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Love Stinks

The Incredible Shrinking Salsero attended his first lesson in over a month this evening. And when we sez shrinkage, we means shrinkage. We're talking jump in the frigid river type shrinkage; cold shower shrinkage; rhea perlman nude shrinkage. What have you. At the beginning of said event I was The Pseudo Latino: Dancer of Dances and Leader of Leads. At the end of the event I was The ¡Arriba! Amoeba, a stupid white boy clearly incapable of a simple back spot turn.

Ratbastardo strikes again.

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This being first Wednesday, I avoided Sipango like the plague and headed out to Hurst to spend an evening with Ben, Amber and friends at a restaurant and Bastion of High Karaoke Kulture known oh-so-creatively as Bronco's. Yours Truly knows of no better evidence than Karaoke to serve as proof that either (a) there is no god, or (b) god exists and is One Sick S.O.B.

Amongst the many things I learned this evening, what adheres most prominently to my decaying psyche was a pithy little truism upon which Ambersita expatiated whilst standing before that lonely, most expository and unforgiving of phalli, the microphone:

Love Stinks.

Yeah yeah.

Indeed. Ambersita is wise WELL beyond her 17 years. Right Amber?

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

@*#&$ Meskin Mewsick!

Tonight was lesson number two on my descent into the decadence of Tango. I'll keep it simple: to my slim repertoire I added forward ochos from the cross (cruzada), a sandwich (embarrassingly enough, referred to as sandwichito), and a mickie (not sure of the spelling there). The mickie is sort of like a double cross-body lead so you make a complete 360-degree turn and is usually done in two back-to-back quick-quick-slow groupings. At this point I have a Salsa X-body lead so completely ingrained in my muscle memory that the first half of the mickie felt wrong and awkward; it's also kinda fast. However you want to describe it, it kicked my ass thoroughly. I still haven't actually DANCED the Tango enough to really put any of this stuff in context . . . but tomorrow I should have an opportunity at the Beginner's Christmas Milonga, hosted by Jeramy Bede and Linda Phillips. Though I only have two experiences thus far, my opinion is that George and Jairelbhi kick ass. They have tons of enthusiasm and energy, and clearly love the dance. Also important to note is that they play recordings that were made AFTER . . . ummmm . . . what? Hiroshima? The invention of the Model-Fuckin'-T? The rise of the Compact Disc? Yes. Yes. And yes.

What a relief.

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Your Hero travelled directly from Pseudo-Argentina to Pseudo-Cuba, and arrived ready to dance at Carson's Live . . . shortly before 9pm (just in time for the free buffet!) as Ramiro's lesson was drawing to a close.

Yummy buffet. Happy tummy.

There was nothing new to report about Carson's this evening. It was once again well-attended, the band (again the new, non-Latin Fire band from two weeks ago) was excellent, and there was lots of good dancing to be had. I braved a few dances with Kirsten Dunst . . . this time venturing away from Merengue and back into the more intricate world of Salsa. Homeboy did ya proud, folks.

Buya!

There IS one downside to a place like Carson's, which--on Thursday nights--has a mix of Latinos/Latinophiles and Fratboys/Dumbshit-o-philes. I'm all for the Latino/philes, but they other . . . ? No. Not cool. Why not? Consider my experience during the second band set tonight:

A Heroic and Much Loved SalsaPretender saunters up to the bar, waiting for a bartender to notice him. . . as His Holiness waits, He is addressed by a 40-something woman bellied up to the bar

WOMAN (badly slurred speech):
Waddizzit youdoo for worrrk? IT? Muuuuusic? AmiRight?

The PL (a composer and software developer)
Ummmm . . . both? Yes. You're right.

WOMAN
Ikid tell biur hairUramusicianorsomethinlikedat.

The PL
Ummmm . . . oh. (trying to be polite) Do you usually come here on Salsa nights?

WOMAN
No! I hate fucking MESKIN musik, they're like s'rude they honk outside of my house at like 8 in the fucking morning instead of gettingoutoftheir fucking lowriders and knocking on the doors like WHITE PEOPLE! And (at this point she indicates the band, which is currently in the midst of a Salsa) I fucking HATE that mariachi shit it sounds like somefuckingcheesy Mexican cowboy movieshit why can't they just knockonthedoor they wake me upallthetime. Goddamn meskins.

The PL
Salsa isn't Mexican music, actually, and maybe it's just your neighbors who are rude and not the entire nation of Mexico? Ummmm . . . on second thought, nah. Nevermind. What the fuck am I TALKING about?!? Dirty mexicans. You probably SHOULD avoid this place on thursdays. Spics everywhere. God knows what they'll bring in next. Probably some niggers and jews and you know what THAT music sounds like, right? After that they'll bring in the gooks and we'll be eating DOGMEAT as part of the buffet and those smelly towelheads can't be far behind with all that whining wailing islamic chanting BULLSHIT?!?! Goddammit! This has to STOP! Right? Right. And . . . and thanks for helping me figure this all out. (walks away)

Fortunately, this was a one-time experience for me and I was able to refrain from smackin' the bitch upside her fat, stupid head. Carson's still rules. Come hang with your favorite PL sometime soon, m'k?

---Your Great and Wondrous One

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

Groping Granny

In which the Tangential-Tanguero finds Himself engaged in something approaching Necrophilia, encounters a long-lost Sistrah, and bleeds for His Art.

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The dance festivities began this evening at 8:00pm at Lafont's Restaurant , on Midway, at the Beginner's Christmas Milonga. I use the term "festivities" with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, because--to put it mildly--the Dallas Tango scene is about as exciting as coitus with my grandmother (and she died about 6 years ago, if that helps soldify the mental image I'm hoping to conjure here). This party was about as lively as a day on the set of The Laurence Welk Show (probably with that same grandmother), with the sole difference being that Laurence Welk plays livelier music recorded 10-30 years AFTER the music we suffered through at the hands of our "DJ," Jeramy Bede. Jeramy: wake UP! The Pseudo-Latino knows music; you don't. You do, on the other hand, have a very special gift with aural soporifics. I'll keep you in mind next time I have a case of terminal insomnia. M'k? Alternatively, you could try to expand your musical horizons and bring your presentation into the early 21st-Century which, by the way, is where Tango lives.

Here's the bottom line, Beloved Readers: these folks are active participants in the death of a once-lively artform, and are the worst possible proponents for that art. Those of you who care about the continued existence of Tango should rise up!, revolt!, scream!, protest! Just say "NO!" to these walking artistic cadavers. Be kind to them socially, for they are nice and well-meaning people . . . but beyond that, avoid them. They are sucking the lifeblood from your True Love. Shun them! Run screaming in the other direction when they approach! Unfortunately, I don't know yet where you should run in lieu of "over the Tango Cliff" . . . but I'll find out, and let you know.

*spitting in a fit of distaste and moving on to more pleasant topics*

After dancing through the musical mortuary for a couple of hours, the Pseudo-Salsero headed out to Stratos where--SURPRISE SURPRISE!!--he ran into the PseudoGift and her BeauBoy. Truly amazing. Ever since (re)discovering this Boy Toy, the PseudoGift has been completely absent from the local scene . . . apparently interested in more . . . uhhhh . . . "horizontal" forms of dance than in cutting the rug with Our Hero (trivia question: can "Bweep! Bweep!" be a sexual noise, as well as culinary and pac-manesque?) Fine. I can take a hint. But it was absolutely fanTAStic to have her back in my dancefloor arms. Wonderful. I mean, like, who else other than SistrahSuplex could cause me to bleed like a stuck pig in the middle of a SIMPLE, HARMLESS SALSA? [Note to Sistrah: Salsa is NOT a full contact sport, sweetums!] Who else could transform a sexy, white, Kenneth Cole shirt into something resembling a blood-splatter exhibit from the O.J. Simpson Trial? Who else could achieve this transformation during a harmless back-spot turn and subsequently attempt to rip buttons off of aforementioned shirt with her fancy new Jaclyn Smith Hairdoo like some vindictive South of the Border Medusa? WHO ELSE?!?!? I suppose that Dear Luna could give her a run for her money (Said MoonBabe having done her best to de-elbowfy Moi with her lower lip one balmy Houston Evening at The Tropicana Club), but since Luna maintains a safe 240 mile distance at all times I believe it's safe to say that the PseudoGift wins this particular booby prize. She's a PseudoLatino-slashing, button-snatching DEVIANT, that's what she is!

But I love her anyway . . . and--mortal wounds and newly-acquired permanent scars aside--it was great to see her back out and about.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (4)

The Gift: You know, for Xmas!

In which The Pseudo-Latino opts out of his usual Saturday-Salsa, intones the Agnus Dei in Pseudo-Latin, and gets a special seat--next to the hungry Pseudo-Lions--in the Pseudo-Roman Pseudo-Colosseum.

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Saturdays have been a little uneven for Salsa lately, and Your Fearless Bleeder (yup. I said "bleeder." See yesterday's post if you want more details) hasn't yet found a place where he feels suitably at home, so it should come as no surprise that I decided to forego Salsa this evening and drive out to The Middle Of Nowhere to try the First Saturday Milonga in Bedford. The Milonga was hosted by my new instructors George and Jairelbhi Furlong and, to put it bluntly, was a HUGE relief after yesterday's coma-inducing rendition of Hot In The Sack with Granny.

I arrived at 7pm sharp to sample G & J's free Beginner's Lesson, which turned out to be an introduction to dancing Milongas. To refresh the memories of my less careful Readers, Milongas (the parties) generally feature three types of Tango music: Tango, Vals (Waltz), and Milongas. Milongas are to Tangos as Merengue is to Salsa. We paired up, learned a few simple steps, practiced them a few times, and were immediately expected to put them into practice by (don't be alarmed folks, I know it's scary for you but this is how it's usually done) DANCING TO MUSIC. I know, I know . . . those of you accustomed to the DFW Tango scene will be shocked by this horrible, non-customary breach of your institutionalized Cult of Boredom . . . but there you have it: see it, learn it, practice it, put it to music. Amazing what these young UPSTARTS are doing, eh? How dare they breathe LIFE into Tango, right? We like our DFW Tango served cold, accompanied by SCRATCHY RECORDINGS and the proverbial LIMP DICK! Right? Wrong. Those of you who prefer things that way are hereby instructed by your Pseudo-Shogun to commit Pseudo-Seppuku immediately. In Tango terminology, Seppuku is the ritual removal of the disgraced Tanguero's eardrums and right foot, which is to be placed under his pillow for 8 days and then buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in Southern Argentina along with a burnt offering of never-again-to-be-played historical recordings of Carlos Gardel. This is not to be confused with Sandwich-eat-o, which is the ritual ingestion of the eardrums immediately after their removal.

Moving right along.

All of the beginners had clearly learned the basics of Tango with the exception of one gregarious and curvaceous newbie named Dona. Her name is pronounced like "Donna," but spelled differently to make My Life a bit more difficult and to give me a spirit-lifting opportunity to make terrible, cross-language English-Latin puns like "Yo, Dona . . . Grant me a Piece o' DAT!" For the slower wits amongst you, Dona Nobis Pacem is a phrase from the Agnus Dei portion of the traditional Latin Mass:

Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis
Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, miserere nobis
Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem

That last phrase translates as "Grant Us Peace." I'll leave the rest of the translation up to you.

When I finally had a chance to speak with Don(n)a after the class, she turned out to be friendly, witty, energetic, and devoid of BHS (the term used by the Laity to indicate Big Hair Syndrome). Yours Truly double-checked this latter point to make sure further contact with Ms. Nobis-Pacem was warranted and safe. It was. Dona won huge points with the PL when she confided that she really had just decided on the spur of the moment, that very afternoon, to learn to dance: she found a dance, a lesson, and a venue online and . . . SHAZAM! . . . here she was. Kudos, Dah-nuh. Although I can still hardly put one Tango-foot in front of the other, I can safely say that Madame Mercy will be a good dancer if she wants to be: she has rhythm, courage, and a great attitude when she's on the floor (ummmm . . . the DANCEfloor, you perverts). I grabbed her e-mail address, told her about Ratbastardo's Sunday lessons (cuz she asked about Salsa), and waved good-bye as she headed out to some party involving 'spensive wines and (I think she said) half naked men in Chippendale collars and G-strings.

Hmmmmm . . . Have Mercy on them, DonGnaw.

And now for:

The Story of The (Xmas) Gift
(or) How Yours Truly Learned To Stop Worrying and Grin Like An Idiot.

