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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.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::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
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 December 4, 2004 11:59 PM