuplex and Luna who NEVER are NOT in the mood to dance. It's a great thing and he/I is/am thankful. Happy as a pig in shit, even.

Yours Most Sincerely,

That Pig In Shit,

The Pseudo Latino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Holding Patterns

In which my lesson unfolds as usual, first Wednesday ruins my routine, and there is not much to say.

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From the Lesson Book of the Salsa Pretender, as entered by RatBastardo on October 6, 2004

Technique:

1. La Capa
2. Twin Cities
3. La Puerta
4. Neck Wrap
5. Backspot turn w/ check into crossbody lead

Keep arm inside frame; Never long arm; always look the direction you lead the follower

You folks know the drill already. The man is profoundly picky about the basics. In the midst of reviewing the listed moves he kept stopping and ripping my cross-body leads to shreds (politely but insistently), forcing me to do them countless times . . . each time working on a different detail (usually subtle, but always important).

I avoided dancing at Sipango tonight, because it was the first wednesday of the month. I advise you always to do the same. First wednesday is International Night, and the club is jammed full by 10:45 or 11:00pm. There is no room to dance at all.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

"Nasty" Natasha, Ecstasy, and my "Purty Hair"

In the spirit of honest reportage, His Magnificence the Pseudo-Latino tells all . . . in a story involving Tequila, Earlobes, Hillary Duff (once again!), Fried Cheesecake, a gay bar, two hits of Ecstasy, the Renaissance Hotel, a Flying Guillotine, and a newcomer to these annals (yes, TWO 'N's, thank you very much), one "Nasty" Natasha.

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Well folks, Yours Truly has been shirking his reporterly responsibilities of late, but for good reason. It is, after all, rather difficult to find time to write about life when one is out there in the trenches living it fully. Maybe a bit TOO fully, to be honest. The weekend began on Friday evening, as per usual, with a visit to Stratos. In most ways this was a typical Stratos affair: Norma was there to show me a few new maneuvers, the DJ sucked as expected, Ramiro's class started late (although he shared his Fried Cheesecake with me while we were waiting, so I didn't mind the delay), the house was full of very good dancers, etc. All the usual elements were in place. Perhaps in deference to last week's letter to the management, a video of some Hillary Duff song--and a trailer for her upcoming Flick--kept playing on the large video screen above the dancefloor. My partner, the PseudoGift aka SistrahSuplex arrived, albeit late, for an extended on-floor work-out. . . and not only with me. She was a very popular girl all evening long. We also began to put names with some of the familiar faces at the club (Jay, Jason, Shelly), and received a standing invite to Al-Amir for Saturday-evening Salsa.

On the other hand, one thing was decidedly different. Your Favorite Salsa Pretender has a new friend and dance partner who came out to meet him this evening. First time. Let's call her "Natasha" for convenience, though her real name shall remain unspoken here. You'll soon see why. Well Natasha calls me Friday afternoon and tells me that she, Natasha, has never tried any sort of recreational substance and wants to know what my opinion would be regarding Ecstasy as a first experience in that regard. My opinion--based on my sole experience, hinted at previously and involving Hillary Duff and a now-infamous turkey baster--was that, all things considered, she could do worse. "Good," she sez, throwing my way a coy parting giggle. Click. Dead air.

Hmmmm . . . .

Hours later I'm at Stratos, waiting for Denise and Bimpe (for whom, it seems, I shall forever and ever be waiting, without relief--as she has been missing in action for well over a month at this point), when Natasha phones and sez, with wayyyyyyyy too much enthusiasm, "I'm out in the parking lot! [giggle] Come get me! [giggle]" Oh no. As I head outside, I wonder if maybe I should've had a few extra drinks in preparation. It turns out I should have. Natasha ("Nasty" for short) is sitting in the front seat of her sporty little vehicle, applying make-up and telling me--in between fits of laughter--that "it didn't do anything!"

"No?" I ask.
"No!" she sez.
"How much did you take?"
"Well, I took a half, and that didn't do anything, so I took the rest. And THAT didn't work so I took the second one."
"And over what period of time," I inquire, "did you take all of this?"
"All in the last hour!" comes the chirpy response.

Oh no. No no no no no. Nasty! NO! Apparently unaware that it often takes MDMA a good 60 - 90 minutes to kick in fully, my dear Natasha--who weighs maybe 105 pounds dripping wet, has downed two Tickets to Happyville, and I'm sitting at Ground Zero mere seconds before the Train is due in the Station. Joy of joys! I guess I'm just a lucky guy by nature, right?

Boy howdy . . . did that train ever arrive! Right on time. Roughly T - 1.25 hours. BOOM! Natasha becomes Ms. Touchy-Feely-Giggly-Yes-I-DO-talk-90-miles-an-hour-so-what?-Tingly-Happy. Presto-chango. Of course, though obvious to me, Nasty spends the evening denying that she is anything more than "wide awake." Too funny. So . . . in between dances with the PG, I'm out on the floor with Nasty, Naughty Ms. Nasty, cutting a rug. I'm noticing that her balance is a bit iffy. I try a simple move that involves wrapping myself up in my partner's, hence, in this instance, Nasty's, arm, ducking under it, and standing up again, so that her arm slides up my back, past my neck, and then down my chest--to be caught at waist level in my right hand. A little lower if I'm feelin' playful. Heh. Anyway . . . first time she's a bit confused and her arm goes off to the side. I explain what's going on, and then try it again. This time her arm does more or less the right thing, but she's giggling.

"What?!" I ask.
She sez "you shouldn't do that again."
"Do what?"
"That move thingie. Really. Don't do it."
"And why not?"
"Well. Because I have an overwhelming urge to fondle your earlobes . . . ."

My earlobes?? In the middle of a crowded dancefloor? Now it was MY turn to laugh. No effect, eh? Uh huh. Sure. Happens all the time. EVERY girl I dance with expresses her irrepressible urge to fondle my earlobes.

As an old friend of mine used to say, "hoot!"

Denise and I manage to keep Natasha in check--more or less--until the club closes at 2am, by which time the main wave of her Journey had passed, without--I'm pretty sure--anyone getting lucky (at least I know *I* didn't get lucky, and I kept a pretty close eye on her, even when I was dancing with other folks). Unfortunately, she is still zinging and zooming ("my skin feels SOOOOOOOOO tingly!!!" giggle, giggle) and determined to go dance somewhere else. An "unspecified" after hours club. Oy. Well. After attempting for the better part of an hour to reason, in the Stratos parking lot, with Ms. Nasty (who is waving at random skeeves driving along Northwest Highway--a couple blocks from Harry Heines Blvd--at 2:45am), we decide we should call a friend of hers and get her an escort home. Which, after a long and fruitless drive towards downtown Dallas, we manage--in a roundabout way--to do. Of course, along the way, there were numerous instances of fun and jollity which could, perhaps should, make it into this chronicle but I--being a gentleman and discreet to the very core--shall not proffer these events for your amusement. They will remain for me, Natasha and the PseudoGift to cherish (or not, as each sees fit) as fleeting memories. But . . . Nasty . . . listen up: next time, only one. It takes TIME for the stuff to work its magic.

