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She Scoffs at Goffs
Although I'm working hard at my newfound Pseudo-Latino role, I have for too many years been an explorer . . . a cultural wanderer, sampling the esoteric, the eccentric, the idiosyncratic, and the gloriously bad. Since arriving in Dallas, I've had precious little opportunity to fulfill the Odyssean cravings of my Psyche. One of the rare exceptions to this experiential paucity occurred utterly by accident, when I went to sign the lease on my current abode.
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Arriving a bit early for my appointment, I wandered into a strange little burger shop on Lover's Lane sporting a statue of Lenin in front of its 1940's, converted gas-station frame. That shop was Goffs, and I was thrilled with the old-timer clientele, the rude, obnoxious "host," and the odd collection of unclassifiably political paraphenalia strewn about the establishment. My approval rating went up even further when I discovered that the bathrooms were . . . well . . . "out back." The burgers are perfectly yummy, and they still serve coke from bottles. Goat bless America!
Goffs Charcoal Hamburgers
5702 West Lovers Lane
Dallas, TX 75209 - (214) 351-3336
I have since visited this establishment a handfull of times, and have never been disappointed by its atmosphere and its quirky, belligerent originality. Today, I must say, was no exception.
On my way to pay my November rent, I took my lunch companion--none other than the Princess of Priss herself, aka The PseudoGift aka SistrahSuplex aka Nurse Petty . . . ummm . . . Betty--for a quick bite to eat at Goffs. This turned out to be WAY more fun than any Pseudo-Latino could ever DREAM of having with a dance partner . . . because . . . you see . . . the PG is a bit of a . . . well . . . kind of a GERM freak. And Goffs is not one of those places where they autoclave their forearms and wear latex gloves before they touch your food. More than that, it's not (as I said before) one of those places where the bathrooms are . . . ummmm . . . indoors. It was a GAS STATION fer chrissakes! So poor lil Denise decides, upon entering Goffs, that she needs to relieve herself (of her earthly burdens or a full bladder remains unclear to Yours Truly . . . I only know she felt need to do said unburdening in the "ladies room"). Ooops. I found myself in the unfortunate position of having to inform Mrs. Melvin Udall that she would have to find it within herself to perch upon a porcelain precipice which could, perhaps, be serving as host to a veritable smorgasbord of biological bounty.
The look of horror on the PG's countenance was unparalleled. Unsurpassable.
Slowly, I was able to coax her out back and around the corner (in between fits of difficult to stifle laughter) where--it turns out--the bathroom lightbulb is not working, either. Try to imagine Yours Truly, back to the door, attempting--through gut-wrenching guffaws--to hold it open a tiny crack so that the PG can see what she is or is not sitting upon as she turns the water up full force, tells me "not to listen" and emits an occasional "EWWWW!" or "ICK!" or "You are SOOOOOOOO DEAD!" This was how my dinner began. To her credit, I think she had completed her assignment in what must have been world record time. Seconds, at most. I can't be sure because the running water made it impossible to time anything with precision.
:)
The rest of the meal was uneventful, except for the "host" asking her--with extreme condescension--whether she would like her spoon "sanitized" or not. I'm not sure what was said after that, because I was laughing so hard I couldn't hear anything.
Thank you Goffs, and thank you Sistrah, for a joyful, wonderful, marvelous, magnificent lunch. I was so inspired by our little outing that I had to compose a quick poem (pronounce it as snootily as you can, so that it sounds like "pome") for my diminutive pal:
Ode to Denise
(you can thank me later)
There was a little hottie
who ate burgers made by Goff
She sat upon their toilet
and caught a nasty cough
Her spoon it was not sterile
her burger oozed with grease
her chair it wasn't level
her Highness was not pleased
While Lenin looked upon her
and Saddam Hussein, too
she fretted and she worried
she did not know what to do
Her normal world in tatters
she jumped and then she jittered
she found it far too dirty
she found it far too littered
The waiter was "too rude" now
and ran a sloppy kitchen
first one thing then another
my beloved friend was bitchin'
Through all of this I'm laughing
and joy was in my heart
for rare 'tis to see a damsel
behave like such a tart
We both ate all our burgers
(more truly, she ate mine)
then quickly left the building
to quell her ceaseless whine
though scarcely did she know it
her life bloomed in subtle ways
by dining with Prince Charming
one ketchup-free Tuesday
---The Pseudo-Poet aka The Pseudo-Latino aka Bobby Joe Buckmeister
Posted by earwicker at 03:31 PM | Comments (1)
The Master and Margaritas Minions
In which Multitudes gather to worship the Pseudo-Latino (or something like that), Latin Fire! has a VERY bad night, and a couple of local Salseros win an unexpected trip to the Bahamas.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::I showed up at Carson's tonight with LUUUUUUV in my heart, ready to dance my little face off after a 3-day hiatus. Motoring up to the club around 8:30pm, imagine my surprise as I pull into a parking lot stuffed far beyond capacity. Cars parked in double and triple rows, with a long line of vehicles waiting motionlessly for Valet services. I recalled that this evening was slated as a fund-raising Happy Hour for the Dallas Margarita Society. After finding a frantic Valet and verifying that there would, indeed, be Salsa this evening, I queued up and headed inside. By 9:00pm there were over 900 people on site.
900 people.
In any other venue, this would have meant the situation was undanceable, but Carson's is huge and, although the bar area gave me flashbacks of past New Year's Eves spent on Times Square, the dancefloor and seating areas remained surprisingly usable.
I walked in halfway through Ramiro's Lesson, which involved about 12 couples. The women were rotated so that every leader got to dance with every follower (this is the politically correct way of saying that all the guys got to dance with all the girls). While I know full well that I'm not a beginner any longer--I'd say I'm a solid intermediate with a still-limited repertoire--this rotation was a nice indication of precisely how far I've come in the last 3 months. I got lots of "oh!"s and "wow!"s from the women as they reached me in the line ("YOU know what you're doing!"). Although they were total beginners, and it didn't take much to impress them, I still got warm fuzzies. So there!
Having made this point, I also have to admit that my dancing still felt a bit off. Not as bad as last weekend, but it nonetheless seemed to me that I was boring my with my limited combination count. With Salsa, at least. With Merengue I've pretty much gotten to the point where I always feel comfortable on the dancefloor (well . . . when I'm not wearing long, rhinestone-studded artificial nails, anyway). Contributing to my kinetic malaise was Latin Fire!, which was having a pretty intense off-night. Really, truly OFF. In all fairness, this may have been due to technical difficulties with the sound system, as the singing was often very out of tune . . . something that often happens when the band isn't getting a suitable mix in their monitor speakers (this basically means they have to sing/play without being able to hear either themselves or their bandmates adequately, if at all). Whatever the reason, they were also having issues within the percussion section, and the usually implacable unfolding of the pulse was often very fuzzy and confusing out on the floor.
The big saving grace for the evening was the presence of Lovely Lynette. I danced with her probably 80% of the time, and I can always relax when she is my partner on the floor. Why? Because she--like me--is always out to have fun, to practice, and to learn . . . and one never has the impression that she'd rather be elsewhere or that one isn't "good enough" to be wasting her time with imperfect technique . . . or whatever. Thanks to her presence, I eventually just forgot about the flaws and danced . . . having a gay ol' time until heading home around 1:00 am for Pseudo-Latino World HQ and the warm, inviting bed of the Pseudo-Latino himself (which is to say, MY bed).