Having spent the lesson dancing with the woman who was functioning as Door Guard and Fee Taker to tonight's event, I sauntered over to her corner of the room for a bit of casual conversation as I awaited the official onset of the evening's Milonga. This progressed about as one expects casual conversation to progress. After a while, however, I see the beautiful and talented Jairelbhi Furlong crossing the dancefloor with an unfamiliar, dark-complected, raven-haired exemplar of Goddessness. To my surprise, they are headed directly towards me. My Spidey-sense begins to tingle (and, if I weren't such a gentleman, I might suggest other things tingled as well . . . but I'm the CONSUMMATE gentleman, as we all know, so I'll suggest no such thing). Jairelbhi stops short next to me and introduces me to her friend Judy . . . who I learn has been dancing Tango for 8 years. That's roughly one YEAR to every DAY I've been involved with Tango. In technical terms, we call this a "discrepancy" or, perhaps, an "imbalance." Judy is as charming and engaging as she is beautiful, and Jairelbhi leaves us to our conversation. I learn that Judy isn't really her name, but since people usually don't pronounce her name very well she introduces herself that way (sound familiar, Hartmut?). Judy is from Rome, and I can say her name quite well, thank you very much: Giuditta. Giuditta has asked Jairelbhi for this introduction, and was on hand to see The Salsa-Pretender dancing with Alice at the last TAD Milonga. Giuditta is "old-fashioned" and won't ask a man to dance, but instructs me that I am to take the initiative and ask her to dance a bit later. Ummmmm . . . Spidey-sense. Tingling. Panic sets in. Yours Truly starts to sweat. Polite ways to escape this Milonga before dire embarrassment occurs are calculated. Flashbacks to my early Salsa days occur. I wonder if I'm too old to cry for my Mommy. And so on.

No luck.

As I'm pondering these imponderables, Jairelbhi approaches us again and sez, to Giuditta, "it's time." Time? "Time for what?" I wonder. Giuditta turns to me with the sweetest, most sincere face imaginable and asks: "would you mind warming me up?" Warm her up? "Warm you up for what?" I wonder. Then it hits me. I call to mind the following e-mail, sent to me by G & J earlier in the week:

Argentine Tango Milongas (Tango Party)
On December 4, 2004; 8 p.m. to Midnight
Jairelbhi and George will be hosting the regular 1st Saturday Milonga
Jairelbhi, George and Giuditta
will dance an exhibition as trio,
and there will be a free tango class for beginners prior to the milonga from 7:00 to 8:00.

Ok. We all know that <blink> tags are tacky (if Giuditta's name isn't blinking in the text above, just pretend it is). . . but that's exactly what was going on in my head: PERFORMER! GIUDITTA! DANCING WITH 8-DAY-OLD NEWBIE! DEATH BY ABSOLUTE EMBARRASSMENT AND MORTIFICATION! So my task is not only to dance with a competent veteran, but to warm up an experienced PERFORMER. Jesus H. Christ. Fine. Why not? I'm used to embarrassing myself on the dancefloor at this point anyway, so I take her hand and lead her to a place that feels like the center of the Roman Colosseum, replete with Lions and Tigers and Bears (oh my!). All that remains is to dance and watch the Empress give the dreaded Thumbs Down. Since she's a Roman herself, I figure this analogy is apt enough. First comes sweat, then Salida. We dance. I do all four things I know how to do, and do them over and over again. I try to match them to the music as best I can. She smiles and gives me approving looks and words of encouragement from time to time. It occurs to me that if this keeps up I'll need to change my underwear soon, and not for The Good Reason, but for The Bad Reason. The Tanda ends, but Giuditta insists I'm doing well and that she needs to warm-up some more. A new tanda begins . . . it's Milonga. Hilfe! We dance again. My rhythm is good, even if nothing else is. Giuditta acknowledges this with a HUGE smile and--as the song ends--quiet applause, an even HUGER smile, a BOW, and a "Thank you!!!!" I'm mystified, but grinning like a complete, totally lobotomized idiot at this point. Wow. The Tanda goes on. We dance again. And again. It ends. This time it REALLY ends, and the Cortina begins. It's . . . Salsa.

WooHOOO!

Shoe. Foot. Other!

The PL grabs Giuditta's hand and sez: "my turn!" We dance. Although the UNBELIEVABLY CRAPPY SOUNDSYSTEM AND HORRIBLE BOXY ROOM make it hard to actually stay with the beat (and folks, with Salsa music that's quite an accomplishment), we're dancing MY dance. Kinetic Karma has saved my scrawny tail end once again (though it must be said that Giuditta dances Salsa a thousand times better than I dance Tango. Nevertheless). I'm able to redeem myself (at least a little bit) before it's time for the performance and I get to watch the woman I just (with exceptional inadequacy) "warmed up" kicking ass and taking names with my teachers. They were excellent, and fun to watch. I'm certainly glad I danced with her BEFORE I saw the exhibition, though, or I don't think I would have even been able to put one foot in front of the other when we danced.

So there you have it. The Gift. Manifested in heretofore unfathomed degrees. Brutal. Merciless. I suppose you may wish to point out to me that I was being "punished" by dancing with an extremely beautiful, articulate, friendly, talented, and charming young woman and that this is rather at odds with the usual understanding of "punishment." Ok, fine. I get it. It was only painful as a concept. In reality it was amazing, and I was probably walking about 6 inches above the dancefloor the rest of the evening. It's not impossible that I looked at the rest of the guys in the room once or twice and said "HAHAHAHA!! SMELL ME, DOODS!" in my not-out-loud voice.

May the day come when I can dance with Giuditta as gracefully and competently as she deserves.

Oh . . . and SMELL ME, DOODS!

---the PL

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

Enough is Enough!

In which Yours Truly returns to Sunday's Groups Salsa Lessons, Scores a Big Fat Zero, invents Bubba's Squeal-like-a-Pig SuperLube™, Gets Fed Up, Tells It Like It Is, Names Names, Clarifies the 5.6 Million-to-Squat Ratio, and Scarcely Refrains From Physical Violence. Warning: Rant Follows.

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For the first time in about 5 or 6 weeks I returned to the Intermediate Salsa Group Class with The King of Nitpicks. The class was perfectly matched between guys and girls--a rarity--and I found myself working with an alien-female duo named Bijel. There was clearly an alien in control of the woman's body (Bijel, if you're reading this: FIGHT IT! Don't let that Alien keep control of your mind! Concentrate! We're working on a way to get you out of there. Help is on its way!). Ok. I can hear you guys out there saying "ALL women are controlled by aliens" and--though this is true I'd suggest you keep that to yourselves if you're interested in Getting Lucky from time to time with the Controlees. Just a thought. In any case, Bijel was a lot of fun to dance with . . . and it's rare for the Pseudo-Latino to happen upon someone with whom he can spar verbally without getting funny looks or sudden kicks in the groin. After the lesson I sent her an e-mail containing info about the local scene and telling her how much I had enjoyed the class. Of course I mentioned the alien's "obnoxious wit" and the woman captive's "fluidity and grace" on the floor. At this point I was reminded that women are ALWAYS keeping score. Bijel's response to my wonderful and informative e-mail:

obnoxious wit - lost 1 point
fluid, graceful - got 1 point
score - 0

Oooops.

Oh well. I had a great time despite my poor performance on the scoreboard. . . and as soon as we remove that Alien she'll be out dancing and breaking hearts all over DFW. We'll all be Making Plans For Bijel.

After this entertaining return to Sunday Afternoon Salsa, I came home, changed into my evening duds, and headed over to Salon Pavadita for the First Sunday Milonga. I'm going to be nice (for a moment) and limit my adjectival assessment of this event to "insufferable."

[. . . pausing for a moment]

Good. Now that the limited moment is over, we'll move into a more thorough description of this completely embarrassing waste of time populated largely by artless, passionless, brainless idiots in dance shoes. If any of you want to know WHY the Tango scene barely makes a blip on the radar in a metroplex with some 5.6 million inhabitants, attend one of these Milongas. Amongst other things, you can hear an instructor, we'll call him Instructor A--recently returned from Buenos Aires, rant about how the Argentine Milongas were overrun by tourists. If you listen carefully, you'll hear him admit that he doesn't speak word one of Spanish, know Fact One about non-Tango-related Argentine history or politics, or really have much interest in obtaining said knowledge; you'll find out that when said instructor signed up for the trip he signed up for a Tango TOURIST Package--in other words a GROUP TOUR (which are the epitome of pathetic, thoughtless, half-wit tourism world-wide and in all contexts)--and actually spent the second half of his trip WITH said tour (complaining about how touristy it was, naturally); you'll find that he managed to see a bit of the non-tourist packaged Buenos Aires during his trip ONLY because he by chance acquired an Argentine girlfriend in the time between booking the original package and taking the trip . . . and so he had a built-in guide to the city, the culture, and the language. What you'll find is that said instructor is not only a tourist himself, he's the WORST KIND of tourist: lacking utterly in self-awareness. And then there's the whole Poseur issue: after five years of dancing he still looks like he has a bad case of constipation while he moves about the floor. He never smiles (god forbid!), never laughs; just tells pretentious stories about his non-touristy trip to Argentina in a (hopeless and subconscious) attempt to impress his listeners.

The worst part? About half-to-2/3rds of the "crowd" (about 15 people . . . *hoot!*) actually found his narrational diarrhea to be FASCINATING and (far worse) RELEVANT! DFW Tango is in bad shape, kiddoes. Bad. When it comes to Tango, this town needs an enema. A HUGE enema. In order to affect a meaningful change we're going to require a John Holmes-sized enema of Bubba's Squeal-like-a-Pig SuperLube™.

Other things you would have encountered at this event? Instructor B, one of the "top" instructors in town, pontificating about his long-running stint--some years ago--dancing exhibitions at Monica's every Sunday before the then-current Latin orquesta began its first set. You would have heard expressions of his confusion regarding his inability to attract students after dancing for these people month in and month out. You would have heard him hypothesize that "the salsa crowd just doesn't have enough discipline to learn Tango. It requires too much dedication." You would have witnessed Your Hero--at precisely this point in the evening's unfolding--doing the Dr. Strangelove dance, trying to stop his arm from smashing Instructor B's well-manicured LDM (Little Douchy Moustache) through his teeth and into the back of his utterly hollow brain cavity. You would have witnessed me biting my lip, with steam coming out of my well-trained and inerrantly tasteful ears, to supress making public the following reinterpretation of Instructor B's asinine assertion:

original:
"the salsa crowd just doesn't have enough discipline to learn Tango. It requires too much dedication."

corrected version:
"the salsa crowd just doesn't have enough discipline to sit through my interminable, lifeless, ill-considered, amusical and near-worthless classes. Doing so requires a level of cultural inelegance and artistic cluelessness to which only an elite few can ever hope to aspire."

Ya. Right. Not enough discipline. Salsa requires less work and discipline than Tango. Uh huh. Right. You fucking hack moron! If I didn't like pidgeons so much, I'd cut off your head and feed it to them. Wanking inbred idiot! If you REALLY want to know why you couldn't attract passionate, lively, curious, and energetic Salseros to dance your version of Tango, LOOK IN THE MIRROR (and, I beg you, not just to groom yourself). You're the reason, dood. Boredom incarnate. What you present is musically and culturally irrelevant and DEAD. Hence, even those with an appreciation of tradition and discipline (read: the majority of accomplished Salseros) run from you like rats from a burning building.

Grrrrrrr.

If you weren't such a nice guy I'd take you out back and beat the living shit out of you, my friend, for your profound lack of information and understanding.