The PL, that Lone Adventurer of The Night, Your Voice in the Wilderness, arrives home, weary, at 5:00am.

Bed calls.

Tequila calls louder.

Next thing I know, it's 10am. The better part of a bottle of Patron Añejo has disappeared. Poof! And who turned on the goddamned lights? Bastards! Oh. Wait. That's sunlight! Next thing after that? 7:00pm, I stumble to the computer, unhappily, check my e-mail. (Why on EARTH would I do such a thing? My geekdom is rearing its ugly head again). I reply to some worried friends who had been calling during my self-induced coma. I sleep some more. Phone rings by my head. It's Denise. She wants to go out. Dancing. My stomach sez "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!" Still, my sense of adventure kicks in and I think, through a foggy haze, two thoughts. First, I think "hair of the dog that bit me!" Second thought? "The PseudoGift has never been to a gay bar? Hmmmmm. . . ." I suggest J.R.'s, and she sez "ummmm . . . ok?" Being the proud owner of terrible NADS, she calls a little later, lost and sitting in the parking lot of the Renaissance Hotel. NADS, indeed. I meet her there, and lead her to J.R.'s. We arrive very late (shortly before 1am), park, head on inside. For those of you unfamiliar with J.R.'s, or gay bars in general, they're just perfectly normal, everyday clubs. With a few subtle differences summarized roughly as follows: (1) the drinks are stronger, (2) the men tend to be WAY better dressed than they are at your standard "breeder" venue, (3) the "on-the-make" factor is often a good bit more out in the open, and (4) yes, those ARE guys kissing one another. If that's too much for your constitution to handle, well, you need to get out a bit more often. It's a BIG BIG world. Go see Oz.

Although our time at J.R.'s was short, we did meet some nice folks--Noah, Ruiz, and Brad, to mention a few, and I learned that I should NOT keep my hair in a ponytail if I'm looking for action. Don't know if it works that way for women, too, but I collected enough anecdotal evidence this evening to make it worth a try. (Note to Brad: the Man in Black Cowboy Hat look just doesn't do it for me. Your charming comments about my "purty hair" notwithstanding.) In between bouts of wide-eyed staring ("Those guys are MAKING OUT!" . . . followed by, "that's WAYYY too Hot!"), SistrahSuplex gave a few make-up pointers to Ruiz and seems otherwise to've enjoyed her fist . . . ummm . . . first experience. So much so that I'm sure there will be a few more in the near future. Fine by me.

Well, I arrived home at sometime close to 3am, and I'll not disclose my further exploits on this fine sunday morning. But I had 'em. And you didn't. I will say that I had moments of sleep, moments of, ummm, extreme agony, and about an hour and a half of The Master of the Flying Guillotine, which--sorry Elizabeth--kinda sucks. It's neither bad enough to be good, nor good enough to be good, although it did have a few hysterical moments. I then went to sleep. Deep and dreamless.

And the world continues to turn and churn, and I hang on. Sometimes harder than others.

See you folks out there . . .

Sincerely,

The PL, the Salsa Pretender, the Defender of Delirium, the Earlobe for Ecstasy, the Follower of the Fornicatrix, the Guru of Gall, the Hero of Happiness, the Navigator for NADS, the Protector of Italian Virginity . . . well . . . maybe not that last one . . .

Posted by earwicker at 05:00 PM | Comments (6)

Birthday. Beauty. Blandishments?

In which the beautiful people turn out, a smelly, fat-ankled, pseudo-lesbian causes me difficulties (indirectly), and SistrahSuplex--our BIRTHDAY GIRL for today--receives advance warning of an upcoming tragicomedy featuring, well . . . her.

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Just in from Sipango after a wonderful night dancing. I'm exhausted, so this'll be short. The house was FULL of beautiful people tonight, including Shelly (shut up, Denise!), Jason, Kirsten Dunst (long time no see, MJ), Rene, Jonathan, and Josey. The blonde-in-classic-black count was rather high this evening. Including the ever-stunning Shelly (good god, woman. How do you DO that?!?!). Since SistrahSuplex was too busy celebrating her birthday with other folks, I had to "settle" for Natasha (sorry Nasty, y'know I love ya mo' bettah, but the PG is a bit TOUCHY, and besides, it's her BIRTHDAY today) and Shelley (a different Shelley, so shut up, Denise!) . . . with whom I danced until I couldn't see straight. Although this may also have been due to a Rohypnol & Viagra "cock"tail that Elizabeth was threatening to slip into my drink at work today. One never knows.

I had no lesson today, either, for reasons we won't go into here, beyond pointing out that Ramiro approached me apologetically when I arrived at Sipango and told me a long, sad tale of lost luggage and a crabby, uncoordinated, part-time lesbian with fat ankles and poor personal hygiene. Ewwww. I guess even Ratbastardo can't win 'em all.

Today was special for another reason: the birth of SistrahSuplex, better known as the PseudoGift or Denise or, more straightforwardly, "Hey! You!" Our most charming and beautiful PseudoLatinoLand co-conspirator was in fine celebratory form this day. How did I gift the (pseudo)Gift? Well. In lieu of an expensive present, a nice dinner, or a smack on the ass (appropriate in terms of the tale which will soon unfold, but . . . it's too dangerous; click here to view the last guy that gave her one), what better way to celebrate her presence among us than by telling you all a little story. It's going to be a little story I like to call Sweet Little DeeDee and the Word of the Day. This story is technically a tragicomedy, and, as it requires some delicacy in the telling due to various and sundry orifii which make their appearances therein, must be delayed a bit before its unveiling. Hopefully sometime tomorrow.

Fare Thee Well,

The PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

No more StratosFear

In which "Tit-for-Tat" takes on new meaning during a game of Bowling for Dancers, Master Yoda appears (though a bit better looking this time . . . and a lot less green) to celebrate an anniversary , and--though you'll never believe it--a "DJ" still sucks major Tail End.

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There are times--though not many in my 2-and-a-half month Salsa odyssey--when everything just clicks. Tonight was absolutely one of those times. I'm hoping that this just might be the view from the other side of the brick wall upon which my poor little ego was shattered a mere two weeks ago, and not merely a fluke.

Stratos has definitely become THE place to go on Friday nights, at least for those who aren't enthused about impersonating a sardine at the otherwise wonderful Gloria's. Really the only downsides are the heat (it is ALWAYS too fucking hot in this place; Sauna-Salsa is a new weight loss trend the owners should consider marketing) and the embarrassing misuse of DNA otherwise referred to as the "DJ." I tell the guy to bite my ass, but that'd be an insult to an otherwise acceptable posterior. It does get crowded, but never ridiculously so . . . and after a couple friday nights at Gloria's, the newcomer to Stratos may experience fleeting bouts of agoraphobia. Don't worry. Hold your partner a bit tighter for a few moments; the feeling will subside . . . unless you grab too tightly or unwisely, in which case agoraphobia may be replaced by MyNutsAreInScreamingPainophobioa. So be careful, eh?