At some point (during the band's second set, I think) there was a Salsa competition, which hadn't been announced and so took everybody by surprise. This wouldn't be such a big thing if it had been the usual free dinner or $150 prize, but this wasn't: it was a trip to the BAHAMAS. Eh??!?! An unannounced competition with a REAL prize? Not very good promotion, if you ask me, but still very cool. I don't know the names of the winners, though I know both of them by sight. They are associated with the Guajiro Dance Co (they're the second couple from the right in the photo, at least at the time of this posting). There were several instructors there, and I was happy to see that they all sat out the competition to give the rank and file dancers a chance to grab the brass ring. Which grab they did. Congrats to the winners.
And thanks to Kirsten "Heather" Dunst for making this whole North Dallas/Carson's thing happen. She has done a fantastic job, informing me excitedly that we Salsoids can definitely expect at least a three-month run before the club re-evaluates their Thursday evening programming.
Excellent.
I'd also like to give props to the Carson's bartenders. I've only been to this place 3 times, and these folks serve hundreds and hundreds of customers each week (as in 900 tonight alone, remember?). Yet both of the bartenders who've served me not only remembered ME, and my NAME, they remembered my drink of choice. That ain't no small feat, yo.
Verdict: even when it's amazingly crowded, Carson's still makes the grade. Drag your ass out some Thursday night and join us.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Monster. Merengue. Moron.
In which Your Rightfully-Adored Manifestation of Wonderfulness is persecuted for sins he didn't commit in a previous life he didn't live; a DJ proves his family tree doesn't branch; we learn that America's Date-Raped Men are "screwed for life"; The Merengue Meister hits his stride; a Sweet Sixteen has cause to preen and a waitress performs service above and beyond the call of duty (and no, I don't mean THAT, you naughty little pervs).
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Having worked out the kinks last night at Carson's, Yours Truly was back in form at the ever-wonderful Stratos. This was a fantastic evening. I once again arrived in the midst of Ramiro's free lesson (having stopped by . . . well . . . errrr . . . a KENNETH COLE store on my way into town. The fashion slut strikes again!), and jumped in just in time to do the "with partner" portion of the instruction. My partner this evening was a charming woman who was there to chaperone a gaggle of sixteen-year-olds there to celebrate one young lady's Sweet Sixteen. Having decided that I was a patient and competent leader, she implored me to dance at least once with the Guest of Honor . . . which I did some time later, selecting a moderately fast Merengue--which I correctly assumed would be more fun for my partner because I could lead her through a number of difficult-seeming twists and pretzels and turns without her having to think about her feet. The Pseudo-Latino definitely did his good deed for the day, because by the end of the song the young lady was beaming and gushing while her friends applauded and cheered her obvious talent. I, too, was smiling (though inwardly) for I had finally, at long long last, been unambiguously successful at making my partner look good (even if it was only to a throng of ungainly mid-teens and their adoring parents)!
To stay on the topic of Merengue for a minute, my abilities in this regard have progressed enough that I am comfortable dancing with virtually anyone; confident that I can hold my own and show my partner a good time. One of the coolest things about Merengue is that you can practice new and difficult armwork from your Salsa combinations without having to worry about your feet (of course this is a BAD thing if you don't take the time later to synchronize the two, and is something I see a lot of on the dancefloors of DFW: at first glance I see a guy I think is really really good--leading his partner through all kinds of tricky combinations with what appears to be grace. Then the sea of dancers parts and I get a look at Mr. Rico Suave's lower body, only to discover that his feet are virtually immobile during these passages. He's faking it!). For me, at this point, the greatest thing about it is that I can dance it with attitude, something I discovered only recently, dancing with the quintessentially fantabulous Anna (Anna: whenever you finally read this, gracias! You're too much fun for your own good.)
Tonight's Merengue Hit was the mild-mannered real estate mogul Cyndia, long-time friend of Ratbastardo and recent acquaintance of the Pseudo-Latino. Cyndia and I have danced several times, primarily Salsa and generally when Yours Truly was underperforming (sorry about that Cyndarina!) Tonight was different, though. Grace, attitude, laughter, and lots of involuntary smiling. As a neophyte dancer I can tell you that it is a rare yet life-sustaining treat to receive a look of pleasant surprise from one's partner . . . I got that tonight from Cyndia. It makes the off-nights MUCH easier to take and reminds one, despite all the intervening frustrations, that progress is indeed being made, however slight or slow.
Enough of the mushy stuff, eh? Back to the (Weekly World) News.
[Sorry to do this, but one last interruption. At the time I inserted the preceding link to the WWN, the headline was, in my not so humble opinion, an all-time WWN classic: Tragedy of America's Date-Raped Men. Forced into the sack by horny women, these men are screwed for life... Say what you will about the inbred, lonely housewives and paranoid Militiamen who buy the WWN and believe what they read, but the writers are often BRILLIANT. In the same issue, under Breaking News: MOST POODLES ARE GAY!!; TED KENNEDY GIVES FREE DRIVING LESSONS TO POOR TEENS! Or, in the Religion section: POPE'S NAUGHTY SECRET. Pope John Paul II keeps a pair of Mother Teresa's unwashed panties in his robe pocket as a sacred good-luck talisman, say Vatican sources in Rome. PREACHER PLANS TO RECORD RAP VERSION OF BIBLE. Reverend says God wants Snoop dogg for hip-hop vocals. Fantastic. ]
Ok. Moving right along. I've mentioned Luis Delgadillo in previous articles. He's one of the more established instructors in DFW, and is responsible for salsaDallas.com. I've seen him on many occasions, but have never spoken with him before this evening, when he asked my name and gave me a flyer about some upcoming performances by his Guajiro Dance Company, as well as some other groups. Fine. I'll go. The man can dance. But Luis . . . just a thought . . . maybe when you're meeting someone for the first time, even a charming, handsome, and lusty guy like me (hah!), it'd be a good idea to refrain from expressing--in your first sentence to said someone--that you're gonna bolt from Stratos immediately following your self-promotional activities because Gloria's is where all the hot babes are. I'd suggest, in particular, that you don't really need to hold your hands out in front of your chest in the universal symbol for "big tits" while uttering said expression. Just a thought. Take it or leave it.
Along with Luis (who did, indeed, leave for Gloria's very early in the evening), the usual crowd was there. The house was full and the dancers good. Lynette made her first return to Stratos in six weeks. Good Lynette. Nice Lynette. Fun Lynette. Cyndia's friend and recent addition to the Sunday Ramiro group class, Travis, was also there . . . and I'm still not sure if he moved from his spot at the table at all during the evening. Despite numerous exhortations, I think Travis was probably an instance of Quercus alba in his previous life and simply sprouted roots, unbeknownst to the rest of us. Next time Travis, we're bringing an axe and root-killer, so you'd better be ready to dance, m'k??? Alles klar? Ja? Good. And speaking of axes . . .