Moving right along (before I start to get REALLY nasty):

In the "positives" column, fellow beginners Tom and Ellen were there . . . and the three of us had a good time dancing. Kay and her hubby (Dan?) were also there and enjoying themselves. Kay and Dan are avid dancers of S#*ng (sorry, you know how I hate to use profanity on this site--the funny characters are necessary!), but I like them anyway because they're utterly without pretention and are out on the floor because they get into music. In THIS scene, that's quite a rarity . . . so they're to be cherished. I also danced with the Argentine girlfriend of Instructor A, who--despite her poor taste in men--was a very gracious partner: fun to dance with and actually able to smile and dance concurrently (hopefully she'll teach her boytoy this complicated skill during one of his breaks from learning to "Walk" correctly. *hoot!*)

If you want to dance Tango in DFW, the ONLY folks I can recommend thus far are George and Jairelbhi Furlong, though I don't yet have exposure to all of the instructors. Allow me to be quite clear: if you are an absolute beginner, I STRONGLY advise that you do NOT take lessons (group, private, or otherwise) with Robert Bondy or with Jeramy Bede (whose picture just about sez all that needs sayin') for any reason. Just don't do it. They are terrible, lifeless instructors who don't understand at all what it means to teach and who will turn you off to Tango (unless you, too, are lifeless, passionless or, alternatively, merely clueless). Their instruction sucks. I can't be any clearer than that. They neither earn nor deserve your dance-related time, attention, or money. Spend all the time with them you wish to spend outside of the dance studio: Jeramy, at least, is a profoundly nice guy and truly loves Tango . . . and I'll give Robert the benefit of the doubt and assume he is equally nice (though his discourse on Tourism indicates otherwise), but do NOT take lessons with them.

For those of you who feel inclined to say "that's just YOUR opinion, Your Majesty" I rejoin: yes. It is. But it's also the correct one. They can't teach, they're boring, and if you spend any time in your life with people who CAN teach, you'll know instantly how correct I am. And you're welcome for the info, by the way. Next time we meet you can buy me a drink with the money you just saved yourself.

So then . . . enough of that topic before I blow a gasket. What did I do after swimming around for a couple hours in this Toilette de Tango with the aforementioned amusical feces? I headed over to Monica's hoping to cleanse my palate with some "undisciplined" Salsa. The club was unusually guy-heavy, with very few Salseras to be seen--a state of affairs incapable of assuaging my Milonga-induced hyperagitation, so I didn't stay . . . I ate a quick dinner and headed home to Pseudo-Latino World HQ, disappointed and beaten.

Bastards!

But . . . Love to My Fellow Salseros and Tangueros,

Your Brilliant, Handsome, Charming and ever-Diplomatic,

---Pseudo-Latino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (9)

Double. Triples. B8.

In which I sleep too long, dance too much (ha!), and life allows me a few moments to bring my readers partially up to date.

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I started my day by oversleeping my alarm. This is a Huge Surprise, what with my now SIX NIGHT PER WEEK dance schedule which includes one double- and two triple-event evenings. Damn! Even for one as Inexhaustable as myself, this is a little nutty, no? Take a look:

Monday
8-9pm Group Tango lesson

Tuesday
Currently free (amazing, but true)

Wednesday
Private Salsa Lesson 7 - 8pm
Tango Practice session at Salon Pavadita 8:30 - 10pm
Salsa (with live music) at Sipango 10pm - ?

Thursday
Private Tango Lesson 7:15 - 8:15pm
Salsa (with live music) at Carson's Live 8:30pm - ??

Friday
Salsa at Stratos, 9pm - 2am

Saturday
Salsa and/or Tango at various locations

Sunday
Salsa Group Lessons (intermediate) 6:15 - 7:15pm,
Salsa Group Lessons (advanced) 8:15 - 9:15pm
Salsa at Monica's (live band), 9pm - ? (usually about midnight)

Anyway, I arrived at work more-or-less on time and immediately showed the Gotan Project music video (for their most famous track, Santa Maria) to some coworkers and the PseudoGift. Whatever you may think of the music, this is a very very sexy video, which effortlessly captures both the sensuality and aggression of the dance and the urbane nature of the music. This is in direct contrast to the video they include in their CD "Inspiracion," which . . . well . . . it sucks ass. It's terrible. It tries soooo hard to be erotic that it makes me chuckle. Just to be clear, the CD itself is OK . . . it's the bonus video which is horrible. Terribly horribly no good and very bad.

Spent some time in the parking lot teaching SistrahSuplex the basic 8 (as well as a rank amateur like myself could be expected to do so) and laughing about Friday night's escapades. It's nice to have you back, Sistrah. Stick around a while this time? (I know, I know: "bite me" . . . fine. I'll sharpen the fangs and prepare myself).

By the time evening rolled around, I had decided that my Monday evenings needed a major upgrade in attitude and I abandoned--permanently--the lifeless and ridiculously amusical group lessons of the past two weeks. Never again, amigos. I'd rather have sex with a dead Walrus . . . really, I would. Instead, I went to George and Jairelbhi's group lesson in Farmer's Branch . . . which was lively, energetic, challenging, and actually had some relationship TO THE MUSIC. Imagine that! Wow! Novel concept! Innovative! Wild! Unreal! Unheard of! Scary! It was a great class. There were exactly 5 couples there, each well matched, and we did something very interesting . . . we puzzled out how to put the girl into forward ochos from every single point of the Basic 8. This was a cool exercise, and was aimed at getting us to understand and FEEL where our weight is at various points of the B8 and to understand and FEEL how we can elaborate any of these points. Although not every place in the pattern is particularly conducive to starting a forward ocho, it can be done . . . and in a couple places it was a challenge to figure it out (I should point out that in one particularly awkward place G & J didn't actually show us a solution . . . they made us try to discover it on our own before they gave us some options.)

There's much more to say, but you'll have to make due with the crumbs of Greatness I've had time to proffer. Sleep well my friends, and remember to tithe (ask for my address if you have any doubt about where to send the $$)

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Fat Lesbian Rat?

In which I make Ratbastardo feel like a fat lesbian, I experience Performance Anxiety, Giuditta reappears, and Sipango doesn't live up to expectations.

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Getting back into the swing of the lesson thing after my long absence. Señor Ratbastardo was in rare form and we spent lots of time laughing (not a common occurence during his instructional crusades, I assure you). We were reviewing last week's combinations and working on a move he calls The Apache. The Apache requires the leader to pass the woman's right hand behind her own back with his left, transferring it to his right, and then spinning her like the Dickens, with a quick handchange and a rather sudden stop at the end. The woman gathers a good deal of momentum, and The Rat ain't exactly petite . . . so it's important to be standing in a stable and solid position at the moment you stop the woman's spin. Problem Number One: The SalsaPretender wasn't solid or stable enough for Ramiro's tastes. He crumples up his face, looks at me with his patented Look Of Dissatisfaction, and sez:

"You need to give me a STRONG FRAME! You're making me feel like a LESBIAN! Do I look like a LESBIAN to you? Do you think I WANT to feel like a LESBIAN? YOU need to be stronger than ME or I feel like a fuckin' LESBIAN. "

Uhhhh . . . perhaps not the standard way of making that particular point, but then Ramiro's not your standard kinda guy.

Problem Number Two: when passing the woman's hand behind her back, my reflex was to lean far forward with arms spread wide to avoid making too much contact (dunno why)--like I'm trying to hug someone who's . . . someone . . . well . . . fat. Ratbastardo ain't fat, but--as I said--he ain't exactly petite, so he asks:

"Why are you leaning into me? What're you doing? Why are you reaching around me like that? You tryin' to tell me something? You think I'm fat?? So now I'm a FAT lesbian?!?"

Fortunately he's laughing as all this is going on, and we're having a good time. I get the move down pretty well, and he switches to NitPick mode, but this time in the way I've been dreading for months: he puts on a song and makes me dance with him. I'm talking make-it-up-as-you-go-along dancing. The kind I do in clubs. With girls. Do-what-comes-to-you dancing. This is NOT what I want to be doing with Head Bad-ass Ramiro (this is my personal definition of Performance Anxiety). I limited myself to the several things we'd been working on for the last two weeks and I'd have to say it went reasonably well. It gave him a frame of reference from which to make several very useful comments about my leads . . . and I didn't even feel like Pseudo-PondScum when it was over (it being the Dance or the Lesson; take your pick).

Yours Truly packs up, hops into the Latino-Mobile and hauls ass to Salon Pavadita for what he thinks is a 90-minute practice session, but turns out to be a Group Lesson with George and Jairelbhi: Beginning Milonga. We learned to do Back Ochos at the speed of light and I was fortunate enough to be the odd man out in the Lesson which meant that I was "forced" to dance with . . . yup . . . you guessed it . . . Giuditta. Darn the luck, eh?

[pause to allow the Reader time to envision the Pseudo-Latino grinning broadly and stupidly]

At some point we started rotating partners (dammit!), which would have sucked except I got to dance with Betsy of Fray and Betsy fame. I've seen Betsy dance Salsa a thousand times, but she's one of those folks who are just too damned good for me to approach for a dance. When it comes to Tango, though, she isn't too far ahead of me . . . and so I wasn't at all nervous dancing with her. Even better, we danced together well. She's one of these women who follows like a dream, and we were able to nail our steps and have a pleasant conversation at the same time (sorry Ava).

Much fun.

After the class, I danced two Milongas with Giuditta and then headed over to Sipango which, like Monica's last Sunday, was kind of guy-heavy and somehow a little "off." Oh well. Can't win 'em all, even if you're the Pseudo-Latino--Legend and Scholar.

All in all a good day fer muh dancin' feets.

---Your Humble PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

They Hate Randy Newman.

In which Tango progresses, Frogs are blended, and Short People got . . . well, you know.

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Tango Lesson #3 went off as expected, and included a couple of cool new things, like boleos. Based on last monday's group lesson, I was interested to see how the forward ochos could be accompanied by the leader with ochos of his own. In response to this question, I learned Tres Ochos (leader does a back ocho with first half of follower's forward ocho, then stands in place and collects her on the second half--this can be repeated indefinitely, but is usually done three times, hence the name). Also worked on forward ochos to accompany the follower's backward ochos. In my growing excitement for this dance, I asked G & J if they would be willing to give me 15 lessons between today and my birthday, February 3rd, and to structure those lessons in such a fashion as to teach me a simple choreography which I could perform on my birthday. They agreed that this would be an excellent idea. A performance, however simple it would need to be, is an excellent motivator and means of directing a students progress. The question of "with whom?" I would perform was not entirely answered, but since I'll be learning the parts by dancing with Jairelbhi I should be able to perform it with her as well, if need be . . . although my Dear Readers are assuredly hoping that Giuditta can eventually be convinced to suffer through my ineptitude long enough to help out in my time of need.

So. Which song will I be learning? Dunno. But I guarantee you it won't be yet another antiquated scratch-fest from the DJ Germy. No. And I'm not sure that I can work up enough technique or endurance to do justice to one of my beloved Piazzolla tunes. I am thinking that I'll probably end up selecting a TRULY modern neo-tango/electronica piece that I've heard bits and pieces of. We'll have to wait and see.

With scarcely contained excitement, I changed hats (and shoes)--heading over to Carson's for the usual Thursday night schtick. Lo and behold if SistrahSuplex and her pseudoHubby Lurch (her beauBoy is about 6'5" and skinny as a rail) aren't there, catching the last few moments of Ratbastardo's free lesson. Cool! For the second time in a week (parking garages and gas stations not included), Your Dood About Town gets to dance with the Dwarven Diva. Lots of fun was had by me, particularly while watching the PseudoGift and a couple other ravishing escapees from the We Hate Randy Newman convention do Denise's fav-o-rite freestyle dance: The Frog in The Blender. This dance requires a big smile, a random sequence of adorable-yet-unclassifiable gyrations, and the proffering of a symbolic little finger or two, pointed heavenward and wiggling suggestively. . . and the Sistrah is it's greatest proponent (she claims the whole idea for the dance came to her miraculously one day while drinking apple martinis and absynthe in a seedy, all-male brothel somewhere in Amsterdam, conversing with a toothless, bearded lesbian named Pepe; I'm not sure I believe her, though; the whole story seems a little dodgy to me).

Otherwise, a typical night at Carson's with the Usual Suspects.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Sleepy Grasshopper

In which His incessant schedule of work, dance, dance, dance, [sleep?], work, dance, dance, [sleep?], work, dance, work begins to affect Him negatively and He is Not Surprised.