I'm just sayin', is all.

On the other hand, it sometimes happens that an impolite grab may be the only thing between your partner and several dismembered dancers . . . as was the case once this fine evening when I was slammin' away to some hot tunes with everyone's fav-o-rite dancin' fool: Sistrah Suplex (ok. SECOND favorite if we count--as count we must--Yours Truly. Duh). We've been working on some basic combinations from R-bastardo's Sunday afternoon classes, one of which involves the leader (me) winding up the follower and then spinning her quickly outwards, without holding on to her. You just let her go and then dance apart from one another for a while. Well . . . at one point I sent her spinning a bit harder than I should have and, to be frank, the only thing between a full-contact, bloody version of Bowling For Dancers was a last ditch tit-grab. I'll not go into any further detail at this point beyond making clear that all contact between the PseudoGift and a plethora of unsuspecting salseros was safely avoided. No contact. None. Is there a moral to this story? I dunno, perhaps this: when faced with a tit for tat situation, choose tit.

Uhhhh . . . Ya. Nuff said 'bout that.

Moving right along. When I arrived this evening, I had made an important decision for myself; I was going to start asking women to dance who are substantially better than I am. Tonight I didn't put the decision actively into practice, but allowed it to happen passively when I was asked to dance by a charming Latino woman named Gina (or Nina . . . couldn't hear; but don't give me too hard a time about it, dancefloors can be LOUD--as you would know if you'd get off of your lethargic ASS and come dance with me rather than simply living your life vicariously through the admittedly debonair and dashing Young Man we all know as . . . well . . . ME). G/Nina is an excellent dancer, and The New Me did an admirable job of leading her through my limited repertoire withOUT choking. I managed to keep focused on musicality rather than worrying too much about my leads. This is excellent news, folks. Simply terrific. A breakthrough, though I have no way of knowing (as I point out above) if it's just a one-off miracle, or a portent of things to come.

Another welcome development . . . once again thanks to Denise. Due to the Pseudo-Gift's loveliness (read: because she attracts guys like Pat Roberson attracts Morons), the Salsa Pretender has recently made substantial inroads into the local dance community. The main avenue of this development--thus far--is a guy named Jay: a young, good-looking black guy with a shaved head and lots of nice moves. Tonight was Jay's one year anniversary as a dancer of Salsa, and if I can come half as far in that amount of time, I'll be very proud of myself. Congratulations on your accomplishments, my friend . . . and, as if you don't already know it, you da man! At some point during the evening, Jay asked Your Inimitable Maestro of Movement how long he (aka I) had been dancing. When he found out I was only 2.5 months into the game he decided--or so it seemed--that I perhaps didn't suck so badly after all and from that point on he sort of took me under his wing. He showed SistrahSuplex and me several moves. Nice moves, too. It's good to have friends that don't suck and who are interested in helping one improve, no?

Though there are many more things that could be said about this evening, I'll close with a brief mention of Roberto and Sandy, who were present and dressed to the Nines. In Sandy's case that means a super classy and revealing black dress that not too many woman would even dare to wear. The two of them are really quite beautiful to watch, and SistrahSuplex finally saw an example of what I mean when I tell her (repeatedly) that Bachata can be a very VERY dirty dance. Sandy's dress was in constant danger of riding up around her waist as a result of all the gyrations (a "disaster" which probably 96% of the male clientele would have . . . errr . . . let's say welcomed enthusiastically).

All in all a fantasssssssssstic night, and hopefully a sign of things to come.

Yers Troooleigh,

The Pseudo-Latino

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

Nameless No More (L.O.A.F.S, part 2)

He rides and he shops,
He dances, then stops,
He writes and he sings,
He does thousands of things . . .

He's the Salsa Pretender, and if you don't love him you'll grow hair on your palms.
And get lots of zits.

So there . . .

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Before finally getting back on the ol' Bicycle later in the afternoon for a high-speed 25-mile slam, The Salsa Pretender headed out once again to the Outlet Mall in Allen. This time the Perry Ellis Prima Donnas outscored the Kenneth Cole Hipsters 8-2 in a runaway match where the spectator (me . . . or perhaps you, if you like checkin' out semi-rhythmic Pseudo-Latinos in nice duds) was the clear victor. You may be wondering why my fashion exploits matter at all, much less why they matter in the context of the unfolding Chronicle of Cool that is pseudoLatino.com. That's a fair question, and one for which I don't really have an answer myself. I CAN say that there appears to be a direct correlation between the Pseudo-Latino's forays into the world of haut couture and noteworthy instances of Pseudo-Latino-related serendipity. Today was no exception, but we'll get to that a bit later.

Tonight's adventure unfolded at a venue I haven't visited since my very first week as a Salsa Pretender, Al-Amir.

Al-Amir
7402 Greenville Avenue
Dallas, TX
(214) 737-0038

When I was last here, it sucked. I think I must have wandered into the Quincenera from hell. Bunches of geriatrics, teens, and infants, all dancing much better than it seemed I ever could. Tonight it definitely didn't suck, though I was still surrounded by people that made me look like one of Jerry's Kids--blindfolded and on PCP. The main reason I was here is that Jay invited the Queen of NADS ("oh, and you can bring him, too" he sez . . . funny how that works), and I was interested in sampling the group lesson led by Joel and Jessica, which turned out to be lots of fun. Of course, SistrahSuplex didn't show up as promised because she had other plans. Uh huh. Just tell us his NAME, chiquita! We know what she really meant; she meant she had "other plans" with an "enormously, hugely penetrating special purpose." WooHooo!

Without my partner in crime, it appeared as though it was gonna be a slow evening. Natasha is out of town for the weekend (what's a skinny white gurl gonna do in CARRIZO SPRINGS fer chrissakes??), Ben and Amber appear to have been abducted by aliens with really unpleasant probe-thingies, Elsa has been sucked permanently into a parallel and unreachable Starbuckian corporate Space-time continuum, and Bimpe . . . well . . . the less said about BAD EVIL BADNESS the better. While I was waiting to dance I got a call from Luna, who seems to've contracted a moderate case of NADS and was heading inexplicably towards Terminal B of Houston's Intercontinental Airport and may currently be somewhere in Idaho shucking potatoes. Or something like that. Jay arrived, in a bit of a foul mood, and continued playing Yoda to my young Luke Skywalker . . . foisting me upon some poor unsuspecting girl named Belinda (oy! All these young hotties! What's a poor aging Pseudo-Latino to do?!?!), who's been dancing about 6 months. We danced a couple of tunes, after which I received some nice pointers from Master Yoda. Generally speaking though, there were just too many girls who were too damned young. All of whom would dance me into the ground without even breaking a sweat. Ditto the guys. These folks were slammin'. For some strange reason, I found myself hoping they would all contract syphilis, break their legs, and wander the desert naked for 40 years before dying of Alzheimers in some seedy Latin American prison. Bastards!