Having just finished dancing a complete set of Merengues (in other words "exhausted and soaking wet"), I returned to my table, sat down, and tried once again to smoke a cigarette I had been nursing most of the night. After about two drags, I looked off to my left to see a woman, wearing way too much make-up and dressed in bright red, standing about 3 feet away from me with a blank smile on her face and staring right at me. Intently. I smiled back innocuously and returned to my cigarette (long, slow drag). This had happened one other time, earlier in the evening. That time I had just turned away and waited. When I had turned back around, she was gone. This time no such luck. I glanced back and she was still there. Still staring. This time, as I look, she asks me
"My name is Christina, and I'm wondering: are you here with anyone?"
Hmmmmmm. OKAAAY. At this point I'm thinking that the PseudoGift is going to have her little dwarven neck wrung next time I see her. And she will, just FYI.
Another long, slow drag as I contemplate my response.
"Well . . . no. Not actually. I'm just here to dance." Harmless enough response, I think.
"Why YES! I'd LOVE to!" comes the reply, through the vacuous, vacant, blank smile-stare.
At this point I'm thinking I must've misunderstood her. Where I had heard "My name is Christina" clearly what she had said was "My name is Aileen Wuornos and I am about to stalk and kill you." Just great. I'm too young to die at the hands of some horny Tammy Faye Bakker wannabe, goddammit! I inform Aileen that I need to take this break, and would like to finish, at long last, my cigarette. Tammy Faye's face clouds up, her stare turned into a glare, and Yours Truly silently wonders if his affairs are suitably in order. She sez:
"Fine. I'm going to go get some food at the Sushi Bar, but I'll be back."
*gulp*
Ok . . . so Tammy Faye Wuornos loves Sushi and wants a piece of the SalsaPretender's Carnal Conga. Words fail me. I inform Cyndia, Lynette, and Travis that I may turn up missing sometime soon, and point out for their delectation and amusement the visage of our resident Joan Wayne Gacy . . . just so the police will have a lead in my case. Fan-fucking-tastic. You'd think I sinned in a previous lifetime, but no: I've always been as pure as the driven snow. In EACH of my 37.68 lifetimes. And you, Dear Readers, are fully aware of this statement's veracity. Right? Right.
Anyway, as I was sitting there, consumed by fear and trembling, my friendly neighborhood waitress, Alma, stopped by to see if I had everything I needed. "Actually," I said, "I was wondering when YOU were going to dance with me."
"How 'bout now?" she responds, "Although I'm not really very good. I'm just learning."
"Just learning is perfect," I assure her. "I'm just learning, too. And . . . well . . . there's also the small matter of trying to escape an evangelistic prostitute with serial killer tendencies and bad make-up."
Alma seemed a bit concerned about this latter, but we danced nonetheless. And you dance quite well for a beginner, Alma. Thanks for saving my life (hopefully she doesn't stalk YOU for stealing "her man." If so, I apologize in advance to your friends and family . . . and promise to attend the memorial services)!
The rest of the evening was uneventful, and was on the front porch cooling off with Lynette when we actually witnessed Ms. Wuornos being taken away in a drunken stupor by some young woman who appeared to be her friend (or . . . perhaps her lesbian tag-along Selby Wall?) Time will tell.
One final note: if possible, the DJ is getting even worse. This miserable, idiotic, brain-dead excuse for a disc-spinner was universally pissing off the crowd tonight with is anti-musical crossfades and general stupidity and incompetence. Stratos manager, take note: we're about to riot! Either get rid of this fucknut or teach him the difference between a 3:2 clave and his right testicle . . . cuz at the moment he's a bit confused, playing with one when he should be concerned with the consistency of the other.
Most Sincerely,
Your Purveyor of Platitudes and Pleasantries,
---the Pseudo-Latino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Color Wheel
In a fit of intense and clearly brilliant cultural observation, The Pseudo-Latino notices that people come in different COLORS and that they often stay TOGETHER with folks of the same, or similar, color. While scratching his head over this silly phenomenon, he dances Merengue, brings about World Peace, elects himself King of Mauritania and--of particular interest to Unix users--comes to know an hermaphroditic Wildebeest in a biblical sense.
Well, maybe I'm making up the thing about the Wildebeest . . . but the rest of it? Gospel truth, man. Gospel truth.
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Perhaps as a result of last night's Attack of the serial-Killer Tomato, I went on a pre-noon adventure to the local mall to exorcise my demons and to exercise my rights as a spoiled, overly-prosperous American. I headed straight to the Kenneth Cole store to pick up some excellent shoes I had found last night and proceeded to drop way too much money into Mr. Cole's coffers. Waaaaaaay too much. But hey . . . I freely admit that I don't want to be wearing the same clothes night after night when I'm out dancing with all of you beautiful and talented ladies. I mean, c'mon . . . . My momma didn't raise no fool. I need to distract you from my gray hairs and bad dancing somehow, don't I?
After a relaxing afternoon curled up on the couch reading and expanding my tiny little barely-functioning brian, I made up my mind to spend the evening at Al-Amir (I actually received a call from Elsa, who seemed to've been kidnapped by Rastafarian Aliens (if that isn't redundant) until she scheduled a trip to El Tren Latino with Yours Truly for this very night. Naturally I didn't hold my breath, which is a good thing as she called me around 5:30pm to cancel. Uh huh. Right.) My little fashion extravaganza allowed me to show up stylin' to Joel and Jessica's lesson, somewhere around 10:00pm. Roughly. Their lessons are vastly different than Ramiro's, are lots of fun, and are led by two of the warmest, friendliest folks on the DFW Salsa scene. You can't help but like 'em both. As in wannaPinchemOnTheCheeks like'em. Al-Amir was hopping by about 11:15 . . . and the floor was rather crowded, though still danceable. My Salsic (it's a word if I SAY it is, yo) confidence level plummets a bit when I'm in the midst of people who are mostly strangers to me, and so I stuck primarily to Merengue, which I will now--as I've said previously--dance with anyone on the planet without fear or trepidation.
I spent some time this evening wandering about the club, which has a very unusual mix of people, most of whom seem to be rather cliquish. Going out of my way to be as politically incorrect as possible, there were "the browns," which broke down further into Latinos and various Middle- and Near-Eastern varieties (the club is touted as Lebanese), "the yellows," which on this occasion broke down into Korean, Japanese, and Vietnamese (that I noticed), of course there were "the blacks" and "the whites"--both in their usual, generic, american forms. I looked for "the greens," but they're all up in Alaska protesting something . . . and for "the blues," but they were hanging out at the Adult Megaplex at the corner of LBJ and Harry Heines. There is one additional group of folks, drawn primarily from "the whites" (both male and female). For lack of a better or more tactful term, I'll call these folks "brown-chasers," and their primary characteristic is an overwhelming fascination with brown members of the opposite sex. This applied less to Hispanic browns than their mid- and near-eastern counterparts. And I spoke to at least one guy ("I'm Persian," was all he'd say about his origins, though I hadn't even asked for THAT much) who was there primarily to take advantage of blonde-haired brown-chasers, which I suppose means my observation has some basis in reality, no?