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The Pseudo-Latino's weekly weekend dance-athon began this evening at Dunn Bros Cafe on Belt Line Drive. I had never been to Dunn Bros before, and know nothing about it (is this the only one? Is it a franchise? Dunno. Don't care), but it appears to be very much a Starbucks rip-off (or vice versa) with wine. Whatever it's story, it was a nice place, with passable, though not memorable sandwiches and a pseudo-interesting mix of people to watch (not referring, yet, to the Tangueros). There was a passable sound system set up, and George Furlong was on hand to DJ (thank goodness) . . . the back area of the shop had been cleared out for dancers, and was nice, if very much on the small side). Since I had arrived well before the dance crowd, I had an opportunity to discuss Tango a little bit with George. It was an interesting conversation which led us to a discussion of learning in general. George made a very apt analogy to Kung Fu (at which he is an expert and which he also teaches). He pointed out that many students don't understand the importance of the fundamentals when they are beginning to learn the martial arts, and that they will gloss over some of these fundamentals and blow through their early belts . . . generally because they want to get to the "cool stuff." As they move up through the ranks and attempt, eventually, to learn some advanced technique or another, they suddenly run into a brick wall because they are missing one or more of these "boring" fundamentals. The light bulb goes off, they finally understand why--although not flashy--the fundamentals are really cool and utterly vital, and then they have the interest and motivation to return to those fundamentals and master them. Sure, it's often harder to learn them at this time because some bad habits may have formed . . . but that doesn't matter. One learns when one is ready to learn. When the desire is there. Not before.

I'm very glad that George gets it, and that I happened upon him and his talented wife when I did. There are many instructors--in many different fields--who could stand to learn this lesson, though I'll not beat this (dead, smelly, bloated) horse any more right now. The bottom line is that when you have beginners--particularly adult beginners--in your (dance, music, painting, trigonometry, German, whatever) classes, the overwhelming majority of those people have no intention of becoming Masters . . . they are there to learn enough to dance socially, play a favorite song recognizably, paint a favorite seascape, or be able to order a beer when they visit cousin Otto next summer. They wanna do something long dreamed-of, be cool, impress their husbands or wives, reconnect with a childhood talent, or [the PL's vote for most popular answer:] meet new people and get laid. For my part, I've been fortunate enough to side-step these monochrome has-beens or never-weres until I finally decided to dance. And now, between my first Salsa instructor (an alcoholic, talentless grubworm of a dancer upon whom I have never remarked in these annals--largely due to my embarrassment from taking as many lessons as I did from him) and a number of Tango instructors here in town, I guess I'm hitting the anti-karmic jackpot on lameducks.

Oh well. When life serves you ducks, make 'em quack a bit, skewer 'em, and then roast the foul fowls alive. Smiling all the while. (Don't worry, they deserve it).

As it stands, Your Epitome of Wonderfulness was just too damned tired to dance well this evening, either at Dunn Bros (where he was utterly inequipped, technically, to dance--much less dance WELL--in such a confined and crowded space. Not enough steps under my belt yet) or at Stratos, where he spent a short time dancing with old pal Sherry before calling it a night VERY early (11:15pm!). Even super heroes need to recharge from time to time, and on that note . . .

Later Amigos,

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Napoleon. Roman. Alien.

Precisely three weeks after wandering with curiosity into His First Milonga, Your Intrepid Gyrational Totem spent the day looking forward to the TAD Christmas Milonga, to be held somewhere in the bowels of the SMU campus. Given my previous experiences with DFW Tango events, I wasn't exactly looking forward to an earth-shattering event--and I wasn't disappointed, although it was leagues better than my Spidey Sense had intimated.

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But we'll get back to the event itself a bit later.

Having spent my day trying to catch up, at least a LITTLE bit, on my backlog of Life-giving Reports to My Loyal Readers, I finally got out of my jammies and headed to the local mall to procure a few last minute accoutrements for my evening's attire. The mission successfully accomplished (some rings, a nice belt, a simple necklace to wear in lieu of a tie), and a brief sidetrack into a nifty little shoestore behind me, I wandered back into the mall proper to find my way to the appropriate exit and back to the LatinoMobile. Minding--as usual--my own business, I wasn't paying much attention to the pedestrian traffic moving in the opposite direction . . . so don't ask me why, when I heard a distinct-yet-unfamiliar voice ask "are you going to be at the dance tonigh?!," I presumed the voice was directed at me and I turned around to face it. The voice belonged to an attractive middle-aged woman with an inviting smile who was looking directly at me and whom I had never seen in my life. I don't know about YOU, folks, but this sort of stuff doesn't often happen to ME. I did my best to maintain my composure, and then replied "why yes, I am. And you?" The woman, whose name I forget (Camilla? Carlita? I suck at names. Sorry), had seen my Salsa "performance" (with Alice) during a break at the November 20th Milonga and had recognized me amongst the teeming multitudes. I found this equal parts flattering and confusing. We agreed that she would suffer through a dance with me later that evening, and parted ways.

This was a very nice precursor to the whole evening.

After putting on his pimp duds, the Tanguero-in-training headed out to SMU, found the right place, valet parked his car ($3 is ALWAYS worth it), and headed inside with his bottle of Bogle Petite Sirah to face his destiny (We here at PL World HQ always find that Destiny goes down a bit easier with a couple glasses of tasty red wine). And what a wonderful destiny it was! The venue (and the sound system) were surprisingly nice, with a slew of tables and a giant Xmas tree set up in the center of the room, with the dancefloor circling 'round it. Good idea. Several of my fellow newbies were present and ready to dance, and--after a glass of wine a plateful of the wonderful Oar-durves (call 'em Hors D'Oeuvres if you want to, y'ain't foolin' no one)--that's precisely what we did. Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance. All 3 steps that I know, I did 'em. And I did 'em in time to the music, occasionally managing to stick those stereotypical classic-era Tango stingers at the ends of the tunes. Yes. I said "classic-era Tango" because although many aspects of the evening exceeded my expectations, the music didn't. Not a single blood-boiling track the entire evening, although there were a few nice Nuevo-ish arrangements late in the evening . . . since most of the moth-ball crowd was already gone, I suppose.

One attendee of note this evening was a little belligerent Prick With Legs I'll call Napoleon. Turns out Napoleon was a guest of DFW instructor Laurie Vega, which is a big strike against Ms. Vega (that, along with her appalling lack of rhythm when dancing non-Tango tunes, as witnessed at the Beginner's Milonga on December 3rd. Folks, you don't have to have STYLE when doing freestyle dancing--god knows I don't--but you MUST have rhythm). Napoleon was a raging dick, plowing around the dancefloor without regard for traffic patterns or for whomever happened to be in his path. The first two times he ran his partner into my back, I assumed it was my fault. The third time, while dancing with the charming and patient Vicky, I knew better . . . and no sooner had he passed me than he plowed his partner into Daniel--one half of my favorite Argentine couple, who was in this case not dancing with his beautiful, spunky, and graceful wife Susana. Daniel stopped the man right in the middle of the floor and told him that if he didn't "behave" that he, Daniel, would be forced to do something about it. Cool! Now THAT is what I'm expecting from Tango! Some passion! Conflict! La Camorra, right? Well, little Napoleon was unsure of how to react, and so toned it down a bit for that song. I saw him sitting out most of the next tanda and attempting to tell his friends what a jerk DANIEL was (hah!).

So we had some excitement, after all.

Well, there was that excitement, and then there was some personal excitement on my part as I managed to scrounge up a couple of practice partners. The first was Ellen. Although she's far more advanced than I, she is still more or less a newbie and very excited about dancing. She even offered to start with our regular practice sessions the very next day! Now THAT is the kind of attitude to warm a Pseudo-Latino heart, and which speaks volumes--all good--about Ms. Ellen. The second was quite surprising to Yours Truly: Giuditta. Yes. Giuditta. As there were lots of newbies present on whose toes I could step without too much embarrassment, I waited until late in the evening to ask Queen Italiana to dance (I very much wanted to dance with her, but didn't want to wear out my welcome too quickly when she had so many more competent partners available to keep her interested). When we finally danced, I was informed that I had waited far too long. I apologized, promising earnestly to never again be so foolhardy, and around the floor we went. As was to be expected, I was very nervous and basically forgot everything I knew (all 3 of them). She was gracious nonetheless and so I felt encouraged enough to ask her if she would be willing to practice with me a couple of times, perhaps after a lesson or two. I also mentioned the little performance I had discussed with G & J, and (heart was beating VERY fast here, friends) asked if she would honor me by dancing that performance with me. She smiled largely and said "yes. And thank you for asking." I don't think I fainted, exactly, but I might as well have. I thought maybe I misheard her, or that I was dreaming, but I opened my eyes again and she was still there, right in front of me, smiling. My inner 8-year-old was jumping up and down, screaming "wooooHOOOOO!!!!!!" My outer no-longer-8-year-old remained calm. We walked over to G & J and asked their opinion. Jairelbhi misunderstood, thinking that Giuditta was going to come to ALL of my lessons and dance as my partner during them. Instead of correcting her, Giuditta said "sure. I can do that." Ok. My inner 8-year-old fainted. Dead. So . . . now I have an opportunity to dance, regularly, with a fabulous dancer who also happens to be sweet, articulate, warm and intelligent?

The day can't get any better, right?

Wrong.

I take leave of Giuditta, George, Jairelbhi, and crew and head out to meet Ambersita and Ben at Pete's Dueling Pianos. Or do I? Well, sort of. When I leave the building, I see the LatinoMobile parked directly in front of the venue, with a note under the wiper blade: "Keys are at Campus Police." No phone number, no address, no nothing. Yikes! Turns out that it wasn't too bad, just about a 35-minute setback involving a blue emergency phone and a short ride in the back of a patrol car while brandishing my near-empty bottle of Bogle. Don't worry though, the patrolwoman was gentle with Your Hero (but, as per usual, no $%#%$ing reacharound). I had to deal with three campus cops over the course of this evening and they were all unbelievably polite and helpful. Kudos to the SMU Campus Police who were on duty tonight (a special gift from the Pseudo-Latino to you and yours).

At this point I'm tired, convinced my evening can't get any better, and decide not to meet up with the Genetic Mutant and Pals. But then she calls me, 3.57 sheets to the wind (nicely slurred speech, Ambersita; tres cute. Do they ALLOW undercover Alien Agents to drink? Guess so): "C'mon! Meet us!" Ok. Fine. Goddammit. I hop in the car and minutes later I'm standing in the middle of Pete's, where I discover the One True Location to observe a gaggle of 20-somethings from the greater DFW area in advanced stages of inebriation. And I mean ADVANCED. Drunk, and loud (which is Pete's claim to fame). I had some catching up to do, so I ordered a Bombay Sapphire Martini. B & A were there, of course, as was Pilot Amy (I didn't actually mention Amy in that post, because I was so pressed for time and because Ambersita threatened to kick my ass if I ever say anything TOO nice about her friends. Ok. Maybe she didn't really threaten me, but she didn't have to. She was singing karaoke. That's all the threat one needs, is it not?), and several other friends of theirs--all unknown to me.

Martini disappears. Jack and Coke appears.

Now it gets fun: Ben--prompted by Ambersita--decides to start a conga line. He starts walking, Ambersita grabs his waist, I grab hers, and off we go. By the time we were finished circling the bar, there were more people IN our line than OUT of it. I estimate roughly 150 people in a conga line which snaked around the entire circumference of the club, across the stage and was starting to double up on itself before the song--and the spontaneous moment--was over. I realize this is silly, mindless entertainment . . . but we were being silly and mindless, and it was great. Awesome, even. And Amy--if you're out there: I'm happy that I was able to put a smile on your face before you left, gurl. I hope you're doing well and happier.

And that's 'nuff said about this day in The Life. It was a great, great, great day.

And now for some great, great, great sleep.

---The BossHawg Badboy

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

A Day Off

This whole fashion thing is going to kill Your Hero. He went to the mall today to pick up a just-altered purchase from the previous week and learned a new maxim: Versace BAD! Versace REALLY REALLY BAD! He held in His hand a $1000 Vest of Vast Gorgeousness and was TREMBLING to purchase it . . . but was able to restrain himself with the help of a telephonic intervention by Luna. "But," he argued, "it's on SALE for 40% off!" Thankfully it remains on that shelf even now. He's sick, and needs your help. Say prayers, mumble some good Juju, emote positivity in his general direction . . . do whatever it is that you do . . . but do it FAST!

For the second week in a row, He had a Great Group Lesson (Intermediate Salsa). Since the class focused on a sequence He knows reasonably well, and since there was a paucity of women in the class, the PL once again danced the girl's part . . . and had great fun. It's a highly recommended way to improve one's insight into ANY dance. Finally, He also skipped out on Monica's in order to spend some quality time at home, practice His moves, and play a short round of Catch Up for His Faithful Readers (currently December 3rd, 4th, and 5th have been added. More in the next day or two).