Let it be said that Joel and Jessica are unbelievably nice and supportive people, who appear to genuinely love what they do and to be sincerely interested in promoting Latin dance here in DFW. After Jay introduced me to them (Master Yoda introduced me to virtually everyone that showed up, which is a very cool thing), Jessica sez "whenever you're ready to dance, I'm waiting!" Great. The Gift rears its ugly head. Oh how I hate it at times! I almost didn't ask, but I remembered my vow of yesterday, and finally--even after watching this woman absolutely BURNING up the dancefloor--I did it. Like Vicky and Shelly, Jessica is a joy to behold on the dancefloor. Her technical prowess is unquestionable, but more importantly she is always smiling and laughing . . . exuding unbelievable warmth. I was honored that she danced with me, and I learned a great deal through the experience. Jessica is an excellent follower, which means she doesn't anticipate or backlead . . . she waits to do precisely what the leader tells her to do, and then executes it flawlessly. It was informative for me to dance with her because I could tell exactly what I was communicating effectively (a great deal more than even 2 weeks ago), and where I was being ambiguous (lots and lots of places . . . no surprise there). What is important to ME is that I forced myself to dance with her, even though I watched her dancing with all these amazing people and was quaking in my boots at the prospect of disappointing her. I followed through with my promise to myself. Good deal.

My overall impression of Al-Amir is now a good one, provided that this evening was stereotypical. The DJ wasn't anything to write home about, but after suffering through Stratos' amusical pond-scum of a DJ this guy was pure genius by comparison. Like many clubs, Al-Amir is too damned hot (what the fuck is UP with that, guys???), and the dancefloor was a bit sticky . . . but overall it's a great place to dance, and there are many many excellent dancers with whom you can strut your stuff (provided that you actually HAVE stuff to strut, unlike Yours Truly). As an important added bonus, the primary cuisine at Al-Amir is Lebanese . . . which for someone whose culinary interests are far from pedestrian is A Great Thing. And not only the cuisine. Al-Amir has 2 other dancefloors in addition to the Salsa area, both of which are blasting various types of Middle Eastern dance music. There was a belly-dancing show going on before the upper floor was turned over to the (largely indigenous) crowd . . . which brings me, at long last, back to the "Luck Of A Fashion Slut" part of tonight's broadcast.

Because my intimidation factor was rather high this evening, I decided to call it a night somewhere around 12:15am. As I was heading out, I noticed folks dancing to Middle Eastern music upstairs (which I had seen earlier) and saw (for the first time) that there was also a lower level, with a bar and an additional dancefloor. For some reason, I decided to wander down and check it out before hitting the road . . . and then . . . it happened. I had just reached the bottom of the stairs, and was looking across the room towards the dancers when my eyes lit upon the face of an attractive young asian woman. She looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place her. My eyes shifted ever so slightly to the right, and standing next to her was a beautiful young african lady . . . also familiar. Now it clicked: Julie and Sine Nomine!!!! What are the odds of that?? I had long since given up hope that they would return to Sipango, where we had shared a couple of wonderful Wednesday evenings learning together. Ever True to my Loyal and Devoted Readers, I swore I would not leave the building until I had inscribed Sine Nomine's REAL name upon my brow (if necessary). Dutifully I approached them, was seen and embraced by both simultaneously (yeah. You SHOULD be jealous, guys. These are ADORABLE wimmins I'm tawkin' 'bout!) to screams of "PL!!!!!!!!!! How are YOUUUUUU????"

Much better NOW, thank you very much. Heh. So . . . for the record, once and for all, Sine Nomine has a Nomine: Nzinga. It's pronounced, more or less, "in-ZEEN-guh." (I TOLDJA it was a cool name, didn't I?? )

The dynamic duo didn't even realize that there was Salsa going on in the same club, and upon learning this closely-guarded secret the three of us repaired post haste to Floor #3 for a nice sweaty dose of Merengue, Bachata, and Salsa. Julie--who is a bit more shy regarding Salsa--disappeared after a while. Nzinga and I went to find her. We found her dancing to Middle Eastern music on Floor #2, part of a large circle of dark-skinned, sweating beauties. As I've said elsewhere, my momma didn't raise no fool; I joined in.

We danced--Latin and otherwise--until almost 2 in the morning, at which point I traipsed home to get some rest.

Even Pinnacles of Wonderfulness like Moi must spend SOME time recuperating. Oui oui, Monsieur.

Tomorrow . . . Monica's!

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

Back. Bushwhacked. Blast!

After a two-week absence, the Unmitigated Master of Hyperbole and Bluster returns to his beloved Monica's. And all is right with the World.

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Sunday. Finally, back at Monica's.

Your Intrepid Reporter, the Pseudo-Latino extraordinaire, is writing to you from within one of his inimitable experiences. I'm at K.C. Dance Studios in between Intermediate and Advanced Salsa lessons. Unfortunately, this means that I'm being subjected to the atrocities of West Coast Swing (a blight in an otherwise fanTASTIC day) as I wait. But--as is so often the case--my suffering is but the necessary fodder for your pleasure. SistrahSuplex missed the Intermediate class, but arrived in time to watch Ratbastardo grilling the Swing Students (example: "Is this song too fast for ya'll?" ["no"] "Then why is everyone fucking it up?!?") . . . which resulted (as I type these very words) in her running outside to smoke repeatedly. . . . Ok. It's about our turn to get screamed at. 6:55pm, lesson at 7pm. Hopefully I'll never have to listen to R.E.S.P.E.C.T. again. It's an ok song, I guess, but . . . again . . . this is one of the reasons why the whole swing phenomenon sucks ass.

[insert much passage of time here]

Out of real-time now, having survived the Advanced Salsa lesson . . . thrived even. The best comment of the class resulted from a movement Ramiro calls "The Windmill," where the leader holds the woman tight against his body (her hands are basically trapped underneath his arms; very aggressively) as she drops and then gyrates provocatively back up to her original position. One of the best women dancers in these classes, Rene, was gyrating a bit too enthusiastically for Ramiro's taste. We're all working with our own partners. Concentrating. When suddenly we hear, in top Ramiro-on-Sunday-afternoon flamboyant form, "Don't you be brushin' the BUSH, Gurl!" WooHoo! Rene's partner, one can only imagine, was thinking "Fuck YOU, Ramiro! She can brush all the bush she wants!"

Ya gotta love Salsa, folks.