Salsa-wise, the dancers came largely from the SalsaPassion circle, naturally including Master Yoda (who showed me a nice little turn with a heel-slap on 4). Similarly to my last visit, there were a good many excellent dancers in the house, but I don't know if this is really MY place for Saturdays or not. I'm still not at the level of the folks I'd like to dance with, and don't know them well enough to dance with them in "learning" mode. At least not enjoyably. There seem to be mostly bad or excellent dancers, with only a couple of hard-to-identify intermediates. Being an intermediate myself, I prefer to be in a group with a few more of my peers.
Don't get me wrong here, though . . . if you're either advanced or a beginner, Al-Amir is definitely a good place to be. And their Tabouli kicks ass, too.
Just FYI.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Love Boat Out 2 C: Leaves U N Me
In which Captain Stubing skips town, Master Yoda and Famke Janssen (perhaps growing weary of My Threadbare Repertoire?) conspire to force a modicum of improvement down my wannabe's throat, and I present two potential methods by which unsuspecting-yet-put-upon women can repel the advances of the Notorious Vagabond and Complete Idiot, Emiliano Della Serra.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::This weekend Ramiro was off playing Captain Stubing on some cruise or another, so there were no group lessons this evening and--as a byproduct thereof--a greatly-reduced crowd at Monica's. Things started slow. Very very slow. I warmed up (big surprise here) with a few Merengues . . . partially because there were virtually no Salsa dancers in the crowd and Merengue is a tried and true way to get beginners on the dancefloor. Partially cuz I can be a big chickenshit from time to time. No. Really. I don't kid about such things. Ever. Della Serra was there and I pointedly didn't speak to him and looked away whenever he attempted to make eye contact. Freak of nature. And of course the pondscum was up to his usual tricks. God help you ladies if he sets his sights on you. In my effort to provide useful and timely information to my beloved Readers, may I suggest simply spitting on his face as he approaches? I'm pretty sure such a gesture would penetrate even HIS intense Field of Defensive Oblivion. No promises, but it's a nice, non-violent alternative to the 100% effective dropkick in the groin.
Either one is fine with ME, however.
Aside from being very slow and quiet, the night was otherwise unremarkable, or ALMOST unremarkable, I should say. It was made wondrous by the appearance of the beautiful Lechme. Funny thing: I asked her to dance early in the evening without even realizing it was her! I had asked some random woman standing next to me if she would like to dance to the current Merengue. "No, sorry," comes the reply. Fine. I saw a lone woman in black, looking sexily studious in black-rimmed glasses near the end of the counter; she was watching the dancefloor intently. Only after I asked her to dance, and she said "hi!" in a very familiar way did I notice that I had just approached Lechme aka Famke Janssen (who I've not seen in a while and always miss when she's not present). We danced the Merengue, which I--for one--enjoyed tremendously. It was my first dance with her, though I've known her for a while now. Awesome.
Master Yoda was also there, and during the band break he and Lechme danced non-stop for about 30 minutes. I watched, and tried to sort out a couple of moves Jay was busting. To no avail. So when they headed outside to cool off, I followed, and asked him about a couple of the combinations. And then things got interesting. Lechme and I stood in front of Monica's, along with a gaggle of passersby and smokers (Monica's is a no-smoking establishment, so all the smokers congregate on the front sidewalk), slowly rehearsing three combinations, two moderately easy and one quite difficult . . . at least for me . . . as Master Yoda clarified this Grasshopper's role in each. Under normal circumstances I would have abandoned the project almost right away, as we had a rather large audience, none of whom had anything better to do than watch our progress, and I didn't want to disappoint my partner with . . . well . . . with my profound ineptitude. Ms. Janssen would have none of that. She was very happy to repeat the combinations over and over and over, and remained extremely encouraging the whole time. Fantastic. Particularly when she was probably thinking something along the lines of "what in the HELL did I do to get stuck dancing with this guy during my break???" I never caught any indication of this sentiment, though. She and Yoda both were great. And--for what it's worth--the bystanders gave us a round of applause when I finally got one of the moves more or less right.
Anyway. Thanks for your help and encouragement guys. From the bottom of my black and hardened little heart.
When you finally read this, Famke, thank you most kindly. You are a wonderful dancer and patient teacher (or co-learner, or whatever), and I, your humble and awed Pseudo-Latino, look eagerly forward to dancing with you many times in the future.
Peace Out, Fellow Salsoids,
---Your Pseudo-Latino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Hi. My Name is Yours Truly, and I'm . . .
a Salsaholic.
It's time I admitted it. At this point it's become rather hard to deny, what with all the spontaneous spinning in elevators, in the cafeteria, or while walking down the hall (I can do 7 or 8 right turns easily before I start to feel a bit fuzzy), or even just standing in my cubicle. My coworkers don't seem to mind it too much--even during meetings (I like to spin while doing presentations at the whiteboard), and the folks at Starbucks (three different Starbucks, actually) simply ask me "how was dancing last night?" whenever I walk in the door . . . faithful readers of this column will already know I have a special fondness for dancing with Starbucks employees (Yo Elsa!). I dance with my massage therapist, waitresses, and--most recently--the girl who helped me try on shoes at Kenneth Cole.
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I dance with broomsticks, with Germans, with gay women and gay men, with sweatless genetic mutants, ripe avocados, a cardboard cut-out of Al Gore (not that one could tell the difference between that and the real thing), and once, by accident, with a wild goat named Ursula. (Nice teats, Ursula, but your hygiene leaves a bit to be desired). As if this isn't enough, I become easily obsessed with song after song after song (currently: Ya no hace falta by Bamboleo, from the album of the same name), go out dancing 5 nights every week and have a closet full of nice shoes I won't wear anymore because they don't have rubber-free soles and I, ipso facto, can't spin in them. I've started learning the women's (sorry, the FOLLOWER'S) parts in my intermediate class if we're doing things I already know how to lead comfortably (which reminds me . . . I also attend at least 2 classes and one private lesson every week), and, generally speaking, I practice compulsively: even tonight, when I have had virtually no sleep and am faced with an alarm which will rear its ugly head, or, rather, its ugly voice, at 3:45am, I have spent over an hour in front of the mirror practicing . . . part of my crusade to master a double right-hand spin (only a small hurdle on the way to a triple, har har . . . so bring on the meetings, folks, I need more time at the whiteboard!) Finally, and perhaps I should keep this to myself, I've been known from time to time to cry out, at the top of my lungs, that most venerable hispanic hortative, "VAYA!," during sexual intercourse, which could have been as horribly embarrassing as it sounds had my dates not been . . .
well . . .
errrrr . . .
ehhh . . .
ummmm . . . inflatable.
Yes. I said "inflatable."
But enough about THAT little episode (besides, I'm out of breath). Let's just blame it on the tequila, stop sending me those Watchtower reissues, and move on . . . m'k?
The important point here is that I'm hooked. Head over heels in love. Ga-fucking-ga. And I don't much care who knows it. I'm proud to be obsessed, and I want all of you fellow addicts out there to take heart: we're ok. Really . . . we are. Screw that whole "recovery" thing--just keep dragging your sorry little asses out onto the dancefloors of DFW (and LA and Houston and Chicago and Austin and and and) . . . Keep in mind, however, that if you take up any of MY space I'll stamp on your impertinent goddamned toes!
Got it?