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

2 of 4 jumps 3 to 6

Attended Group Lesson 2 of 4 at Farmer's Branch Community Center with G & J. This time we inserted Back Ochos at each point of the B8. Also worked on "cutting the cross"--which is essentially an elision of the B8, jumping from the 3 to the 6. Once again Yours Truly was relieved to find out that SOMEONE in DFW is teaching Tango without appearing to have a sharp stick up their backsides.

Good times.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Foe Paws

Oooops. In an attempt to make sure that my newly-acquired contact info for Giuditta was correct, and to make sure I wasn't, in point of fact, dreaming about my good fortune regarding a performance/practice partner, I sent Queen Italiana an e-mail. I got a response, and it turns out it was a dream after all. Well . . . it hadn't been a dream at the time, but it had become one . . . slipping through my fingers like . . . oh . . . let's say . . . errrrrrr . . . . like the PseudoGift's Lethal Hairdoo. Well, ok, not exactly like THAT (there was no blood on my fingers this time), but the opportunity had vanished. Lady Giuditta's response indicated that she had been reading this very Repository of Great Insight and that my comments regarding certain members of the Tango community left her in a bit of a quandry.

Scheisse!

While Your Faithful Servant believes fully in what he has said (basically: that these instructors are horrible, lifeless, and lame and that you should spend your money on someone else), he really wasn't writing for this particular audience and didn't see a need to wage this particular war. At least not YET. He was too busy writing for YOU folks to be out curing cancer, alleviating world hunger, or overtly supplying the enema that a major segment of the local Tango scene so badly needs. Instead he had been quietly voicing his concerns and was just working on his own chops. Apparently, however, in his youthful (heh) enthusiasm upon first meeting Queen Italiana, His Holeyness must have given her this URL. Otherwise, I've no idea how it turned up. Doesn't really matter how . . . it DID turn up.

A response was sent to Lady G regarding the whole event, but to that message no sign of life was returned. Being a huge believer in Deal With It Now Before It Gets Worse, the SalsaPretender even tried to call Her Highness. No answer . . . and usually that sez it all.

We'll see how this all pans out, but methinks I'm footloose and partnerfree once again.

Hasta Luego,

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Easy come, easy go?

Yours Truly took the day off from work today to catch up on errands, get some rest, and to allow the profundity of his thoughts to gather and multiply. Early in the afternoon he consummated a long-laid plan with co-dancer Dancer X (name changed to protect the innocent from the Tango Tribunal--see body of post for more info): they practiced various basic steps over and over and over and over again from nearly three hours--all to various musical selections that were curiously (for DFW) devoid of scratches and other vestiges of irrelevance and antiquation. It was tres cool, and we began--within our limited repertoire (mine FAR FAR FAR more limited than hers)--to grok the good Grok. The last song to which we danced? Soledad (a fantastically beautiful recording of a fantastically beautiful song).

Excellent.

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The next, and final, dance-related activity of the day was my customary wednesday evening lesson with the King of Nitpicks, the Dance Instructor of Vicious Ability (aka D.I.V.A.), the Guy Who Eats My Lunch, Mr. Damn Your Crossbody Leads SUCK, the One, the Only, Ratbastardo. If anything, this lesson was even more fun and productive than last week's, sans fat lesbians. Today was the 5th in a 5-lesson set, and we reviewed everything we've covered during that time--a good deal more than I had remembered. A goodly chunk of the session passed in a state of terror, mortification, and horror thanks to the presence of an intimidating, high-powered Audience: my dancing buddy Norma and local bad-asses Roberto and Sandy were sitting at a table 5 feet from me, just quietly watching my lesson. Gulp. By the time it was over, two other ladies had joined the group. Great. No pressure. Unh uh. None at all. Next time let's just invite Jonathan and Luis Delgadillo and maybe Shelley too (just to keep the gorgeous and talented quotient high and the pressure LOW). I guess it's good training in a way, because we all need to just dance and not care who is evaluating us from the sidelines . . . but christ jesus almighty it's a little hard to concentrate on your footwork when it feels like you've got 3 of them, all left, and that everyone's staring at them . . . they all know. Your the Emperor, and you ain't wearin' NUTTIN, honey.

[pause to wipe sweat from brow and regain composure]

And so back to Tango. Careful readers may have noticed the absence of my Wednesday Evening Beginner Milonga class with G & J at Salon Pavadita. That oversight was intentional and, if the local crowd has its way, permanent. Yup: it's easy come, easy go for the Pseudo-Latino. After cramming 16 tango-related events into the last 3.5 weeks (without backing off on Salsa or Employment), my involvement with Argentine Tango in Dallas came screeching to a halt today. Yesterday's Quandry has become today's Blacklisting. And I'm wondering . . . ummmm . . . does this mean I-I-I'm a . . . a c-communist?!?!?

Immediately after Dancer X had departed from our practice session, I checked my e-mail (as is my wont) where I had the following Truffle waiting, poised at the top of my inbox, winking:

George and I are very disappointed in the comments we have found on your website.

Tango is much more than just a dance to us. Tango is a community where we have friends and family. Therefore, when we saw the comments about our friends and people we respect, we took it on a personal level. It is very important to us that this community is shown respect. We may be pre-judging you based on this website, but we believe you are pre-judging our friends and the community based on limited interactions.

On a personal and professional level, our students are very important to us. It is also important to us that they show respect to others in the community. It does not mean that you have to like them, but at least don't disrespect them. We would like to believe that our students are a reflection of us. Because of this, we do not want to be associated with this type of negative rhetoric.

We would be happy to refund the money that you gave us for the privates. Please send me your address and I will be putting it in the mail today.

If you are thinking about coming to the class tonight, I would not suggest it. People within the community are very upset and hurt by your website.

We wish you the best of luck,
Jairelbhi & George

[Note: I reproduce this e-mail here without reservation because they themselves wanted it published on this site, as a comment under Enough is Enough!]

 

Isn't that a hoot?! I won't expend a great deal of energy re-responding to this or revamping what I had to say. I'll attach my response below, in full. If anything else shakes loose over the next few days, I'll letcha know.

Your Once and Future Dancer of Tango (Argentine, no Ballroom for THIS Badboy),

---the PL

 

>>>George and I are very disappointed in the comments we have found on your website.

Clearly the entire community is disappointed--or, to be a bit less mamby-pamby about it, outraged. That's fine. I understand it even. The community could use a little more outrage, as outrage requires passion--a topic on which I have presented my thoughts elsewhere. That the community's response to outspoken dissent and criticism is to circle the wagons and black-ball the dissenter, however, is unwarranted and telling. For that reason, I am disappointed in you, too. Not just you--George and Jairelbhi--but you, the entire community. If this group is truly so tiny and so fragile that one newcomer's comments can get everyone soooo up in arms and flustered, perhaps you should all ask yourselves "why is that the case?" That's the question I have asked, and in response to which I have presented various opinions on this (my personal, non-published) site. If my insignificant blog can be such BIG NEWS™ on the scene, then there is a bigger problem here than one "bad" person's bad attitude.

>>>Tango is much more than just a dance to us. Tango is a community where we have friends and family. Therefore, when we saw the comments about our friends and people we respect, we took it on a personal level.

The comments I have made about your friends were of two kinds: evaluations of services they provide--which I believe are terrible, and personal responses to comments that those friends of yours made in public, before an assembled group of dancers (some new and some established), in their official capacities as representatives of the DFW Tango community (as DJ and Host of the First Sunday Milonga, to be specific)--which I believe were embarrassing and inexcusable. Has all of this escaped you in your mad rush to Defend The Innocent? Is there room in all of this to actually evaluate the content of my comments, or does it simply fall along the tired old lines of who likes/knows whom and who used the insensitive, naughty words? The instructors I've questioned are "in," I'm "new" and clearly a jerk, so I'm "out." Shouldn't it matter whether or not I have raised any valid complaints? Is the content irrelevant just because I have wrapped it in a few off-color phrases which don't meet with everyone's approval? Do you really find it of no consequence that one of your friends slammed the entire Salsa community in front of relatively unknown outsiders (of which I was but one)? Or, since he is an insider, is that ok? You KNOW him; I'm a new guy. Ergo, I'm wrong. Right? And so it goes. That you (George and Jairelbhi) have taken any of this personally is a mistake on your part, not a reflection on the quality or the veracity (or lack thereof) of my comments. It is not always the case in life that all of the people we like, like one another, nor that the people we respect, respect one another. Not even within our own families is such a thing guaranteed. To take these things personally is completely unjustified.

>>>It is very important to us that this community is shown respect.

For me, respect is something which begins as an unearned courtesy extended to a stranger until or unless there is a reason to withdraw that respect. Beyond this initial courtesy, deep and lasting respect must be earned. You and George have earned my lasting respect as teachers, as dancers, and as human beings. Others have taken actions which caused me to withdraw the initial courtesy-driven respect I had extended them, at least in certain areas. I can't oblige you or anyone else who demands that I show respect "just because." It's an unreasonable demand for you to make. Civility and common public courtesy? Yes. Respect? No. I can't feign respect any more than I can feign love.

>>>We may be pre-judging you based on this website, but we believe you are pre-judging our friends and the community based on limited interactions.

But I'm not. You say "limited interactions." If I didn't know you better, I'd assume that was meant as a joke. How much perseverance do you expect from an outsider before he can make an informed assessment? In the 25 days since I decided to investigate my first Milonga (November 20th), I have attended 6 official Milongas and 9 private or group lessons. That's 2 Milongas and 3 lessons each week. In addition, I have taken the personal initiative to organize 2 practice sessions for myself and some of the other beginners--one of which took place this very afternoon. That's about 5 events each week, at an average of 2 hours per event. I'm a reasonably bright guy, and it doesn't take me more than 30 hours of intense involvement to make an informed, reasonable, and fair assessment of anything. Those are NOT "limited" interactions, and--please pay close attention here, because I believe this is a VERY important point--this is about 28 or 29 hours MORE than most newcomers are going to give you and your community. They'll sit through one, maybe two group lessons and then decide once and for all: "yes" or "no." We want them to decide "yes!" and you both know that is not happening as often as it needs to happen. I'm willing to wager that everyone who has worked with or danced with me thus far will tell you that I am very enthusiastic about this dance AND this community. They will have the impression that I WANT this community to do well; that I WANT you to succeed; that I WANT to learn and I'm willing to put in the hours and effort to make all those things happen (although they may now call me lots of names when they admit it, the point remains intact). My judgments are based on direct, extended exposure, and on my hopes and desires for this community and, obviously, on my own private motivations. They aren't based upon what is politically, personally, or professionally expedient. Generally, that's considered a GOOD thing.

>>>On a personal and professional level, our students are very important to us.

This is profoundly obvious to anyone who has ever had the pleasure of working with you.

>>>It is also important to us that they show respect to others in the community. It does not mean that you have to like them, but at least don't disrespect them.

In the issue at hand, this is a double standard. I should respect others, even when they themselves are disrespectful? By insulting other communities, or my intelligence, or what have you, they can disrespect whomever and whatever as they see fit, but if I point out that they have done so, that's NOT ok? No. You are implicitly saying that the "in" folks can do what they want, but the "out" folks can't . . . at least not until they're "in." Respect, as I have said, is extended as a courtesy until it is either earned or called into question. I extended that respect to these individuals and still do, on some levels. Do I extend it to them as instructors and representatives of Tango--the music, the dance and the community? No. Sorry. I can't do it.

>>> We would like to believe that our students are a reflection of us. Because of this, we do not want to be associated with this type of negative rhetoric.

I believe this is a very naive position. Your students are a reflection of you only when they are on the dancefloor, and really not even then. Their style, their technique, their dancefloor manners may reflect on you somewhat, but are radically colored by each student's own innate talents, limitations, and ideas. Who they are off the dancefloor has nothing to do with you whatsoever. The personal opinions of your students do not reflect upon you at all. No matter what conventions we may be placing on top of this, I am a customer who is paying you for your services, and everyone knows it. If you want to refuse me service based merely upon my opinions--or my way of stating them, that's admittedly your prerogative. But don't be disingenuous and blame that refusal on fear of guilt by association. The Tango community, whatever its faults may be, isn't so mentally challenged that it can't disentangle my personal rantings from the attitudes of two people they know well and whom they presume to be kind and tolerant to a fault.

>>>If you are thinking about coming to the class tonight, I would not suggest it. People within the community are very upset and hurt by your website.