And so it went . . . and then, at long last, the PG and I headed out to Monica's. SistrahSuplex hadn't yet been to Monica's, so I had to wait a few minutes while she preened and ogled and stared and gawked and got over her "first time" butterflies (go figure. I have a dance partner who performs regularly for, like, gazillions of people and yet she gets nervous simply because she's in a BUILDING she doesn't know. It's a good thing she's a little hottie . . . makes it possible to overlook all that, errrrr, NEUROTIC BEHAVIOUR!) To keep this story from getting unbelievably long, I'll summarize:

Lots of EXCELLENT dancers. Yours Truly danced with SEVERAL advanced women, including A.P., Cyndia, and ALMOST Shelly. But not yet. I was having an absolute blast with the PG, and I can now safely say that Friday evening's breakthrough feeling was not a fluke. Tonight I was even better.

There was only one disappointment the entire evening: my favorite doorDood has been replaced, by someone who doesn't know me and therefore required me to pay (ugh) a COVER CHARGE! Goddammit.

Also worthy of mention: Ratbastardo danced several times with Jonathan and Sal . . . and they were simply breathtaking. I could watch all of them, but particularly King Nitpick, for hours and hours. The man is an amazing amazing amazing dancer.

Yup.

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

To The Victor/ia Go The Spoils

The first of two weekly outings to the Throckmorton Mining Company has been successfully completed, with five intrepid Scenesters present to mark the event: Elizabeth, Michael, "Jorge," Chris, and Yours Truly. Oh, and some guy named Kurt. Drag Queen Mud Wrestling may not be quite everything we had hoped, but it was fun nevertheless. Although the wrong woman won (Ivana Tramp), this reporter was blown away by the lovely Sienna (Sierra?) . . . who lost the match in a very very dirty tie-breaker.

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Not sure how to improve upon the simple, straightforward fact of the evening. I saw DQMW, and you didn't. I win. End of story. One member of our party remarked, as the evening's events got underway, that he "loved freaks." He meant it affectionately, and I took it that way, so my response probably sounded a bit defensive: "we're all freaks, my friend."

And we are.

The Pseudo-Latino, the final arbiter of all that is Right and Good and True throughout the Known Universe, wants to salute these freaks. They are beautiful people--living as they do at the fringes of a society far too obsessed with non-existent "normalcy;" living as an unembarrassed amplification of the quirks and idiosyncracies with which we each wander about from day to day. Are these folks a little "off?" A little whacked? Kinda creepy, even? Sure.

And so are we, babe.

Down to the last man.

Today is officially "Thank a Transvestite for Making the World a Beautiful Place" Day. Celebrate wildly. Let it all hang out. Scream a huge "FUCK YOU!" to convention. Get laid. Use the word "fisting" in casual conversation. Masturbate twice. Tell a preachy co-worker to shove her pathetic, self-righteous morality up her tightly-clenched asshole. Smoke a big fat doobie, if that's your thing. Defy convention. Dance in the elevator, even if you aren't the only one on it. Make shit up as you go. Tell the bitch precisely what you think of her. Make a mountain out of a molehill. Mind your own business . . . or don't. Smile.

Do it again. And again. And again.

And don't forget to thank your friendly local Drag Queen. She's earned it.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (2)

Green Grass

Tom Waits, godlike singer/performer/songwriter, has released another new CD, "Real Gone," on Anti- records. Despite some reviews I've read making claims to the contrary, this recording is standard-fare, late-model TW. Which is to say it doesn't contain any surprises for informed Waits fans . . . but when the artist is TW, "just more of the same" isn't exactly a criticism. My current favorite track? The extremely typical Green Grass.

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Green Grass
---Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan

Lay your head where
My heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me

Come closer don't be shy
Stand beneath a rainy sky
The moon is over the rise
Think of me as a train goes by
Clear the thistles and brambles
Whistle didn't he ramble
Now there's a bubble of me
And it's floating in thee
Stand in the shade of me
Things are now made of me
The weather vane will say
It smells like rain today
God took the stars and he
Tossed 'em can't tell
The birds from the blossoms
You'll never be free of me
He'll make a tree from me
Don't say good bye to me
Describe the sky to me
And if the sky falls mark my words--
we'll catch mocking birds

Lay your head where
My heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me

Posted by earwicker at 10:00 PM

C'mere Kitty!

In which I aquire a new dorsal orifice, guys are embarrassingly transparent, gum flies, Newtonian mechanics require me to pet a Kitty, and I await a reacharound.

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Excellent Lesson with the King of the Nit-Picking Rat Bastards tonight. I showed up with a list of things to work on--primarily things that are causing me problems or that I don't know as well as I should. Things really clicked for me during the first 40 minutes of the lesson, and then it was decided (correctly) that my footwork, and my lead, on a "spinning" cross-body lead-to-inside turn was just all KINDS of fucking WRONG. This is a major issue when you realize how many different combinations include this sequence. He trashed every little nuance of what I was doing, leaving me feeling about the same way I did back when I found out about my camel step. Grrrrrrr.

My notebook entry for today:

• Reviewed La Capa
• Twin Cities
• Hand over Neck/outside spin
• Crossover handchange to outside spin
• worked on inside spin (crosslead, open up on 6 to continue spin around
• Slingshot

After a quick nap and a short warm-up with the PseudoGift, the PL and the PG cruised on down to Sipango for the Sacred Supererogate Wednesday Ritual. SistrahSuplex and Yours Truly were asked to join Ramiro and Cindia at their table, which is a little scary because--by default--whatever table boasts Ramiro's presence is the High Council of Dance. And this boy ain't on the High Council of NUTTIN' yet. The usual free lesson ensues, and Emiliano Della Serra is, sad to say, present, accounted for, and up to his usual hijinks. Since his really frightening outing at this very venue some time ago, Della Serra really turns my stomach . . . and I wasn't surprised to see Sistrah, Cindia, and Ratbastardo looking on in horror as DS snagged our Sunday classmate Chris and dragged her out onto the dancefloor. More on Chris shortly.

My dancing started out HORRIBLY. I danced a couple of times with the PG; we were sloppy and lifeless. Yuck. At times like these it's a major boon to be dancing with one's regular partner. Even when you're both sucking eggs, you have a pretty good idea of what the other person is up to . . . and so you APPEAR, to others, as if you're dancing reasonably well. And so it went. But then the Sistrah wandered off to smoke and I asked Cindia to dance. Cindia is quite tall, probably about 6 feet in (short) heels. This is . . . ummmmm . . . let's say "the other end of the spectrum" from my dearest PG. At times like this, it's a major bane not to be dancing with one's regular partner. I think my forearm made contact with Cindia's forehead on 2 occasions . . . at precisely those points when I wasn't getting off beat (!?!?!), blowing leads, and otherwise dancing like Jim Carrey on Crack. Whacking a girl on the head, even mussing up her hair because you misjudge your armwork, is bad juju. Imagine you're giving a speech in the most eloquent english possible. Flawless. Suddenly, in the middle of the presentation, out of your mouth pops "buddadain't nuttin' yeeoanna tawk 'bout hee-yer, izzit?" You try to recover gracefully, but from that point on you might as well have your fly unzipped and Mr. Happy flapping out for the world to see. It's over. You blew it.