Good.
And with that . . . it's good night, farewell, adieu, adios, auf wiedersehen, and/or whatever other partings you can think of--from Your Beloved Addict, Your Dealer of Danzón, Your Spinner and Whirler, Your Turner and Twirler, Your Luster-Afterer of All Things Latino,
Con Mucho Gusto,
---The Pseudo-Latino
ps
A special shout goes out from Pseudo-Latino World HQ to my beloved PseudoGift on this gorgeous day, just because I love her dearly and because she both needs and deserves one.
Mach's gut, mein Schatz!
Posted by earwicker at 09:09 PM
Routine Progress
It was a standard Wednesday at Sipango, sans Ramiro . . . who appears to still be out of town as he was not at the club and I was unable to contact him regarding my lesson (this is two weeks in a row without private instruction: a first since I started dancing July 30th). The evening started slowly, but was thoroughly crowded by about 11pm . . . all of the usual suspects were present and accounted for. From the point of view of Yours Truly, there is not too much to tell: I danced primarily with Sherry and with Anna, and further tested my confidence--regarding Merengue--by asking several random women to dance.
Good times.
Note to Women: Della Serra seems to be back at 100%, harrassing the uninitiated (and Chris) and nauseating the regulars. If you see this guy . . . RUN! He's absolutely incapable of dancing, he's arhythmic, talentless, lecherous, ugly, completely stupid, and probably keeps himself amused by lighting cats on fire and watching them burn to death. Bad news, no matter how you slice it.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
MJ's Merengue & Other Oddities
I think I can safely report that Carson's is a reliable, exciting, and worthwhile destination for thursday-evening dancing. After four successive weeks, it can't be a temporary fluke. Can it? Latin Fire! was back on track, after last weeks difficulties, and Yours Truly displayed record levels of testicular fortitude in his partner choices. I admit (freely. . . on a stack of Sears and Roebuck Xmas catalogs) that I had this confidence only with Merengue . . . but nevertheless.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::I danced once again with Kirsten Dunst, for the first time since she asked me to dance all those eons ago. That was less than a month into my Education, and I sucked. We're talking Black Hole suckage. Awful. Terrible. This time we were dancing Merengue, and I didn't suck.
Not at all.
"You've gotten very good at Merengue!" she sez, surprised.
I smile, and lead her through some other combination. She tries to finish the combination the way she knows it, instead of the way I'm leading it. I thwart her attempt, and we exchange a knowing glance. She smiles,
"I guess I really should let YOU drive, eh?"
I just smile again, and keep dancing . . . thinking: cool. I'm making up for past transgressions. Peter Parker is back on MJ's radar. If not exactly impressed, she's at least pleasantly surprised . . . and for today "pleasantly surprised" is good enough.
As if that one minor personal victory wasn't enough, I also asked Janice (not sure about her name. Sorry. I had more important concerns at the time) to dance. Janice is the girl who won the Salsa competition here exactly one week ago. So yeah, she's good. REALLY good. To my surprise, she agreed, though she did so with a skeptical look on her face, and proceeded to test me throughout the dance . . . and to do so openly; it was a challenge. Without ever saying a word, she was saying: "Let's see whatcha got, pal!" Janice has style and attitude in spades, and is absolutely not afraid to display either. She followed perfectly, but would occasionally try to backlead, or to force me into certain combinations . . . in my opinion this was also a test: would I let her lead, or keep control of the dance? Instead of doing one or the other, I did some of both . . . but I made it a game, and I let her know that I KNEW what she was doing when I let her get away with things. Sometimes I would let her start something--thinking it was going to go her way--and then hijack it halfway through, smiling as if to say "I know what you're up to, grrrrrl. And I GOTCHA!" When I would do these things, I'd get a brief smile indicating . . . what? I'll never know exactly what she thought (she could've been thinking about the wedgie she got during the last dance, for all I know), but I choose to think she was pleasantly surprised, at the very least. And I am proud of myself for asking in the first place, and for dancing well . . . no matter WHAT she thought.
And yes . . . it was a Merengue. Duh. It's not like I can simply wish myself to the top of the mountain, can I? If I take an easier route to the summit a few times, I'm still honing my skills and getting to enjoy the view from the top. I should also mention that even GETTING a dance with these folks is much easier during Merengues, because lots of the really good guys are Salsa-snobs (as I've mentioned before) and won't dance to the poor, lowly Merengue. Less competition for Yours Truly, baby!
Works for me.
Generally speaking, this was a great, confidence-building evening. I received several compliments from random strangers . . . including a couple of Latino guys (far better dancers than I am) who told me "you dance GOOD!" as I left the dancefloor post-Janice-Merengue. I may not agree, but for the time being I'll take it wherever I can get it and strive for a similar threshold of comfort and repertoire with Salsa. I think I'm getting close to this goal--perhaps another month or two--but I'm not there yet. Wish me luck (or, better yet, come out and dance with me. Help me practice.)
Your Striving Striver,
Me
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Getting Behind!
Forgive me, Dear Readers, for getting so far behind in my Chronicles . . . but when one is out dancing 5 (eventful!) nights every single week, it quickly becomes nigh on impossible to document each of these affairs in the detail it deserves. I'll soon post updates for last Wed, Thurs, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday--though not all will be as detailed as My Loyal Public desires or deserves.
---the PL
Posted by earwicker at 09:55 PM
Roses: Neon Green
In which a Faithless Hussy happens upon Yours Truly, who also learns the difference between checkers and chess, gives an impromptu performance for 40-odd strangers, partially revises his opinion of Ambersita's genetic propensities, and generally spends the evening somewhere in The Twilight Zone.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Surely my Dear Readers have had wonderful days of pure Oddity; days where everything came up roses, but the roses were neon green? Such a day was today. After reacquiring two fantastic CDs by Astor Piazzolla (La Camorra and Tango: Zero Hour) at his local Barnes and Ignoble, Your Intrepid Cultural Juggernaut made the decision that the time had come to explore the OTHER dance in which he has had a long-standing interest: Jitterbug (and if you believe that, walk to your kitchen sink right now and mix yourself a cocktail using Gin, Turpentine, and Ajax . . . drink it down . . . that's right . . . gooooooood . . . now, don't fight it as you start to get sleepy. Oh . . . and have a nice afterlife, dumbass).
For those of you still standing, the dance is (duh) Tango, of the Argentine variety. I took a look online for Tango-related activities in the DFW area, and whaddaya know? This very evening there was a Milonga at the Latino Cultural Center on the cusp of Deep Ellum. Yummy. I hopped on the phone and asked a charming and beautiful genetic mutant if she might not like to accompany me--provided she had the evening off from alien probes or other sordid events. As it turns out, Ambersita was indeed free . . . and interested.
This Milonga was scheduled from 8pm - midnight, and we showed up around 8:30pm and found ourselves in a room with only a handful of folks. The Tango crowd was gregarious, and the majority came up and introduced themselves. I was asked repeatedly "why Tango?" and told repeatedly (upon learning that I didn't know step ONE of Tango) that I was "brave." I corrected them: "not brave, but stupid." (Actually "just curious" would have been a more accurate response, but small talk has its own set of rules and "stupid" got laughs. "Curious" would not have. Laughs are a good thing.)