I have followed your suggestion for now although I believe it is a bad suggestion, a suggestion based on the premise that the people in your community are incapable of handling dissent and conflict. As an outspoken critic of that community, even I disagree with this premise. I know for a fact that I am not that fragile. Being upset is not always a bad thing. Evolution and growth don't happen without conflict, and this community needs to grow and evolve. If the community refuses to let me be a part of that growth, I will be saddened, but life goes on.

>>>We wish you the best of luck,

And I you.

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

Smack My Bitch Up

In which Yours Truly almost walks off the dancefloor mid-song, considers the wisdom of that sensitive, tender aria Smack My Bitch Up, and manages NOT to enjoy himself even though he's out and dancing, largely due to a dance partner whose name He will not mention.

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This particular girl has only danced with His Highness on one other occasion, and is a neophyte to Salsa and on the Salsa scene. I LOVE dancing with new, enthusiastic dancers, regardless of their ability level . . . so why not this girl? She's a scheming little BITCH, that's why. What do I mean? Ok . . . here it is. I've been a visible presence on the local Salsa circuit for almost 5 months now, appearing in at least 4 venues every week--usually 5. Sometimes even 6. For this reason alone (and not due to any dancing chops, which I still don't really have--though I'm getting better!), I receive recognition from many of the hot shots on the scene. Jonathan sez hello. Luis Delgadillo. Roberto. Master Yoda. Joel and Jessica. Obviously Ramiro. The majority of dancers on the scene will greet me when they see me.

Again, this says nothing of my abilities as a dancer, but does speak volumes about my perseverence and dedication. I'm justifiably proud of the fact. So it annoys the FUCK out of me when someone associates with me (or tries to do so) because of who I "know" or how good they think I am (I'm NOT good, but I'm better than some). It's only happened twice that I know of, but in both cases irks me no end. If I didn't like pidgeons so much, I'd take both these women out back, cut off their heads, and feed the fucking birds.

(Oooops. Sorry. Was that aggressive? Gotta be careful, because the Tango Police are just a wee tad sarcasm-impaired and are concerned that I mean these things LITERALLY! Shhhhhh. Don't tell 'em I said anything so INSENSITIVE! They might send the Feds to my house, where they'll find all those nasty severed heads I've been collecting and hiding under piles of pidgeon shit!!!)

Ok. Anyway. Back to the point at hand. This girl asked me to dance once, I agreed. It was a merengue and she flailed around like an earthworm on hot pavement. I tried to keep her in check, and to limit her flailing by providing a smaller and stronger frame. All to no avail. I actually told her, verbally, that it would be more stylistically correct to reign in the bobbing and weaving just a wee tad (and believe me, I am LOATHE to offer advice to dance partners who don't explicitly ask for it; 99.999% of the time I'm content to just dance and adapt to her abilities; but this was ridiculous). No effect. I was having NO fun. Wanted to walk off the floor, but survived till the song was over at which point I made some excuse not to dance the next song. She asked me some question or another about Jonathan--who had just walked in, pointing out what a good dancer he is. I nodded and walked over to my corner. As the next dance ended, Jonathan walks by and greets me. Just by chance I happened to have a clear line of sight to The Girl at this precise moment, and watched her watching me. You could see her little wheels a turnin'. Master Yoda stops by, sez hello, chats for a minute or so. Again I watch her watching.

Time passes.

A bit later, she approaches me again. Merengue. I groan inwardly. But I decide to try one more time. BIIIIG Mistake. More flailing . . . and she's actually belligerent about what she's trying to do--fighting off my leads and slamming about however she sees fit. I excuse myself instantly when the song ends. She asks if I wouldn't like to continue dancing.

"No," I say, and leave it at that. But her reply is the kicker:

"Ok, well, then would you mind introducing me to your friend Jonathan? Or the cute bald black guy [that'd be Master Yoda]?"

My friend Jonathan? I don't even think the guy knows my name, but she's presumed that we're buddy-buddies and calculated that she can worm her way into the community through my "connections." She doesn't want to dance with any of the numerous beginner and intermediate guys who are scattered about the club (and there were a good many), because she's decided that she's too good for them and just wants to go straight to the top. I say this based upon her various actions and reactions and her behaviour as a dancer--on the dancefloor. If I won't dance with her, she'll just go ahead and dance with my "friends"--at least the ones she thinks are good (keep in mind that I was greeted by LOTS of people, including people in her generally ability bracket, though she's always gonna suck because she thinks she's already hot shit.)

Your Unerring Executor of Taste and Erudition was jissabout tuh draw blood he was biting his lip so hard. Somehow I refrained from telling her what I thought at that moment, but listen up, Smarm Princess: there is no Royal Road to Dance. Suck it up, deflate your ridiculous ego, and dance with anyone dumb enough to have you. I can assure you that from now on that will NOT be me. I at least have the good sense and self-awareness to KNOW that I have to PAY MY DUES in order to learn the dance and become a "sought after" partner on the scene.

Yuck.

The other woman I mentioned feeding to the poor innocent pidgeons is a regular at Stratos, and she commited a totally unpardonable sin in The Pseudo-Latino Bible. She arrived on the scene, danced with me, had fun, then noticed that I was at the lower end of the dancer spectrum about town (this was about 2.5 or 3 months ago . . . I've come a LOOOOOOONG way since then). From that point on she didn't dance with me again--always finding a reason to decline. Keep in mind that she was not a better dancer than I was. I was just wallpaper to her from that point forwards . . . for about 2 months or so. Then, suddenly--after I was "in" with all the cool kids and my dancing had improved--she wants to dance with me again. Makes an effort to seek me out and request dances.

No way, Chiquita. If folks like Shelley and Rene and Betsey can dance with intermediate and beginners (it's called "giving back to the community") even though they dance AMAZINGLY WELL, you can kiss my ass seven ways to Sabado (or Domingo, even) before you'll get another dance with me.

Pah! *spits*

And that's all for now.

Your Self-righteous Bastion of Truth and Good Taste,

---the Pseudo-Latino

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

A Groovy Movie and B.A.U.

After returning this very afternoon to a Theater Near You, Yours Truly emerges unscathed and highly recommends that you go see Jean-Pierre Jeunet's new film, A Very Long Engagement. The film stars Audrey Tautou, of Amelie fame, and has a good deal in common with that film in tone and technique. Perhaps for that reason, I wasn't as awestruck by this film as I was when I first discovered Amelie . . . but it is a wonderful film nonetheless. Jeunet couldn't make a bad movie if he tried.

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As a brief aside, I have to tell My Readers that SistrahSuplex made me bleed AGAIN! This time she managed to do so off of the dancefloor and without touching me. Apparently she used telepathy during our lunchbreak. Impressive! She's a talented girl, our PseudoGift. To her discredit, though, she did NOT go for a repeat and show up at Stratos this evening. She pooped the party, which, FYI, started even more slowly than usual and and never really got me fired up. The crowd was weighted heavily with the SalsaPassion crowd, and while they are perfectly nice folks--and great dancers--I don't really know them yet.

All in good time.

What this means is that I danced quite a bit, but nowhere near as much as I should have, and not with the dancers I should have approached. It was basically a Business As Usual evening. Nothing special. Just Yours Truly putting in floortime. Perhaps one thing was noteworthy: A bit later in the evening, Alice (of November 20th Milonga Fame) showed up and I asked her if she had yet been informed of my Horrible Crimes Against Tangumanity. "No," she sez. "Tell me what's going on." I do, though the story seems impossible to believe--involving as it does a community of so-called adults.

How silly it all is, eh? I'm still wondering exactly how the word got out . . . though I can't help but be amused that it did.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Flying Daggers. Ocean Club.

Two excellent Saturdays in a row. Maybe it's something in the water, or maybe it's just because everyone's already started with the month-long, end-of-year, passage-of-time-hence-passage-of-their-lives partying. Dunno. What I do know is that today was another great day, even though Saturdays have traditionally refused to offer reliable and consistant harbor to Yours Truly on His Pseudo-Voyage.

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The first great thing that happened to the Pseudo-Latino this Saturday, the 18th of December? "The House of Flying Daggers." This movie is remarkable. Fantastic. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous for both the eyes and ears. The sequences are imaginative, and the film bursting with beautiful symmetries of image and irony. And the plot? As a romantic tragedy, this film makes Shakespeare look like a rank amateur and--Glory! Hallelujah! Amen!---it avoids the cop-out ending hinted at throughout the final act. Excellent excellent film. Go see it, or be branded a dullard and a moron.

Next great thing? I had a quiet, peaceful day at home alone . . . catching up on simple things around the house and finally sitting down at the old laptop to craft a few posts to My Beloved Acolytes, Devotees, and Groupies. I love you all!

*blowing phony kisses, smugly waving, and throwing proverbial bones to you all; if you picture the pope-mobile driving around with Yours Truly inside that'll be about right*

Around 10pm I put myself slowly together, and headed over to the newly-reopened Ocean Club--at the corner of Arapaho and Knoll Trail--to see what all the buzz was about. The Ocean Club (formerly Blackberry's) is a well known Latin venue in this neck of the woods, but its heyday was before the onset of my Salsic Addiction. I've heard it mentioned so many times I couldn't count them . . . and so my curiosity was piqued. I met Dancer X (aka the PartyPoopatrix) shortly thereafter and the dancing was on! We danced pretty much every song of every Salsa set (they also play the usual Merengue, Bachata, and--because it's an 18+ club--Reggaeton), and had a nice, sweaty blast. It was good times. Note to Dancer X: you dance like a MOFO, you dork! So dispense with any reservations you have about your Salsoid Adequacy. Demons, I cast Thee Out of this Woman! Be gone! Depart!

Your Fearless Leader did do one STOOOOPID thing this evening (or, rather, stoooopidly did NOT do one thing) which not only negated (temporarily!) his "Fearless" status, but made him into a big fat pathetic WUSS: he was standing about 3 feet away from the unbelievably fatastic and (duh) beautiful Sandy during a Salsa set while Roberto was out on the floor dancing with someone else. Sandy was basically just looking around, bored, ready to dance. I figured that since they had TORTURED me during my last lesson, it would be reasonable to ask her for a dance. But . . . did I do it? Pah! No. Yours Truly was too PATHETIC and COWARDLY and CHICKENSHIT to merely turn towards her, smile, and ask her to dance. It was RIGHT THERE, friends: the BRASS RING. All I had to do was turn 90 degrees to my left and pull it. But noooOOOOOOOOO! Not THIS little WANKER! Unh-uh. [insert rooster noises here]. Coward! Loser! Failure!

*hanging my head in shame*

Despite this momentary lapse of reason the evening was great. Ben and Amber eventually turned up around midnight, claiming they had stopped by Gloria's on their way over to see how things were. I know better. Instead, Ambersita had stopped by the Mothership for a recharge of her Genetic Mutation, chronicled elsewhere, which allows her to dance Salsa for hours on end without breaking a sweat. Today's math lesson:

Ambersita = Sweatless Genetic Mutant

Ben danced with Amber, Amber danced with Ben, I danced with Amber and a whole slew of hapless female victims, eventually I had myself worked into such a dance-frenzy that I damn near danced with BEN (Ambersita was encouraging it by the way, no doubt a manifestation of some long-standing pansexual fantasy involving manly men, Guiness Stout, tree frogs, and a high-pressure garden hose).

After much sweating on the part of all non-alien participants in the evening's festivities, B & A accompanied the PL to J's 24/7, a diner on Midway, just south of Beltline. We recommendificate it highly. It has what they call "personality." There was a woman sitting near to us engaging in the age-old german custom of Neighbor-tabling, otherwise known as eavesdropping. She perked up when she clearly heard me say "Dolly Parton," which I--of course--didn't say. From then on she was part of our conversation, which was just as well, because I'm under the impression that Ambersita's superior officers have commanded her to widen her scope of alien inquiry (by which I hope they don't mean "increase probe size")--we wouldn't want her to fail in her mission now, would we?

Didn't think so.

Good night, kiddies.

Your,

---Pseudo-Latino

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

Clandestine. Covert. Compulsed.

Because the day's activities were largely Top Secret, I ain't gwan be tellin' yuh nuttin' 'bout 'em. What I CAN tell you is that I attended Intermediate Group Salsa class for the 3rd week running, and again danced the girl's part for a portion of the class. I'm actually starting to look forward to doing so, although when there are unknown guys in the class (as there were this evening) I get funny looks. Another noteworthy tidbit is that I was accompanied to class by Dancer X--with whom I have danced 3 out of the last 5 days . . . it's always a pleasure to find a fellow fanatic, and this woman qualifies. She's a total nutcase. An addict. She's Obsessed and Compulsed (not to say Disordered).