And I did.

Things weren't looking good for the old PseudoMeister. Still . . . the new me has determined not to be discouraged, and to dance through my off periods.

And I did.

Things were soon to improve for the ¡Arriba! Amoeba, though the onset of this upswing was caused by a really annoying fact of human behaviour.

Miranda's Rights

During the group lesson, a woman from my Sunday classes arrived with an unknown lady friend. The woman from class is Chris--a brunette bombshell often seen behind the wheel of a bright red Viper. Chris is the kind of woman that populates the wet dreams of frat boys world-wide. Think Maxim, but with nicer clothes (meaning "in something other than a bathing suit"). Her unknown lady friend was a Latino woman, perfectly easy to look at, though not of Chris's pin-up caliber (which is to say "like the rest of us" and "like most of the women in the bar.") Now, though Chris is an attractive woman, she is at the very very beginning of her dancing journey. She is in the stage where she still has really fundamental issues with rhythm and basic steps. This is perfectly common in many beginners, and will eventually disappear if she keeps working at it, but you can easily see it when she dances.

Why is this relevant? Well . . . I watched--in between dances--for nearly two hours as damned near every male in the fucking establishment asked Chris to dance, often repeatedly, even though she protested her inexperience and demonstrated it with them on the dance floor. Included in this ongoing litany of men were some of the best dancers in town: Sal and Jonathan, for example. Not one . . . and I mean not ONE of these guys so much as glanced at Chris's friend. Bastards! Guys are such predictable, pathetic creatures at times. And I can say this without compunction, being one myself. Finally, I had enough, tore myself away from the PG, and asked this woman to dance. She accepted my invitation, and I learned her name: Miranda. Very nice. My disgust with my gender only increased as Miranda and I danced. She's a wonderful dancer: fantastic frame, excellent rhythm, graceful movements, innate musicality, and a great smile. She was having fun, and I couldn't help but have fun, too. What was WRONG with these guys???? BASTARDS! Morons!

After the first song, Miranda and I danced many more times. When she left with Chris about an hour or so later, I was still the only man with whom she had danced. Chris, of course, had been asked to dance countless times during that same period. To Miranda I say "thank you! And I hope to see you out dancing many times in the future. It is a pleasure to dance with you." To all you superficial, predictable and sad little men out there, get over yourselves. You're being complete idiots.

C'mere Kitty!

As I mentioned earlier, Denise and I were dancing pretty sloppily tonight . . . and although this lead more often than not to frustration it did have some . . . errrrrr . . . lighter moments. One of these came late in the evening, while working on a sequence called a Neck Wrap. All that matters to you, Dear Reader, is that at one point the man ends up with his back to the woman, holding her right hand behind his neck and extending HIS right hand, palm outward, behind his back for the woman to take. Ok. That's not ALL that matters. It also matters, as mentioned previously, that Our Beloved Sistrah de Suplex is about 3'7" tall in heels, and that Yours Truly is 6'2" tall, without same. Ok . . . she's a LITTLE bit taller than that, but I'm allowed a little poetic license, am I not? Indeed. Now imagine this Mutt and Jeff show, the PG behind the PL, trying to stay connected to the hand he has over his shoulder. As a direct consequence of those pesky, ineluctable laws of physics, said position demands that Jeff (the PG) be standing VERY close to Mutt's (Yours Truly) back. While in this rather cosy position, I am required to extend my hand backwards, fingers pointing in PG's direction. I do so dutifully. The next thing I know, there's a huge wad of CHEWING GUM flying across the room . . . zinging past my right ear just shy of Mach Two. Somewhat startled, I break from my position and turn to Dearest Denise--her eyes wide as saucers; she's blushing . . . and laughing hysterically.

"What????" I ask, rather confused and trying to kick her involuntarily discarded gum-cud to the side of the dancefloor before someone has the misfortune to step squarely upon it.

"You grabbed the KITTY!!!" sez she.

"The . . . Kitty???"

"YES!!!!!" (peels of laughter and bright red cheeks characterize my lovely partner at this moment)

"Ummmm . . . whaddaya mean??" I inquire, still confused.

"You know," she sez, looking down more or less at her nether regions, "the KITTY!!!"

Oh! That KITTY! "Oh goodness," I'm thinking. "First the boob. Now this????" Quickly I switch to every guy's tried and true strategy in such situations: denial! I tell her that surely I didn't grab ANYTHING, and that, if there was, indeed, contact made that it must have been HER trying to get a cheap thrill in between "1" and "2." What clearly happened is that I cupped my hand, and then SHE (passionate Latino that she is) decided to cop a quick squat. Yup. That MUST be it!!!

She insists, still, that I am responsible for petting the Kitty. I insist that the Kitty (like all Kitties everywhere) just decided in its own fickle and unpredictable way to rub up against my hand. And of course I, Yours Truly, the One True Light and Hope for the World must be correct in this matter. Believe ME, folks, not HER! She did it on PURPOSE! I've been TRICKED! ABUSED! Treated as a mere OBJECT! I'm INNOCENT!!!!

All that being as it may, don't EVER let anyone tell you that dancing isn't a full contact activity . . . although after Breast and Beast I don't know what's left to expect out there on the dancefloor. Perhaps a reacharound? Eh?

I guess we will all have to wait to see how it turns out, but I'm holding out for the reacharound . . . a boy must have his dreams, after all.

And on THAT note . . . I'm outta here.

 

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (3)

North Dallas Gets Lucky. . .

. . . and why not?

DFW's newest attempt at Thursday Night Salsa appeared to be a complete and total success. Though some may complain about the lengthy non-Latin intermissions, the floor was always packed and the tunes were always extremely danceable. Yours Truly gives the Carson's experience a big Thumbs Up.

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Carson's first night of Salsa was a raging success, as far as Your Intrepid Reporter could tell. Ramiro's lesson began at 8:30pm, and it was clear from the beginning that there would be a good many folks strutting their stuff this fine evening. Amongst the beautiful people tonight: Kirsten Dunst, Roberto and Sandy, Jonathan and SpinChick, Luis Delgadillo, The Beave and his ladyfriend, Master Yoda, Lynette, Vicky, Joel (of Joel and Jessica), and . . . at long last . . . Heather Locklear, back from the dead. There was also the exotic and beautiful Famke Janssen aka Lechme (just guessing about the spelling, folks), who I have seen at Monica's and elsewhere a couple of times, but only recently met. From the PL's own crew there were only no-shows, with the very noteworthy exception of Ms. Bimpe Bad-Evil-Badness . . . who has been MIA since Labor Day Weekend.