The first person we met upon our arrival was Patricia, a wonderful woman who was profoundly enthusiastic about Tango and happy to give me a cogent and pertinent overview of the dance and the event. Interestingly, I learned that there are generally three types of dances performed at a Milonga: Tango, Milonga, and Vals. Having discovered that I make vague and often pathetic attempts to dance Salsa, she made the helpful analogy that a Milonga was to Tango (roughly) as Merengue is to Salsa: a bit less "sophisticated" and technically less demanding, though often more of a physical workout than the higher-profile sibling. ( Vals = Waltz, for those of you who are kinda STOOPID, but who didn't take my preceding advice and drink the special potion I recommended). About this time, Patricia was whisked off to the dancefloor by some gentleman who looked like a bowling ball with stripes and Ambersita and I were left to our own devices, drinking cola and commenting on the strangeness of the entire event.
The event was odd (even bad) in some senses: it felt a good deal like a school dance because of the AWFUL sound system and mediocrity of musical selections, which were generally too SHORT and virtually all from the "golden" era of Tango (read: NO PIAZZOLLA or other masters of modern Tango). That's fine, but if the dancers are any good then at some point I feel certain they would like time to EVOLVE an idea for longer than three minutes. Unless they have a partner like Ava (on whom more shortly). From this experience, I'd have to say that the Tango crowd is a good deal older than the Salsa crowd and, even when not, a good deal more sedate. The Genetic Mutant and I spent half our time plotting ways to remove the cork from the Collective Buttocks of the Participants should we decided to attend another of these events. It seems to me that although Tango may display restrained passion--that the emotions may bubble and roil beneath the surface, it's still supposed to be intensely PASSIONATE . . . and that was simply not tangible to me as an outsider/first-timer. Had this been my only exposure to Tango, and my only idea of what Tango "is," I wouldn't be back. That having been said, the participants were encouraging and friendly to a man, and I got enough of a taste of the dance itself that I'll be taking some private lessons to learn the basics and discover whether or not I want to pursue it more actively.
As it was Amber and I bailed, went to Cafe Brazil for some dinn-dinn, and returned for a performance by some visiting instructor or another who seemed good (but still didn't exactly make me hot and bothered, which is what I expect from good dancers in almost any style that doesn't rhyme with "fling"). There was then a short break from Tango and other music was played. This music was . . . (gulp) Salsa! I believe I have neglected to mention the surprise appearance at this Milonga of a Stratos and Carson's regular named Alice, a fantastic and long-time dancer of Salsa who is also, it turns out, a fantastic and long-time dancer of Tango. She was here cheating on her beloved Salsa with another Mistress . . . faithless Hussy! How dare she? (I would never do such a thing. Nope. Not me. No way. I was just here to SCOPE OUT THE COMPETITION.) Well . . . upon hearing the familiar sounds of Salsa I looked across the room, now ringed by 40-50 Tangueros enjoying their short respite, and smiled at Alice in Pseudo-Latino complicity. She took my smile as an invitation to dance, and suddenly I found myself changing from wallflower to performer ("Oh SHIT!" was the only conscious thought I had as I tried to compel my paralyzed body into motion). So now it's just the two of us in the middle of 40+ observers, all intently watching to see what the new guy is doing. ("Oh shit!"). Part-way through the song I become aware of another couple joining us. Then another. I keep getting off rhythm ("Oh shit!"), but the company helps me relax. Thank goodness. The first song didn't go so well, but we improved for second tune. (As I said: Alice has danced both dances for about 5 years. She's GOOD. I've been dancing, in toto, less than 4 months, a fact I wanted to trumpet from the rooftops about this time). Largely thanks to Alice's grace and ability to smile even when the Salsa Pretender was tripping over his own feet, we actually received applause when we finished.
Cool. (Actual thought as I realized they weren't going to play another Salsa tune: "Thank Fucking God!")
No matter how I actually performed, I can say confidently that I was treated differently after that break: I was accepted as a "dancer" who just didn't "YET" know Tango. It was a nice feeling, even if undeserved.
And then there was Ava. Dear dear Ava.
Ava was a visitor from New Orleans who just about got herself beaten by His Majesty the Pseudo-Latino. Attempting to reciprocate the general friendliness of the crowd, Your Hero introduced himself to a woman who had been sitting next to Patricia, that woman was Ava and from the moment she heard the word "hello" to the moment Ambersita bailed me out by feigning the need for Coca-cola the bitch couldn't shut her snooty, opinionated trap about Tango and its supremacy in all things. We were treated to a dissertation during which we learned that Tango is Chess and everthing else is Checkers; that Tango is very Zen; that it's a 3-minute personality test which identifies codependents, wife-beaters, and bad lovers. We learned that Salsa folks generally can't Tango; that unlike other "easier" dances, one can't chit-chat while dancing Tango; and that Tango can turn a codependent dishrag into a saucy, independent woman; that americans just don't understand "progressive jazz" like the Argentines, and hence don't have the same feel for Tango (that Tango has absolutely NOTHING to do with Progressive Jazz seems to've eluded her, and it was at this point in the monologue that I felt an overwhelming urge to throttle her). Further, I was informed that before leaving I would be required to "walk" her around the dancefloor, so she could assess my potential as a Tango leader.
I sure know how to pick 'em, eh?
To her credit, she DID make me walk her around the floor, in close embrace (not sure if this was to test my lead or to find out if she was giving me a hardon, but it's best NOT to think about this sort of thing when contemplating Ava) and the experience was good. She encouraged me to forget about everything but conveying to her when I was going move, and how. And I did. She cooed at one point and told me I'd make a "fine leader," and remarked approvingly that I had a strong frame (thanks to Ramiro, honey, thanks to Ramiro). I escaped when Ava spied a young man speaking with Amber and declared she was going to "try him out."
Poor sucka.
From there we escaped to Al-Amir for a little Salsa and Merengue . . . and a more lively crowd. Amongst the more important points of this segment of the evening was a discovery: Ambersita actually SWEATS! Amazing. UnbeLIEVable. Intense. Incredible. Stunning. Although everyone else had rivulets of sweat running off of their bodies, she did at least have the decency to allow her skin to moisten and to look mildly flushed. I'm not sure if she's perhaps a little less mutated than I at first presumed, or if she's actually an alien, able to control her bodily functions in exacting detail in order to appear more human and observe us more closely. As I'm feeling rather generous today, we'll make the former assumption. While on the subject of Amber, let me warn all you cocky young bucks out there who may be inclined to approach her for a dance or two: do NOT ask her to smile. Even more importantly, do not COMMAND her to do so. The future of your testicles is at stake.
Trust me on this one.
Also of note was the semi-asian guy dancing (I use the term VERY loosely) near the bar with three Latino women, one of whom was simply ENORMOUS. GARGANTUAN. This young man had stepped directly out of Revenge of the Nerds XII: Grokking the Choadmeister, but it was his lucky night. He was getting sandwiched between these women (they were trying to teach him to dance) in a very very naughty sort of way, and Amber and I estimated between 2 and 4 ejaculatory incidents during the hour or so we sat there smoking our Hookah. Thankfully there was no visible evidence to confirm our suspicions, but it was scary nonetheless.