And yes, it takes one to know one.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

The Tango Terrorist?

Hysterically, the blacklisting continues . . . and it turns out it's not because I'm a COMMUNIST, but because I'm a TERRORIST!! How cool is that??? Read on as Yours Truly demonstrates the gaps of logic and good taste in the Edict just received from the Club de Tango of the Centro Argentino. Try to believe Your Hero when he tells you that this is actually meant to be taken SERIOUSLY, although it reads like too good to be true Satire. Enjoy (I know I did).

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Here is a reprinting of the official position of the Centro Argentino of DFW (which they posted in that Thread of Threads--"Enough is Enough!"):

Due to your publicly expressed aggresive comments directed to specific members of the DFW tango community on this website, I am forced to inform you that your presence will not be allowed in any of the future Club de Tango of the Centro Argentino of DFW activities. As president of this club I am responsible for the safety of all participants of its activities and we have zero tolerance for violence, threats, or wishes to inflict harm.

Signed: Daniel Ferrari 12/19/2004

To which must be added Daniel's direct electronic comment to me (which, in this case, I am certain isn't meant to be "private" and so I'm reprinting here):

We live in times were ANY aggresive actions or statements have to be considered as VERY dangerous, so we have.

Cool! So because there may be TERRORISTS out there, the Club de Tango of the Centro Argentino of DFW needs to be careful of The Pseudo-Latino? That's the FUNNIEST thing (and most embarrassing) I've heard in a LONG LONG time. Yer TOO funny, dood! You're so funny there should be a law against it! No, really! I mean, c'mon: "Zero tolerance?" I'm DYIN' with laughter over here! Zero tolerance for . . . ? Murder? Rape? Bad Tango Instruction? Boring Milongas? Oh, no . . . that's right . . . zero tolerance for ME! Excellent. But, since you've put this out there with a straight face, allow the Pseudo-Latino to reveal the inappropriateness of what you've said. M'k? Good. You claim you have zero tolerance for:

1. violence. Fine. Good! Excellent! No one you know or can dig up can point to an instance of violence involving Yours Truly--unless of course you're responsible for the safety of plates, sunroofs, or car doors. Go hire Hercule Poirot if you'd like, it won't help your flimsy case one iota. So, you can sleep well at night knowing that The Pseudo-Latino could continue to attend your events even while you faithfully and loyally discharge your responsibilities as Director of Homeland Milonga Security (now THAT is a funny website!)
2. threats. Fine. Good! Excellent! Lemme see . . . hmmmm . . . what is a "threat?" A threat is "An expression of an intention to inflict pain, injury, evil, or punishment." So . . . since I don't ANYWHERE express an intention to harm either of the loud-mouthed, presumptuous instructors whom I have verbally abused on this, my personal website, this point is also moot, and we can move on once again without any fear that you are shirking your official obligations as Protector of Thin-skinned, Timid and Tender Tangueros. WooHOOO! Two for two!
3. wishes to inflict harm. Now. Here we have a bit more challenging point. Ok. Not more challenging really, but at least more complicated. Well, ok, not complicated either. Perhaps . . . nah. This is no more substantive than the other points. Anyone with a modicum of good sense and erudition can see how absurd it is. Does my writing express a wish to actually inflict harm, or does it express sarcasm, visceral annoyance, and dislike using figurative violence? Duh.

Give me, my Readers, and yourself a break here. If you REALLY think there is the SLIGHTEST literal component to a comment like "If I didn't like pidgeons so much, I'd cut off your head and feed it to them" then I suggest you stop PRETENDING to be worried about my mental stability or inclination towards violence and call the police! I'm dead serious here. You (and others) are using my linguistic style as an excuse to cover your asses, cut your losses, play politics, or feel good about yourselves. But you can't have your cake and eat it too, honeybuns. Either I'm TRULY a danger, in which case you're hardly helping anything by excluding me from a couple of Milongas, or (and this one gets MY vote) you're blowing smoke up my ass and everyone else's and just grasping at the easiest available EXCUSE to exclude me because, well, that's just what you want to do! So what is it? Why don't you report me? Alert Law Enforcement to The Walking Pseudo-Timebomb of Pseudo-Terror! PLEASE!!! There are LIVES at stake here!

Aren't there?

Uh-huh. Right. Suuuuuuuure there are. In point of fact, it's just politics as usual, Daniel. Better lock your door because (*gasp*) The Evil Stalker Pseudo-Latino is prowling DFW! I don't generally giggle, but for you I'm gonna make an exception:

*giggle*

As your next act of orifice . . . errrrr . . . I mean office, I suggest you ban YOURSELF from all Centro Argentino Tango events since you made REAL (though very very polite) threats against Napoleon at the Christmas Milonga. I was standing on the floor not 5 feet away from you when you did it. While you're at it, I'm pretty sure you'll have to ban the majority of that event's attendees because MANY of them expressed to me their fervent "wishes to inflict harm" on that self-same gentleman. And, after all, didn't you just say that the Centro Argentino has "zero tolerance for violence, threats, or wishes to inflict harm." Right? Perhaps what you MEANT to say was "Zero point Three Six Four (0.364) tolerance for violence, threats, or wishes to inflict harm. Zero (0.0) tolerance for Non-members???"

*hoot!*

I am laughing my ASS off here, Danny-boy. Tears-streaming-down-my-face-uncontrollably type laughter we're talking about. Blubbering, gut-wrenching laughter.

Next time you open your dictionary, I suggest you flip to the "D" section and try this one on for size (trust me, it'll fit):

Main Entry: double standard
Function: noun
1 : BIMETALLISM
2 : a set of principles that applies differently and usually more rigorously to one group of people or circumstances than to another

If that doesn't work for you, you'll definitely have a good time browsing the "H"s:

Main Entry: hy·poc·ri·sy
Pronunciation: hi-'pä-kr&-sE also hI-
Function: noun

1 : a feigning to be what one is not or to believe what one does not; especially : the false assumption of an appearance of virtue or religion

As Ever I Remain Most Sincerely Yours,

His Highness,

---the Pseudo-Latino

Posted by earwicker at 11:41 AM | Comments (4)

Back from Black

Wherein the Moon rises over DFW, Yours Truly moves from Black to Indigo, Fred and Ginger demonstrate extreme patience, and steel-toes are contemplated to avoid Lloyd.

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A wonderful feeling it was to be dancing Tango again somewhere outside Pseudo-Latino World HQ and to be dancing it with my beloved Luna no less! We started by attending Beginner's Group Class 3 of 4 in Farmer's Branch with the infamous George and the stunning Jairelbhi. Or was it the stunning George and the infamous Jairelbhi? I guess that depends on whether you were to ask me, or Luna, eh? In any case, despite the impending Holidays most of the class was present and accounted for. Once again we worked on leading the follower into the cross (i.e. forcing the issue, as opposed to assuming she's just gonna do it) and on some slight variations to portions of the Basic 8. Though several in the class are able to look at G & J's current stance and say "oh. That's the same as '6' in the B8," or "that's 2," it's still too new for Yours Truly. Or perhaps I'm just a bit dense. Whatever the case, my body is picking up the motions a little faster than my mind is picking up the concepts.

The whole idea of Tango as a series of paranthetical insertions and elisions applied to the Basic 8 is an unusual way of thinking about dancing, and an interesting way. It is made possible only by the arbitrary relationship, in Tango, between the steps of the dance and the rhythm of the music. By arbitrary I don't mean that one isn't bound to the rhythmic grid of the unfolding music . . . one is (at least when one wishes to dance musically and well). What is arbitrary is the musical duration of any step. Depending on the speed of the music and the mood I wish to convey, my basic walk can correspond to eighth-notes, quarter-notes, half-notes . . . and it can change from step to step. This is utterly unlike Salsa, where--in the local DFW on-one style--the dancer is always stepping on eighth-notes 1, 2, 3 [pause] 5, 6, 7 [pause]. Of course there are different styles of Salsa, each of which executes the Quick-Quick-Slow pattern in slightly different ways . . . but the basic steps always unfold in a predictable way against the music.

Not so with Tango . . . a fact which makes it challenging in a very different way from any other dance I've seen. Of course it doesn't make it MORE challenging, just differently challenging. We dig it!

As a matter of fact, the Royal We dug it so much this evening that We headed over to G & J's after the Group Lesson for a Long Lost Private Lesson (last week's lesson didn't happen due to my Newly Acquired Status as Blacklisted Persona Non Grata, I've recently moved up the ladder to IndigoListed, or maybe DarkgrayListed). Although it had only been 5 days since I had danced Tango in some form or another, it felt like it had been a month. Everything felt wrong. I needed a refresher on the boleos we had covered last time; I couldn't remember the trick to get the follower into the cross; I was nearly falling over when I tried to do a single back ocho to accompany Tres Ochos. Two left feet; one crippled. Etc, etc. Patient and enthusiastic as usual, and having to teach Luna as well as me, the Fab Furlongs (aka Fred and Ginger) got me back up to speed--more or less, and then made a quick transition from Tres Ochos to something brand-new: Sacadas. These puppies kicked my ass. I'm not usually timid during a dance, but the sacada involves stepping in between the follower's legs and using one's own leg to displace the follower's. The risk of toe-steppage is (or seems to be) very high. So I sucked at this little combination . . . gotta start somewhere, I suppose. I've decided to buy Jairelbhi some steel-toed dance shoes for Xmas so I can just stomp around at will without worrying about a lawsuit from Lloyd's of London--where her talented digits are of necessity insured.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Dancing thru SiC and SiN

In which Our Intrepid Iconoclast grows some NADS and dabbles in SiN-- to His betterment and the Glory of Spongebob the Squarepanted One.

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The Luna-tic was in town with her two MoonBrats (takes one to know one) and--after a mild case of NADS (clearly I've been spending too much time with the PseudoGift)--I ended up at the home of Ms. Luna's paternal progenitor for a nice holiday meal and a few rounds of Salsa-in-the-Neighborhood (SiN).

Clearly there wasn't enough dancing on my calendar.

For those of you not-so-in-the-know, SiN is essentially the same as Salsa-in-the-Club (SiC) with a few subtle differences. For instance, it isn't SiC to dance with dogs who are snarling and snapping about one's legs. That's SiN. It isn't SiC to spin one's partner onto the sofa or to choreograph one's moves to the oscillation of a remote-controlled ceiling fan. That's SiN. It isn't SiC to dance with one young girl while another--even younger--wraps herself around one's feet and refuses to let go, the mother looking on in feigned consternation. That is, however, the very essence of SiN-ful dancing. There is no SiC-ness which requires a dancer to suffer the ridicule of happily inebriated family and friends, but with SiN such bombardments are par for the course. SiC DJs rarely spin Salsa-Salsa-XmasHandbells-SpongebobSquarepants-Salsa . . . SiN-ful DJs delight in sets so constructed.

You get the idea.

This was an evening, albeit short, of SiN-ful dancing and warm holiday cheer. Do'ya feel it yet?

Good.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Snowfall

A lovely-yet-unexpected blast of arctic air helped usher in some Xmas cheer, some bad traffic Juju, and an unanticipated Leçon de Tango.

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The weather played havoc with the roads which played havoc with Dallas Drivers which played havoc with the traffic which played havoc with me, keeping me away from the nefarious and oh-so-annoyingly gifted Ratbastardo. By "weather" I mean "hours-long snowfall [yes, it sez SNOWfall] in sub-freezing temperatures" which equates to "really slick roads and millions of folks who don't know how to drive on 'em." Both of the major arteries of vehicular egress from PL World HQ were completely blocked off. Zero movement. Zilch.

Pah!

It also kept Dancer X from showing up at HQ for a long-awaited practice session.

Pah!

Not to be denied, I contacted Fred and Ginger to schedule a last-minute private lesson (their group classes had been cancelled due to . . . yup . . . weather) and spent 35 minutes snaking my way to their home through several iced-over subdivisions. Suburbia had become Siberbia. (ba-dum-bum). Mother Nature was cordially invited to kiss my Pseudo-Latino Pseudo-Ass as I arrived--thank you very much--right on time. The payoff? Molinetes. Grapevines. Sacada review. I kicked Mother Nature's ass to get here . . . but she sent the Molinete to say "Vengeance is MINE!"

And it was.

Still . . . it's hard to be too upset or frustrated when one is surrounded by a beautiful, white, rare and snowy wonderland.

And I was.

Tomorrow: off for Houston and my four-legged family.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Tangorrhoids?!

In which I drive too damn long, drink WAYYYY too much coffee, moosh some mutts and catch some drool, discover a pulse, dance Tango (in public, without violence!) and Our (Dallas') Reputation Precedes us.

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A break in the routine, finally. There was time to sleep in and catch my proverbial breath. There was time to avoid my xmas shopping for yet another day. There was time to pack up the Pseudo-Mobile, and head down to Houston; time for Holiday Cheer and Pseudo-Chihuahuas (who will be back with Their--and Your--beloved Maestro after his fast-approaching, top-secret, New Year's journey). There was time to relax. To unwind. There was time . . . for whatever.

After an uneventful arrival in H-town and a couple hours functioning as Head Drool Catcher (thanks Matthew!), His Bombastitude met up with Luna and her eldest MoonChild at Crossroads Cafe. Located at the corner (more or less) of Kirby Drive and University in Rice Village, Crossroads has a weekly Milonga hosted by a young russian gentleman who dances Argentine Tango like a dream. Simply wonderful. Even better, he has assembled a crowd the likes of which we sorely need in DFW: enthusiastic, unpretentious, talented, and FUN. An excellent mix of young and young-at-heart. Not surprisingly, folks found out that the Pseudo-Latino resides in Dallas. They found out that I have just started learning Tango. They asked, rather bluntly, if His Grace had "gotten sucked into that horrid Pavadita crowd!"

Having at this point said NOTHING AT ALL about the ongoing situation, you can imagine my surprise.

"Funny you should mention that," His Pseudoness replied, ". . . but it's been quite the opposite. I've been blacklisted by that crowd, actually."

"Blacklisted? Really?! You must be doing something right, then," came the universal response, generally followed by some story or another about a Milonga or workshop attended in Dallas.

A couple of these stories had actually taken place in Houston. Impressively, one was a first-hand account of events involving . . . . uhhhh . . . a "prominent" Pavaditoid at an event in Buenos Aires. Without any prompting or hints from me, names were named. I heard the term "Tango Nazis," followed by "Tangorroids" and "Tangorrhea."

Yes. They said "Tangorrhea."

With imagery like that, it's fortunate I wasn't eating at the time.

It's important to keep in mind that ALL of this commentary was volunteered before I actually told anyone how or why I had been spontaneously excommunicated from WeenerWorld. When I told them why (and no, folks, I didn't leave anything out. I told them explicitly about those "violent" comments, and those hungry pidgeons) there was incredulous laughter, a few cries of "pathetic" and one "yup. Sounds about right." Of course I gave them the 4-1-1 on pseudoLatino.com so they could experience the Madness for themselves and make up their own minds.

Anyhoot . . . all such conversations aside, this Milonga was excellent. Good times. We DeeEffDubyoids need to clone it. The venue was similar to Dunn Bros in DFW, but I was able to navigate a little better than I was at that event--despite the fact that Luna and I are both completely inept at this dance and kept stepping on one another's toes and just generally screwing up. The regulars were a mix of locals, russians, and argentines--friendly and encouraging one and all. They kept grabbing random customers (awkward university-aged senoritas sitting innocently in front of their laptops) and teaching them the B8 right on the dance floor. Even the MoonChild (a very wise--and wise-assed--13-year-old; the acorn didn't fall far from the oak) spent more time dancing than sitting, and found herself more than a little intoxicated by Argentine Tango when danced amongst these people. Lucky for the future of Tango we brought her here and not to . . . well . . . you know.

One of the regulars at this event, and the one who had invited Luna in the first place, was a gentleman named Derik Rawson. Like Yours Truly, Derik is a citizen of the world and utterly incapable of brevity. This is often a good thing, popular aphorisms to the contrary notwithstanding, and led to some lively stories and a good discussion or two between dances. One of his many projects (I don't think the guy ever sleeps) is tangoworldwide.com. So far the site isn't much to look at, but it's a nice idea. My thanks to Derik for being such a great host. Be sure to stop by and wish him well if you're ever in Houston on a Thursday evening. Be prepared for some stories. Long ones.

As far as the MUSIC was concerned, it was a bit old-school sans scratch and the tandas were demarcated with really annoying cortinas. When I say annoying, I mean that the cortinas were brief snippets of EXCELLENT music, always disappearing after about 20 seconds of tantalizing wonderfulness. These are songs I wanted to hear in the tandas themselves: Piazzolla, Gotan, Piazzolla, Tango Chill Out, Piazzolla, etc. I talked about this with the Russian host, who told me I was a violent cad and a threat to the community and that I was no longer welcome to dance at his Milonga . . . oh . . . wait! . . . no . . . I'm getting confused here (wrong city) . . . what he actually said was that he also loved that music and was intending to put it into the set. He was unsure how much to include because the reaction to it was generally mixed. He wanted to expose folks to it gradually, over time, without running off the old-schoolers right away. Better to convert them than to repel them, after all. He promised that the next time I returned he would play a couple of tandas to warm my Pseudo-Heart.

Fair enough.

---the PL

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

Xmas Adam. Xmas Eve.

I don't really know what that means, but I thought it sounded good. The DFW Winter Storm from Wednesday night followed Your Salsic Saviour down to H-town, where snow (yup, snow; the white stuff) blanketed the Pseudo-Latino Family Homestead with 3 inches of Icy Goodness. Tomorrow morning will be the first white Xmas ever recorded in Houston. Not surprisingly, the Pseudo-Chihuahuas romped and played as someone (not I, nuh-unh!) threw snowballs at them. Some shopping was done (yes, the PL is a card-holding member of the Last-Minute Losers club). Gifts were exchanged with Mama Latino and the Chihuahuas. Fattening foods were ingested . . . over and over and over and over again.

Amidst 8 oversized dog legs, The Weary Traveller lays His head to rest . . . not exactly a manger, but the company was better. Dreams of sugarplums danced in His head. He slept, only waking once to catch Santa Claus trying to steal His new dance shoes. Bad Santa! And now, Dead Santa.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Merry Xmas, Dahlinks

The Pseudo-Latino would like to Wish You and Yours a very happy and healthy holiday.

Posted by earwicker at 12:00 PM

Leprosy. Possession. Lube.

In which Yours Truly celebrates His 5th Monthiversary, is possessed by Satanic Demons, lubes his ears, has social intercourse with a Genetic Mutant, the Mutant's friend, and a Dancer named "X", adores Fred and Ginger, and witnesses an unfortunate incident involving a riding crop and a man in uniform.

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Though unexpected, this was another of those memorable days in one's dance history. Things began normally: after a leisurely day in and around the PLWHQ, the head Pseudophile met once again with DancerX for a pre-lesson rehearsal (well . . . after a pre-pre-lesson-rehearsal mega-meal at Casa Navarro). We worked over and over and over and over again on the mechanics of the Molinete and Yours Truly even tried to steal a seemingly simple move he had observed in the movie Tango. Essentially we just warmed up to some good tunes, throwing in all the things we'd been working on, and then cruised on over to Fred and Ginger's for a private lesson. I say "cruised" because I had to keep pulling DancerX's head back in the car every time we passed a good-looking guy! She kept shouting things like "Yo BAY_BEE! Shake yore GROOVE THANG!" and "Hey there little man . . . want some candy?" This didn't really bother me too much until she did it to the motorcycle cop. Something about leather boots and riding crops.

It was SOOOOO embarrassing. I'm thinking to myself the whole time "I just can't take this gurl ANYWHERE!"

Once she had herself back under control (I had to offer the policeman two tickets to "COPS, the Musical" and a season pass to the Dallas BDSM Museum), we had a really good lesson . . . picking apart the Molinete, re-working Boleos, nailing the "movie move" and getting an introduction to the mechanics of llevadas or "drags." Fred, Ginger, and DancerX are all Your Hero's Heroes: amazing dancers, patient and tolerant of my ineptitude, and ridiculously encouraging. Not to mention they're catching a little s.h.i.t. for continuing to associate with me aka Yours Truly aka the Tango Leper [editor's note: previous term courtesy of the PseudoGift, who coined it whilst giggling in typical schoolgirl fashion].

Thus far all good, but the Tango Leper aka the Salsa Pretender has had MANY such days in his 5 month tenure as Dancer-in-Chief. So . . . what's left? Why was this night special? In a word . . .

Carson's.

After wishing Fred and Ginger a fondue (and a fond adieu, even), DancerX and the PL switched stylistic gears. Salsa was next on the agenda. As we arrived, Jonathan was giving Ratbastardo's freebie lesson and we found out that the band for the evening was a no-show. This was not encouraging. To make matters worse, they took down the free buffet at least 15 minutes early (bastards!).

Then the music started.

DancerX and I hit the floor and started right in with the first Salsa and I have to report, Dear Readers, that of the 5 hours I was inside the club I danced for over 4 of them. Almost literally, I never sat down and never stopped moving my feet. The fever was upon me. Possession. Evil Demon Dance Spirits--recently homeless after a rash of local Southern Baptist revivals--inhabited my body and forced me to move. And move. And move. And move. The standard dance sets (pop, hip hop, rock, funk, r&b and the like) wound me up even more. For those, I just stood in my little out-of-the-way corner dancing by and for myself. Strangely enough, a lot of new footwork from my Tango lessons started creeping into my movement. Ochos and boleos were inserted seamlessly into "Kiss" and "Play that Funky Music" and "Billy Jean" and "Stayin' Alive." I'm not sure whether Fred and Ginger would be proud or horrified, but it felt GOOD. Awesome! The more I danced the better it felt and the more oblivious I became to everything around me. By the time Ambersita arrived with her friend Kevin, the Pseudo-Latino was a grooving, gyrating mass of sweaty flesh. Drenched. The sickness continued: Salsa, Merengue, Reggaeton, Hip hop, funk, pop . . . again and again. Dancing in my corner, I looked up and found I was dancing with a very attractive woman around my age. "You can MOVE," she sez. So could she (every muscle in her body. Independently. Oy!) The cycle continues, I look up again . . . another beautiful girl has approached. "What's your name?" she asks. I answer. "Yours?" I ask back. She answers (all this while dancing, of course). "We've been watching you dance," she sez, indicating a table full of libidinous young things there to celebrate someone's birthday (hers, it turns out), "and we think you're great." What can I say but "thank you?" I'm NOT great, of course, just overflowing with Demons and having a great time . . . if they think that's great, I'm not gonna argue. Arguing takes time away from MOTION, and it's all about motion at this point. Dancing, dancing, dancing. I look up into the eyes of a new Carson's acquaintance from a couple weeks back named (I think) Julie. She sez "if you're gonna dance, take me out on the floor and let's DANCE." What am I, stoopid? Of course I went. We danced hip hop. Then it changed to Salsa, a dance to which she's relatively new, but she's good--with talent and drive to learn. As we leave the floor, she sez "I like the way you move." Damn! Is it something in the water tonight? What's going on?! If this keeps up, they're gonna have to lube my ears or widen the door to get me out of the place . . . . The club is getting packed, so I dance with Ambersita off in my little corner. She refuses to sweat, so I compensate. Wildly. She's an alien, I just know it. But she'll dance with me . . . and that's what matters. We dance. More and more and more. Kevin's watching. He tells us we're lookin' "hot" and tells me I've "got some moves." I place an order for KY Jelly with the watiress, who slaps me promptly then apologizes when I tell her it's for my ears. At this point my feet and calves feel like jello, but I can't stop and don't really try. Red Bull keeps me full of caffeine and electrolytes. Ambersita keeps me chugging away on the latin tracks. Lynette and Norma are also present and accounted for, and suffer me for a few songs here and there (Lynette has moved away to Oklahoma, which is bad news for DFW dance). The club closes. As the bouncers herd us towards the doors, I'm still dancing. An Indian couple smiles at us, telling us they had fun watching us dance. Quickly I lube up my ears, have Kevin and the Genetic Mutant force my swollen head through the front doors and into silent, musicless freedom.

It was over. Schluß. Ende. Fini. Alles hat ein ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei. Etc, etc.

This was a night of Satanic Possession and Dancing to be remembered for many moons to come, and it just so happens, by coincidence, to be exactly 5 months to the day since I met Ms. Amber and Ben whilst taking my first steps EVER as a dancer, at Therapy Lounge.

Happy Monthiversary to me.

Your Salsic Salvation and Tango Leper,

---the PL

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