About the venue:

• Dancefloor -- large and very nice, except it isn't as well maintained as it should be . . . so it was dirty and bit sticky in places. Most of this is due to extremely drunk and annoying revellers who make up the usual Carson's crowd and who pour out onto the floor with their drinks and cigarettes
• Music -- Latin Fire! played three of their usual sets, separated by VERY LONG (45minutes - one hour) DJ-driven intermissions featuring non-Latin sounds. The DJ was very good, and there were many fun, danceable songs . . . but it would still have been nice for him to've mixed in a Latin track from time to time since the breaks were so long.
• Crowd -- very large and mixed. Tonight damn near the entire Salsa community was present, but the regular crowd seems to be typical meat-market nightclub: pretty girls with clerical jobs and guys who think that golf shirts look good and who are too stupid to realize that no one is impressed by their college rings. There were definitely some nice folks there, but you get the general idea. Lots of pretty people getting high on a legally santioned drug. The usual, in other words
• Food -- free buffet from 4 - 9pm, with plenty of decent stuff to munch on. Kick ass! There is also a restaurant attached, which features, I believe, mexican cuisine. Tex-mex, most likely. And lots of standard-fare appetizers. I didn't actually have a meal, though, so I can't yet give you the skinny on anything but the buffet
• Sound System & Lighting -- standard. The recorded music was handled better than the live sound (no surprise there), but in all cases it was nice and loud on the dancefloor, and you could still have a conversation on the sidelines without having to scream (although a raised voice was definitely necessary). The club is large enough that you can easily wander away from the dance area and find a nice place to sit and have a quiet conversation if that's your desire. The lighting and effects were all typical: fog machines, strobes, spots, etc. During the live sets there was little to no use of atmospheric effects or, more accurately, they weren't doing anything that I noticed while dancing; if it was there it was subtle
• Bar & Service -- After things got busy, somewhere close to 11pm, it became increasingly difficult to get a bartender's attention . . . but once on their radar the service was quick and friendly. The drinks were moderate to strong (though I tip well, and strength of drinks is directly proportional to size of tip), but I can't tell you how well they mix more difficult cocktails--I was just drinking simple Jack & Cokes. Though I wasn't ordering through any of the waitresses, they seemed to be wandering about frequently and were pretty attentive. There are also beer tubs set up in a couple of places throughout the club so you can get your drinks quickly and easily if you want beer or featured shots
• Location, Parking, etc -- Carson's is super easy to locate, there is a lot of parking, at least before 9:30pm, and the valet service is $3 if you get there late or just don't wanna mess with it

The strangest feature of the unfolding evening is the ebb and flow of Latin vs. Club dancers. The dancefloor was always full, but the folks on it were sharply divided. During the live sets, all the salseros were out on the floor. During the intermissions, the barflies poured out onto the floor (with drinks and cigarettes, as previously mentioned) and engaged in some kind vaguely dance-like activity. The band would then take the stage again . . . barflies returned to the bar, salseros returned to the dancefloor. Back and forth and back and forth.

Thus far, Carson's Latin Night gets a big thumbs up.

Check it out.

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

The Sirens

Say what you want, but Latin dance is DEFINITELY located somewhere near the center of the universe. For the first time ever, Your Exhalted Purveyor of Gyrational Antics had the good fortune to come within a few lightyears of that center, and to gaze upon it with His Own Eyes. All thanks to a gaggle of Ragingly Talented Beauties.

WooooHOOOOOO!!!!!

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My beloved PseudoGift was unable to attend this evening (she had, let's say . . . errrrrrrr . . . "pressing" engagements elsewhere. Uh huh. Can you spell "Euphemism?" E-U-P-H-E-M-I-S-M. Euphemism.), so I was forced to continue living by my new vow: to dance with the unattainable, the talented, the beautiful, the excellent. And boy did I ever! I danced (shut up, Denise!) with Shelly (one Merengue and a Salsa) . . . and my GOD how amazing this woman is! We had a nice get acquainted discussion out on the floor, and, it seems to me, at least, that I fared well enough with my limited repertoire for her to dance with me again. Boooya! The nicest thing she had to say to me (and she said quite a few encouraging things) was that she loved to watch SistrahSuplex and I dance, because we so obviously were having a wonderful time, were so in love with the music, and so enjoyed one another's company. All true enough, but it's an incredible feeling to know that it comes across to people who are casually observing us from the sidelines . . . particularly when they can dance the way Shelly can dance.

I also danced with Beate, a friend of Ramiro's and a champion competition dancer of (May The Force Forgive Me) West Coast Swing. It is such a strange thing to dance with so many women who are all so good, yet who all follow so differently. Beate never anticipated at all. Ever. But she would read the most infinitesimally minute signal in a heartbeat, and react intensely . . . though not always as I intended. From her I learned again that one must not only lead the beginning of a move or combination, but the entire thing. This would seem obvious, but isn't always necessary when one dances with folks from one's own class . . . people learning the same moves as oneself are prone to anticipating one's intentions unambiguously and hence "correctly." This yields the false impression that one has mastered a move that one, in point of fact, barely knows.

Now drenched with sweat (as per usual), I was standing near my table, guzzling water and dancing in place when The Gift reared its no-longer-very-ugly head. Having been observed (apparently) on the dancefloor thus far in the evening, I was asked to dance a Merengue by the delightful Anna. I have met Anna a couple of times and danced with her only once, during Ramiro's Intermediate class some Sunday a few weeks back. But that was Salsa, and Anna had asked me to dance a Merengue. Let me make clear that I love dancing Merengue, although it's considered to be a "lesser" dance by many Salsa-snobs (it is a very easy dance, technically speaking). Let me clarify further that I have danced it with many partners who are wonderful fun on Merengues. But Anna is the Queen, Dear Readers. The Empress. And if I do say so myself we made an INCREDIBLE pair. This is not due to technical prowess (which I do not possess), but due to the simple facts of showmanship and joy. Anna and I barely know one another, but we had instant chemistry on the dancefloor. We hammed it up: we played coy; we played hard to get; we played gentile; we played predator and prey; we played lovers; we played enemies . . . and we did it all over the course of a simple Merengue. I had more fun than should be allowed by law (coming off the dancefloor, I told Beate "that was too much fun!" She sternly corrected me, smiling: "Never too much, my friend. Never too much."), and more than MAY be allowed by law under the infernal Patriot Act. But no politics this evening, folks. Just fun. Lots of it. Tons of it. And endless props to Anna. Many thanks, too. With Princess Anna I also had the fortune to dance Salsa and Bachata, but it was Merengue that took center stage with this beautiful and charismatic young woman.

Thank you, Anna!

Anna arrived with, and was seated next to, the monstrously talented Rene. After our Merengue performances I was bold enough to finally ask Rene to dance. For me, this is a BIG deal. The very first Intermediate lesson I attended with Ramiro's sunday group found me dancing with Rene. Oh my god. The poor woman! Though she always sez "hi," I've never even CONSIDERED asking her to dance since that first time . . . . But finally, tonight, I was ready to do so. And she would have, but my timing sucked. She had hurt her foot a couple of songs previously and did not dance again for the rest of the evening. I did extract a raincheck . . . which I will be careful to redeem when I'm not having an off night.