We trudged off to Denny's afterwards, had some Java and Fried Cheese (but no "Bweep! Bweep!") and then went our separate ways. I didn't get to bed until 5am.
All in all a VERY strange but wonderful day (and yes, Amber, I'm really THAT OLD)
---your beloved Pseudo-Latino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
Dancing in the Rain. Notre Dame
Thanks to that most ridiculous concept of "work" I was unable to attend group lessons once again (third week in a row, I think). Still . . . I managed to pull a muscle in my left ASS CHEEK (a special talent, if I do say so myself) before heading out to Monica's for a short evening of dancing.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::The weather seems to've kept quite a few folks at home, because I guess the Macho, Testosterone-driven Salsero SISSIES are worried that they might melt if they get rained on.
Poow Baybees.
Though the crowd was small, there were good dancers in the house, which had the HEAT on (bastards!) After a couple rounds of Sauna-Salsa I asked Patty if we shouldn't just dance out on the sidewalk, where it was nice and cool. We did just that--in a light rain, to the amusement of a gaggle of giggling young ladies tramping about from club to club. Patty is the significant other of Latin Fire's saxophonist, and she has become a regular Sunday-evening partner for the Pseudo-Latino. Ramiro was in top form this evening, hyper and catty. He held forth on the local Tango scene, the dance in general, DFW-area instructors and their abilities ("no comment" he sez), and his experience in Buenos Aires. After drooling over a very stylish pair of heels worn by a very non-stylish woman, he turns to me and informs me that my watch is "gorgeous" and that my wristband is "excellent, too." Uh huh.
While dancing on the sidewalk, I was chatted up by one woman who "used to dance Salsa many years ago." I took her inside to dance with her and discovered that she was a long-lost descendant of a famous disfigured Parisian, at least when she's dancing. Not to put too fine a point on it, but her name is clearly "Quasimoda," or should be. I think she stared directly at her feet for nearly 2/3rds of the song time until I suggested that if she continued to look downwards I might be forced to urinate upon her shoes. From that point onwards she looked me in the eyes, though after a couple minutes of the I-have-diarrhea-and-am-trying-not-to-release-my-bowels-while-moving-about-the-floor look I wished I had let her continue her original shoe-gazing routine.
Live and Learn. Crash and Burn.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
The Wild Hair
The wild hair up You Know Who's You Know What continued to grow (or fester?) today as I fixated increasingly upon Saturday's experience with Tango. By the time I left work I had scheduled a private lesson for Tuesday afternoon and found a beginner's group lesson to attend this very evening at 8pm in the Lower Greenville area. I arrived at Salon Pavadita (2714½ Greenville Ave) shortly before 8pm and was exposed to the basics of Argentine Tango: the walk, the walk with crosses (both right and left), and the ocho--each practiced both forwards and backwards. We then learned a variant of the Basic 8, of which there are many so-called "correct" or "original" versions. I also stayed to watch about 30 minutes of the intermediate lesson. Though I don't think that these particular instructors are of the temperment I need in order to thrive, I enjoyed the experience and am looking forward to tomorrow's lesson.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
EmPHAsis in Biomechanics
During my lunch break I experienced my first-ever private lesson for Argentine Tango, given by the lovely, talented, and charming George and Jairelbhi Furlong (though I'm not sure that "received his bachelors in exercise science with an emphasis in biomechanics" is a line one should include in one's CV for dance instruction). I have never taken a private lesson with a couple before, and the experience was very positive: they played a few rounds of "tag-team the newbie MORON" while making me feel like I was NOT a total dweeb. Last night's brief introduction to the basics proved a big help, and I think I represented all you Pseudo-Latinoids well.
You needn't disown me just yet.
I was excited enough by the lesson that I've committed to at least two more with G & J over the next two weeks, and will take the "I'm Gonna Dance Tango Goddammit!" plunge at the Xmas Milonga on December 11th, with three privates and perhaps 3 or 4 group classes under my belt.
WooHoo!
Posted by earwicker at 08:00 PM
O Rivwar San Quentin
So . . . suppose you've been asked by a coworker to help him entertain his mom, who happens to be visiting for 9 days over the thanksgiving holidays. Suppose futher that you survive the shock of realizing you're old enough for a coworker to assume you would have a good time hangin' out with his MOTHER [insert grumbling profanity noises here]. Now suppose that--while trying to organize a simple Salsa-related outing--said mother plays shy and coy and won't directly IM or call you for details, and communicates (via said son) that she'd like an E-MAIL FIRST.
Huh?
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
You try to remind everyone involved that this is not a DATE and that you have no need to plead your case or sell yourself to a perfect stranger. Son sez "I KNOW! But . . . she's just acting shy. Send her an e-mail." You say "what on EARTH shall I put in it." Son disappears for a while, returns, and pastes Mother's response: "Life Story, Title, Note from his Mother, and a Picture."
Ok, fine. You detect the possibility that she has a sense of humor. Furthermore, you have absolutely NOTHING to lose in this situation. Putting 2 and 2 together, you decide to give her precisely what she wants . . . to see if she does, in point of fact, have a sense of humor. If she does, you'll have an excellent companion for an evening's dance. If she doesn't? You've lost precisely zip. And so you compose the following letter, addressing all of her points, and mail it immediately:
Dearest Madame---
In consideration of your most particular and exacting demands I am sending unto you this brief missive . . . . Having only recently been released from San Quentin, and in bad need of a shave, I happened upon your son one sultry Dallas afternoon and was informed that I, well, needed a shave. A haircut, too. After obeying his commands (and noting, for later consumption, that his extreme infatuation with minute details must be genetic), I returned to the seedy streetcorner where I had once, thankfully, happened upon Aaron. It was with great surprise that I found him still there, apparently asleep under a large cardboard box with the words "Fragile, Handle With Care" imprinted loudly on one side. He stank of wine and horseradish, and there were hundreds of oyster shells scattered about his person. With difficulty, I was able to rouse him and he told me that one day soon I should have the great pleasure to meet his mother.
"But be careful," he warned, "she is quite picky, and won't dance with you unless you can trace your lineage back to Inigo Montoya or, at the very least, Colombo."
Confused, I pointed out to him that these were characters of fiction . . . colorful expressions of the human imagination but no more . . . and that, though I could not in any way trace my lineage to these fine and entertaining fantasies, I could offer as an alternative my distant relationship to Britney Spears' Third Cousin Twice-removed on her Father's side. This had always been a point of pride in my family, ever since our Glory Days: single-handedly creating the Arkansas Porcine Pornography Renaissance and giving Swine Everywhere cause to Hold their Heads High with Pride.
So here we are, all these months later. Poor Aaron has finally left the cardboard box, and my parole officer has extended my curfew a few hours each night so that I might better learn to dance Salsa. Things are going well . . . and then along comes the progenitrix of said son's "extreme infatuation with minute details." In the flesh. She is very demanding, clearly intriguing and perhaps (though we may never learn the truth of this particular matter) even charming. She requires a life story: I must make due with a short recap of my brief existence outside the "institution." She requires pictures: I send pidgeons. She wants a note from my mom, I oblige:
Dear Ms. Ante'Denim,
My son is very nice, though I'm not sure he's too bright. Ever since the incident with Barnell Hoopstecke back in 3rd grade he's had this funny tick which causes him to expectorate whenever he hears the word "pomegranate." I suggest you don't use it. Other than that, he's ok. All his friends think he's fun to dance with, and the pigs just LOVE him. I hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Jim's Mother
And with that, I'm afraid, my chance at a first impression--be it good, bad, indifferent, or . . . well . . . nevermind--is gone. Vanished. I hope you have a wonderful evening and will consider dancing with me and perhaps 2 or 50 of my closest friends. As it turns out, your trip even coincides with my bimonthly bath (a wonderful bonus, if I do say so myself). I'm sure we'd have a great time, and look forward to meeting you soon.
Sincerely,
The Pseudo-Latino
Master of the Universe ( that'd be the "title" part of the request, in case you forgot)
What do you think would happen? As I'm not sure myself, I'll have to let you know tomorrow . . . when we either will or will not go dancing at Sipango.
O Rivwar,
---the PL
Posted by earwicker at 10:35 PM
A Bad Day for Babes
Once again this was a Lesson Free Wednesday . . . I've not had a single Salsa lesson since Ramiro's studio change one month ago.
The vibe and the crowd at Sipango were a little unusual this holiday Eve: no free lesson, absolutely no one there until about 10:30 or 11pm, and then . . . WHAM! Sardine City. This was a TERRIBLE evening for unsuspecting women: Della Serra was on hand and fully engaged in "instructing" newcomers and The Drunken Businessman seems to've escaped his hairy bipedal Armani Sodomite companions, returning not only to flail wildly and throw his partners violently about the dancefloor (smashing constantly into other couples), but to bring at least one lovely woman TO THE GROUND. To the casual observer, it looked more like an open-field tackle than an accident . . . but in the spirit of Holiday Giving I'll extend him the benefit of the doubt.
As much as I love Sipango, it was way too crowded to dance enjoyably and the evening's fate was sealed when some INGRATE . . . some PATHETIC LOSER . . . some WALKING EJACULATE with LEGS decided to steal The Pseudo-Latino's cellphone. Can you believe it??
Pah.
Tomorrow: off for Houston and the Holidays.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Scrumptious. Sideways. Skybar.
Hey there folks, and Happy Turkey Day Greetings from Houston. I hope each and every one of you had a Thanksgiving that rivaled my own, which was hands down the nicest Thanksgiving I've had in years. Yummy food, too.
Of course I capped off the holiday with a night of Salsa danced, as usual, with my beloved Luna. We met for a movie (Sideways. Excellent. You absolutely should go see this film) and then headed over to the ever-snooty Scott Gertner's Skybar. Despite Mr. Gertner's transparent attempts to compensate for a small penis (don't believe me? Visit the website. Anyone who would willingly place THOSE photographs of oneself on one's website is a dickless moron with no taste whatsoever. Go ahead. TRY to deny it. . . . I'm waiting. . . no? Good. I'm glad you can identify veracity when you hear/see/read it), his club has a nice dancefloor, though it's on the smallish side. The atmosphere on this particular evening was ok, with lots of eye candy and a decent band. The music was mostly Salsa, a little Merengue, and one Bachata, with a couple of Reggaeton tracks thrown in during the wee hours, after all the young hotties were drunk and wanted to dance nas-tay. One major boon for Mr. Gertner's establishment: the music was piped out to the balconies, which made it possible to dance outside in the cold air instead of sweating like a pig on the jam-packed dancefloor inside.
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Yours Truly pops Tango Cherry
Luna and I met once again, this time on the North side of H-town, for a Free Tango Lesson and mini-Milonga at Arepas & Empanadas (12792 Veterans Memorial Highway Houston, TX). After an entertaining group lesson with about 15 folks, Your One True Idol danced his first Tangos ever. And He saw that It Was GOOD. Awesome, even. The instructor was a wonderful, sweet-yet-crotchety old Latino named Victor (I believe he was Argentine, but I don't know). Unlike the group instructors I visited monday night in DFW, he was interested in having people feel the music and actually DANCE (no matter how rudimentary or limited their repertoire), not just learn a bunch of steps. It helped that he is a very musical and passionate dancer himself . . . someone who clearly loves the dance he is teaching. It was also nice (and a HUGE relief) to see someone dancing Tango rhythmically, unlike the majority of folks I watched at the TAD Milonga last Saturday.
After this experience Your Pseudo-Latino sez: Tango is definitely a Keeper. Try it!
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Teach. Tango. Tempo.
In which I rock, I tell the Truth, I'm completely correct, and there's no denying it.
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After an otherwise long and unusually eventful day which included a PseudoGift-free visit to the glorious Goff's on Lover's Lane (which, FYI, is moving to a new location in january '05), I headed down to Lower Greenville for my second group lesson in Argentine Tango. If I do say so myself--and I do--I made huge strides in the last 7 days . . . and that without too much effort on my part. The lessons given here are very different than what I experienced with Victor in Houston, and in most ways inferior. How so? There is little emphasis on Tango as a dance (and none whatsoEVER on Tango as music), and much emphasis given to Tango as a series of basic techniques. This is fine if (like me) the student is complementing this instruction with more dance-centric experiences and is independently able (like me) to associate a set of abstract movements with an as-yet-unfamiliar musical genre. The reality is that most of the students in class are clearly dependent upon this course alone as their exposure to Tango. In that case, they're doomed.
Bad Juju, yo.
Consider this: instructor teaches us the "correct" way to take certain steps, transfer our weight (or choose not to do so), change directions, or what have you. Next, instructor combines a few of these movements into a simplistic combination which we are to execute repeatedly, covering the full length of the dancefloor. So far so good. Now, for NO REASON WHATSOEVER the instructor turns on some (lame, old-school) Tango recording as BACKGROUND MUSIC and turns us loose to practice our little move. No relationship between the execution of our combination and the ongoing music is either requested or expected.
Hopefully you can see that this sucks worse than an Andrew Lloyd I can't construct a fucking piece of music to save my worthless life Webber Tribute Album featuring Itzak I'm the famous crippled jewish violinist who plays with all the passion of a flaccid lobster but pretends to be "spiritual' Perlman, Yo-yo I suck at Bach and everything else too but everyone still thinks I'm "crossing borders" and doing other "interesting" work Ma, and Dave I suck too badly to even have a funny nickname inserted here Matthews. We are being trained, indirectly, to disassociate our movements from the music.
Badder Juju, yo.
This is truly awful. Either turn the music OFF, and let us learn the steps as independent entities and then show us how to incorporate them with the music after we've mastered them, or leave it ON, and demand that our steps be controlled by the flow of the music. Either option is viable (though any teacher would understand that the first is an easier option for beginners if the steps are difficult), but leaving the music on as sonic wallpaper is just plain thoughtless, bad, and incompetent instruction.
Sorry Mr. Teacher Man, but that's the way it is . . . and the sooner you figure it out, the sooner you'll be producing people who actually DANCE Tango, instead of people who do Tango STEPS while Tango music plays in the background (which is what I saw a LOT of at my first Milonga; and no wonder, if this is the way DFW folks are taught).
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (1)