Enough said for now. What an incredible evening.

Your Uppity Dood,

---the PseudoMeister

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (1)

DQ Dood

The second weekly Drag Queen Mud Wrestling event was a wonderful success. Many thanks to all who showed up to help celebrate the Pseudo-Latino's preliminary Pseudo-Birthday bash. My presents included some profoundly sexy knee-high platform-heel go-go boots, fake eyelashes, and thigh-high stockings with seams and a built-in garter belt. Yup. You read that correctly. My costume for this weekend is now nearly complete, and all the folks at Cafe Brazil thought I was the BOMB in my new boots. Special thanks to Rashelle for offering to do my make-up this coming Saturday.

As my wait/ress at Cafe Brazil sez: Don't hate, girls . . . APPRECIATE.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Denny's. Denise. D'knees.

In which Mini-Burgers are merged with a Videogame Classic, an ass exerts gravitational forces, I find myself permanently ensconced in a No-spin zone, and a Dickhead doesn't show up when we finally need him.

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Yet another lesson, as frustrating as ever. We reviewed

• La Capa
• the Butterfly
• the Slingshot
• Crossbody Leads with an inside turn

And I asked to learn basic spinning techniques for myself. New things:

• single right hand spin
• double right hand spin
• Windmill (a nice move to spin the girls who like to be spun . . . which is most of 'em, frankly)

I spin about as well as our current President formulates grammatically correct sentences, if that gives you any indication of how THAT portion of my lesson unfolded.

After the lesson I went home, attempted to practice a bit before SistrahSuplex arrived in an outfit that looked fantastic, despite someone's (hint: it wasn't me, and there were only two people present) claims that it made her ass look as though it might perhaps possess its own gravitational field. I later determined that she may have been correct in her assessment, since she (once again) was hit upon by damned near every guy in the place. PG's posterior being as it may or may not have been, the evening was otherwise decent. I danced like tepid dogshit, but managed to have a good time nonetheless. During Ratbastardo's free lesson, there were two hootchie-mamas who couldn't keep their pieholes shut . . . and I thought King Nitpick was gonna go postal. I can honestly say that it would have been nice if Della Serra had shown up to take them off of everyone's hands . . . but no. The one time you need the utterly despicable freak of nature to attend, he's at home; most likely mincing newly dismembered torsos for storage in his standalone freezer.

Too bad.

Things must have gone better than they seemed to me at the time, because we stayed until very nearly 2am . . . heading out to Denny's--half lit--to eat some grub in the company of (how doo yew say zees werd een English? Oh yayce: ) whores (none of whom had a butt which could compare to Sistrah's . . . but I digress). I will divulge one little idiosyncracy of my dance partner: when drunk, she likes to PRETEND THAT HER MINI-BURGERS ARE PACMAN, and draw lines through the air with them while making "Bweep bweep bweep" sounds and bursting into spontaneous fits of giggling. True story.

"Bweep Bweep Bweep!" said the Pacman burgers, flying majestically through the rarefied Denny's air.

*giggle . . . giggle giggle* said Denise.

"OooooooKAAAAAYYYYYY" sez the Pseudo-Latino, asking for the check and a straightjacket.

I couldn't make this shit up, folks. Really. It happened . . . just like I said. And we survived it. And made it home. And it was good.

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

Revivification Attempts Fail Miserably

Carson's was great. I wasn't. Not that I didn't dance reasonably well, but last night's unexpected Attack Of The Killer Mini-Burgers (not to mention the strength required to fight off a certain . . . ummmm . . . gravitationally intense Stellar Body. *cough*) sapped all my energy, and more than a few of my already scarce brain cells. So I had to make due with short-but-sweet.

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The second weekly installment of Carson's Latin Night was again a success, though I was exhausted (read: still slightly hungover) from last night's dance-a-thon and Pacman Mini-Burger fiasco. Once again the charming and enthusiastic Lynette was present, and I did most of my dancing with her. She was patient as I attempted to iron out La Capa (first time I've ever tried it on the dancefloor), and we found a nice spot off to the side of the club to work out the Butterfly, which we pulled off reasonably well. Lynette is great fun to dance with because she doesn't mind trying to learn new things, teaching ME new things, or suffering through any ad-libbing that I might feel comfortable enough to try in her presence.

Not even the great music, the wonderful Lynette, and a couple of Red Bulls--all working together towards my cultural empowerment--were able to pull me out of my nearly comatose condition, though, so I dragged my tired ass off to home and bed near the end of the band's second set.

Kirsten Dunst was there again, and I learned that MJ is actually a promoter who works for Carson's . . . and that she's the one who made this whole thing happen. Excellent. Props to Kirsten aka Heather!

Next week I'm going to show up for Thursday's festivities well-rested.

No. Really. I MEAN it!

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

Cad the Impaler

In which The Meister of Mischief visits a Nail Salon, women experience full penetration on the dancefloor, SalsaPassion has a bone to pick, and Stratos gets (once again), a thumbs up.

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First of all, I have to tell you folks: it ain't easy to lead with long, hard, thick . . . artificial nails. We're not talkin' Lee Press Ons here, either. We're talking 45 minutes in a Nail Salon getting sliced, glued and contorted by a severe, impersonal Korean woman with a dust mask over her face. We're talking deep black, thick nails with a single, glimmering clear rhinestone on each finger. Hot. Maybe a bit too Goth, but . . . hot nonetheless. This unless you happened to be one of the innocent women whose palms I was impaling on a regular basis. Full penetration, folks. No lube. No reacharound. No cuddling afterwards. Just lots of "ouch!" Ladies making fully formed grimaces. Bad juju. Etc. Etc. I was, though unintentionally, a total CAD. Probably this whole affair could have been turned into an excellent learning experience for The Salsa Pretender ("that's what happens when you don't use proper hand technique, you freakin' WANNABE!"), but . . . nah. Not tonight. I just wanted to DANCE, and I couldn't really do it because I was too worried about hurting folks. Here's hoping that tomorrow night's Block Party will be worth all this suffering in the name of Beauty.

I did stay late enough to watch SalsaPassion's performance, in preparation for their upcoming trip to compete at the San Francisco Salsa Congress. I didn' t really know what to expect, but Joel and Jessica did a great job (and you, too, Master Yoda). Their routine involved Cavemen outfits and lots of Cavemen and Cavewomen fighting over a large plastic bone. Sounds goofy, I guess, but it worked.

Attending to my never-ending responsibilities as Intrepid Reporter, I should say that Stratos has now been a reliably wonderful place to dance for 7 weeks running. No exceptions. Although things don't usually pick up until after 10pm, there are always lots of good folks to dance with and lots of good music, even though the DJ . . . well, you know by now what I think of the DJ.

Highly recommended by Yours Truly.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM