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Enough is still Enough

Thank you! Thank's very much! (*bowing* ) It's good to be back home in Dallas with my peeps (*blows kisses, bows*) . . . Thank you! I know, I know, you missed me soooooo much these past few days as I did all manner of wondrous things. Most excitingly, I attended the Antipanico Tango Workshop in Sacramento with Sebastian Arce and Marianna Montes. Your Hero returns, Triumphant. . . at least compared to last April's outing. Although light years behind Fred and Ginger (who were also in attendance), I think I was able to represent DFW's local Tangoids admirably. Nothing embarrassing, I promise . . . I even got a couple of ooohs and ahhhhs during Saturday night's Milonga when I responded truthfully ("10 months") to the usual question ("So how long have you been dancing Tango?") The level of dancing at this workshop is uneven, but generally quite high (and some of the folks have haughty attitudes to go with their abilities--what a turnoff), so I'm justifiably proud of my performance and overall progress. It must be said that Fred and Ginger completely and totally kicked ASS all weekend, dancing so well that the Maestros were paying them special attention and giving them a little extra help (although I don't think that our humble local couple even really noticed it too much; 'ts ok, I noticed on their behalf). I hope you all appreciate what you have here in DFW in the personage of these two folks: energy, enthusiasm, talent, fun, genuine concern for both the dance and the community, and all of that WITHOUT A STICK UP THEIR ASSES! It's really quite amazing, particularly given the number of rectally-implanted boughs we have here in DFW. Not to be completely and totally predictable . . . but speaking of sticks up asses. . . .

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The Anal Bede finally mustered the courage to speak directly with me, rather than trying to guilt Fred and Ginger into doing his dirty work for him. As I mentioned a short while back, the Anal Bede finally got with the whole internet thing and (gasp!) was finally able to see my humble little blog--that pinnacle of Truth, Love, and the American Way you so understandably admire--in full and living color. Stumbling over himself in a bilious, spasmodic and arhythmic fit (at least it amuses me greatly to imagine him doing so . . . and in one of his smarmy-used-car-salesman what-do-you-mean-I'm-not-elegant "Tango Pimp " outfits) he immediately picks up the phone to ask GINGER to rein me in. Hello? What's up with that? Does this make sense to anyone who isn't sporting a rectally located cerebral cortex?? While F & G are my instructors and, yes, even my friends, they are ultimately people who have about as much influence upon, and control over, my actions as George W. Bush has over his inability to formulate grammatically coherent sentences. Meaning they have absolutely none. They give me lessons because (1) I pay them to do so, (2) I'm a hard-working, dedicated, passionate student and (perhaps) (3) we all love what we're doing and enjoy working on it together. They may have other reasons for all I know, but I'm pretty certain of these. Because they are also my friends, I listen to them when they tell me they wish I'd let this whole blog thing drop and enumerate their reasons for feeling that way. They're entitled to their opinion--as are we all--but I think they're wrong. Or rather, they're wrong insofar as it isn't me who won't let it go. I haven't written about the Sorry Old Bede in MONTHS and MONTHS (9, as it turns out), because I haven't been writing and because even if I had he's not been on my radar--he's . . . well . . . a rather boring topic of conversation anyway. And most of you Lurkers had let it go, too. Right? You were dancing with me, doing your thing, having a gay olde Time. Right? Right. But then Buddy Bede finally joined the late twentieth century (don't wanna hit the twenty-first too fast; might sprain sumpthin')--not in his dancing, mind you, which is still solidly archaic--and poof!!: "OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT MEAN STUFF ABOUT ME RIGHT THERE ON GOOGLE FOR EVERYONE TO SEE!!!!!" And so it comes to my attention that many are quietly, in hushed tones, talking about this crap and taking sides again.

Oy fucking VEY!

Enough already!

Can we not get the fuck OVER it, my friends? I'm not talking behind anyone's back: I think Jeramy Bede is a terrible teacher, a highly overrated dancer of Tango considering how long he's been working at it, and not a very bright guy. Is he the worst in town? Hardly. But he's a royal buzzkill, and he's the one with whom I have the most direct experience. He makes Tango look like boring geriatric smarm (BGS) to many young (or young at heart) and vibrant outsiders who are interested in learning about one of the sexiest, most passionate, expressive and dynamic dances in the Western world. He's the one I have witnessed demonstrating proudly his BRUTAL ignorance of the music upon which his own chosen dance is based; he's the one who insulted in one fell swoop an entire group of Latino dancers with whom I associate, openly questioning the dedication and ability of dancers who, individually and collectively, can outdance him using nothing but their genitalia, a garden hose, a drop of 3-in1 oil, and a pet rock. Do I give a flying fuck whether or not he was instrumental in building the DFW Tango community? Of course not. Why should I? No one (except a tenured professor or an ex-president) gets to rest on his laurels and suck up praise for something he did years ago. What matters is what is happening NOW. And right NOW everything he stands for is anathema to DFW Tango's ongoing health. He's a closed system. A non-learner. A passive-aggressive, cliquish, artistically arch-conservative grade-schooler in (really) bad pimp suits sporting an LDM* and oozing smarm from every pore. He is a walking icon for the evolutionary unfitness of the local Tango community's old Status Quo. Don't believe me? Go check out the size of his classes. Go check out the size of ANY of the Old Garde's classes. Shrinking faster than Yours Truly's Thingamabob in a tub of ice water. What you'll find is a tiny trickle of poor, defenseless newbies . . . desperately trying to find a PULSE somewhere amongst the Tango Cadavers. Most abandon ship altogether, and those that remain change boats in mid stream to join . . . well, you know whose classes they're going to, don'tcha?

Ya. I thought so.

So sure . . . I think the Bedester is a giant pimple on the ass of the local Tango scene. Ten months ago, as a fledgling dancer and a neophyte community member I spent basically all of my extra time and money taking lessons and attending events. I learned what I could, even from The Anal Bede . . . and then I wrote this post, wherein I call a spade a spade and a Used Car Salesman a Used Car Salesman. It was, and is, just one man's opinion. It's the RIGHT one (duh), but it's just an opinion. Since then I've spent several thousand dollars and hundreds of hours learning and practicing. And my opinion has only solidified. Naturally some of you will disagree. Some of you are convinced that not only does The Anal Bede NOT suck, but that au contraire mon ami he's an "elegant" dancer and an excellent teacher. I'm happy that you think so. You found someone whose methods and abilities speak to you, work for you, or what have you. AWESOME, yo. RIGHTEOUS! Enjoy it. Feel free to spread the word. Listen . . . I'll even help you help The Big Goober to counteract my po' lil vituperative blog. If you can find (or manufacture from thin air) some positive links about the Dancing Darwinian Doofus, send 'em to the PseudoLatino and Yours Truly will help you get the word out. That's how magnanimous I am. Just like that: WHAM! What a guy, eh? Perhaps we can put together a benefit concert to offset my negativism? We could call it Bede Aid I. Maybe Bob Geldof will help us organize it? I mean, shit, he got Pink Floyd back together.

But I digress. Here's the deal: Jeramy and Linda pulled me aside after my rehearsal last Thursday and asked if I couldn't take my links off of Google [insert loud guffawing noises here]. I explained (gently and politely!) that it isn't possible, that I didn't register my site with any search engine and that those links appear automatically based on a periodic crawl through cyberspace performed to catalogue and rank ALL the content on the internet. I refused (and continue to refuse) to take the offending post(s) down because (1) I believe what I wrote, (2) it is part of a very therapeutic chronicle charting a particularly difficult period of my life and I value it in that capacity, without regard for the local, short-term specifics of any single post--it's part of a greater whole, and (3) it's just my private blog . . . he is, and all of you are, free to post anything you want, in any quantity you desire, in an effort to curtail the so-called effects of my anti-Anal Bede rants. Anyway . . . I was asked to give the Sorry Old Bede a nickname, a la Fred and Ginger, so that my posts MIGHT, in the future, PERHAPS not turn up so high in the results listing when googling for the Dancing Darwinian Doofus by his real name. I considered this option, but have rejected it as well. The only thing I WILL do (and it'll be done as soon as someone scrounges up some links and hands 'em to me: here's one for starters) is to put links on the original post which say, basically: this is just my opinion, here are some folks who disagree with me. Fair enough.

What does ANY of this have to do with you? Well . . . if you're even reading this, then someone--and I guaranTEE you it wasn't me--has babbled and whispered and gossiped about it until you came to see for yourself. Last time this happened the wagons were circled and I was blacklisted officially (by the hysterically funny Centro Argentino) and unofficially (by the Pavadita Nazis). Nine months later you can see how much good THAT did. And now word drifts back to my oh-so-sensitive PseudoLatino ears that The Anal Bede is out there calling people to arms, and otherwise doing whatever one does when one is an insecure and mediocre Anal Bede trying to defend one's turf. For the most part this is funny (no. Not "ha ha" funny), except for the disturbing fact that ButtBedeBoy has dragged Fred and Ginger into the whole mess--implying that they are in some way, small or otherwise, culpable in this matter. Huh?!?! They teach me. Period. You should know the spiel by now: George Bush. Bad Grammar. Etc. Stop the insanity/inanity! I understand the hysteria on Old Bede's side: very very few people take his classes for long (cuz they--the classes that is--are boring and sucky), his influence, such that it was, is waning, and yet the community is growing by leaps and bounds. In my no-longer-outsider's opinion, Fred and Ginger are largely responsible for that growth. They have unbelievably wonderful attitudes, they fart more musically than the Bede will ever dance, they are young and attractive, and their classes are fun, encouraging and utterly devoid of the faux-Argentine bullshit wannabe dogma floating around other parts of the community (e.g. "THAT music isn't 'real' Tango" or "If it isn't close embrace it isn't really 'Argentine'" or "One must never talk during a Tanda" or what have you).

Folks! Stop the Madness! The Bede is what he is--take him or leave him as you will, and I am who I am--take me or leave me as you will. But, really . . . who gives a rat's ass?! I surely don't. Just go dance: with him, with me, with whomever you prefer. Have fun. Refuse to wear condoms. Buy lots of music and attend lots of classes. Pick up babes and have wild kinky sex--most of it oral. Take time to look at Candice's Tango photos and just try not to get a boner (guys) or a wet one (ladies). Do whatever you want. Just STOP with all this grade school nonsense. M'k?

Thank you.

And a note to you, Anal Bede: the site stays as it is (with the addition of any pro-Anal Bede links you can dig up). The internet is wild and free and still profoundly anarchic. If you want to live in the 20th Century (again, I'm a nice guy and don't want to rush you into the 21st), you'll just have to accept its rules for what they are. Best wishes to you as you dive in FAR over your poor, air-filled head.

My Benevolent Love to One and All (Aliens especially),

Your,

---pseudoLatino

 

 

 

*) Little Douchey Moustache, with thanks to Rob Constable and Paul Reller

Posted by earwicker at 05:54 PM | Comments (0)

Pimp Pulsations. Slithy Troves

The evening started well with a refresher course during the Advanced Class. Most of the usual suspects were in attendance, and I particular enjoyed dancing with the ladies on hand this evening, each of whom suffered my ineptitude with grace and poise. An additional shout out to The Bearded Lady (she of the shoe fetish) who was feeling a bit under the weather this evening and was unable to attend either the class or the subsequent rehearsal (on which more later). You were missed, fair lady. Get some rest, and feel better soon. Without you 'twas brillig, and the slithy troves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. Gimble indeed!

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And though I'm loathe to bring it up, and though the consequences of these posts are already waiting in the wings, I should mention that I had dealings with the Sorry Olde Bede tonight as well. He pulled me aside DURING my rehearsal, at his convenience. We went round and round again on the same old topics. I reiterated that I believe everything I've written here, and tried to explain to him that the WAY I have written it is full of exaggeration because I write as a character, a fictional entity known as the Pseudo Latino. I make this clear in the welcoming post to pseudolatino.com. Enter at your own risk. These annals have been written in this style from day one and they don't change merely because some reader or another is incapable of separating what they read here from what they see before them. The PseudoLatino is as crass and profane as his Puppetmaster is courteous and friendly, but the essence of the song remains the same. On a more amusing note, the TangoPimp did manage to surprise Your Intrepid ToeTapper at least once during our little tete-a-tete. Refering to my orignal post he tells me, with a pulsating vein popping out on his forehead, that "if you use words like that again, you'll get your chance to take me out back and we'll see who beats the shit out of whom." (The "whom" was added by me, to make him sound a bit more eloquent that he actually is). OOooooooooo. Real threats of violence! Nifty. The TangoPimp is bustin' out!

*sigh*

Your Fav-o-rite,

---the pseudoLatino

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

Friday Night Lights

Your Talent-free Tanguero took advantage of a last-minute rehearsal cancellation to practice with the Bearded Lady instead--nearly 3 hours of intense post-Sacramento workout. Why, one may reasonably ask, was Your rehearsal cancelled at the last moment, Mr. PseudoLatino, sir? Well. You will perhaps remember my mention of consequences? Consequences which were waiting in the wings? Yes. They've moved much closer now. Berlioz' March to the Scaffold comes to mind. Dies Irae. The Nazgul. Take your pick. In any case, the sense of impending doom was vastly overshadowed by my practice session with the Valerina. It was tres cool. I can't even begin to tell you how much I love dancing Tango with this woman. We were speaking recently about why we click so well on the dancefloor and she observed, "I think we hear the same song." I think that's a perfect and beautiful way of saying it and it makes me . . . well . . . unbelievably lucky. She makes me look good time and time and time again, and our rehearsal tonight added some nifty new moves to our arsenal. It's too bad she can't make tomorrow night's Milonga (grrrrrrrrrr), but I'll take what I can get. Thanks a million, Beard-o.

Yours in Humility,

---the pseudoLatino

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

Saturday Night Fever

After a day spent crawling about in the bowels of Microsoft's Enterprise Library for .NET, Your Rose-chewing Tango Hack was at his wit's end. Visions of Genetically Mutated Aliens made it hard to concentrate and the gorgeous weather demanded that some action be taken. But somehow it just wasn't happening. I had tried in vain to contact Fred and Ginger regarding details of those oh-so-imminent consequences. But no luck. So . . . sinking with a glass of wine and a well-deserved Ativan into a gloomy bit of fatalism and self-loathing, I cranked up the iPod and began dancing right here at home. Tango, tango, tango. About 9:15pm I noticed that I had missed a call from the Bearded Lady, and listened with growing excitement as she informed me via voicemail of a change of heart: she was going to the Milonga after all. WooHOO! I was changed and out the door in a matter of minutes and arrived at the Ballroom at Preston at 10 o'clock sharp. I have to admit that this is the first time I have ever danced Tango with a warm, glowing buzz . . . and it was great fun. To my surprise, the place was rather full: Fred (sans Ginger), Mother Theresa, Judge Judy, The Bearded One (of course), and many many more. I warmed up with Mother Theresa and then had a wonderful Tanda with my favorite German-speaking Russkie Mila (Wie geht's Dir?) before snagging the Valerina (who, it must be said, was dressed to KILL on this particular evening. Lucky lucky OTIS!) and cutting loose. What a great night! I think I only sat out a single Tanda, just to catch my breath and relax a little, and then continued dancing until the lights came up. The Evil Consequences finally started coming into focus as the crowd departed. I said "bye" to Judge Judy, who scarcely acknowledged that I had spoken to her, and Fred himself evaded questions about the cancelled rehearsal simply saying "we'll talk." Uh oh. "We'll talk" is always a bad sign. On my way home I contacted an inside source who said "it's gonna be bad. Your last post was just too mean-spirited" Oy. Mean-spirited? It's my fault the guy wears bad suits and can't teach to save his life? Anyhoot . . . stay tuned for this, the most recent punishment in the ongoing Saga of the Tango Leper as soon as it is announced.

Until then, Tango til they're sore.

---the pseudoLatino

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

Sunday Afternoon Blues; Payin' Dues

The die is cast, the ballots are in, the Oracle has spoken. The PseudoLatino is once again and officially a persona non grata in the DFW Tango community. I can (probably) attend Milongas, but no more private lessons or classes with Fred and Ginger. This would appear to be for three primary reasons: (1) I once again told the truth about the TangoPimp, (2) people can't seem to fathom that I can be such a nice, light-hearted, and fun guy in person while maintaining such an aggressive, blunt and combative online persona--so surely I must somehow be unstable and dangerous, and (3) in light of (2) I have put my friends within the community in a difficult position. They defended me the first time and feel now as though they have been proved wrong about me, going so far as to suggest that I may need to seek some "help" in this regard.

Well that's just silly.

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I will say it again: the PseudoLatino is an online character whom I have used for well over a year to purge my own inner demons. It is a place to vent. To engage in hyperbole and experience catharsis. The PseudoLatino opinions are mine, but his wording is different. Although this is just a crappy little blog maintained by a mediocre, sophomoric writer (note to that OTHER instructor: ALL humor is a priori sophomoric), it nonetheless stands in a long tradition of real writers who have used pseudonyms and noms de plume to express more controversial points of view or to step outside the usual limitations of polite self-expression. The discrepancy between myself and the PseudoLatino no more points towards personality issues on my part than Molly Bloom's closing soliloquy in Ulysses indicates gender-role ambiguity or homosexual tendencies in James Joyce. Anyone heard of Florestan and Eusebius? Sheesh.

I do apologize to Fred and Ginger for putting them in an awkward position, though I think it far less awkward than they believe. I say to Ginger that if the only way to have friends is to remain silent when people are destroying something one loves, then perhaps it is better to forego friends. I don't believe those are the only options, but you seem to think so, and perhaps you are right. You think my posts are mean-spirited, I think they're honest and that they address a soul-sucking blight in the middle of our community: Jeramy Bede. We all know that I'm not the only one who holds these opinions or who expresses them behind closed doors. I'm just willing to say them aloud, without duplicitousness or cowardice, perhaps hoping that with a little controversy something might eventually change. To the community at large I can only say that you should cherish Fred & Ginger's presence, because it's the best hope you have of transcending the staid, fragile, backwards-looking, unimaginative, smugly self-serving, superficial cliquishness that is so deadly pervasive amongst the self-styled DFW Tango elite. And with that, for now, I'm off. Those of you who would like to practice or give me a piece of your mind or whatever, feel free to contact me: jwb3mng at-sign hotmail dot com. Or post a comment below--I will approve them all. Otherwise, I'll see you at the Milongas.

Or not.

Peace be with You (and as ever: beware the TangoPimp!),

Your Fellow Tangoid and all around nice guy,

---jim (with a little help from the pseudoLatino)

Posted by earwicker at 06:00 PM | Comments (0)

The Once and Future King - Sunday Evening Wine

Sitting alone at PseudoLatino World HQ on a beautiful Sunday evening, watching the sun fade away and smelling the clean scents of the cool fall air, Your Leader and Bleeder is overcome with that bittersweet melancholy that is Autumn. Recently cast adrift from mother earth, the PL is floating high above and evaluating the view of a life less ordinary and, unfortunately, a life less comforting. Many things have eluded Our Hero, and many things have fallen to his curiosities and passions. He has made many mistakes and learned many lessons. He will never stop learning, a promise he makes to himself and to you all.

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And so I leave you, my friends, with two poems that (with the exception of the bit about mortgaged houses) are appropriate to Your Flamboyant Yet Humble Guide at this particular place, at this particular time. With love and shouts out to the Great Genetic One (Hope you're well!):

Men at Forty

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practices tying
His father's tie there in secret,

And the face of the father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

---donald justice

 

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster;
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

---elizabeth bishop

 

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

Whims of Change

On a completely unexpected note, Your Favorite Tango née-Salsa Pretender took a little detour past Fry's Electronics SuperMondoMegaCenter last night on his way home from work. He left with an entry-level Canon MiniDV Camcorder (a ZR100), a tripod, Pinnacle Studio Plus Editing Software (a whopping $10 after the mail-in rebate), some digital tapes, a firewire cable for capturing the video on His PC, and a whole headful of ideas. The ride home was torture, just waiting to get everything unpacked and start experimenting, which Yours Truly most certainly did--with abandon--until the wee hours of the morning. For YEARS I have been thinking about doing this . . . and driving home I just thought "what on My Own Megalomaniacal Green Earth am I waiting for?!?!" and took the exit north towards Yuppster Las Colinas and Fry's.

Can I tell you something? Waiting is for MORONS! IDIOTS! MEDIOCRITIES! Which, I suppose, doesn't speak well of You Know Who (meaning, clearly, me). But . . . better late than never, eh?

Too bad I can't show you the first 45" of what I put together last night . . . but I can't. You'll have to wait a bit longer. Until it's done. And then I'll make it available for all to download and chuckle over. And you can say "dood! Don't give up your day job just yet!!"

Farewell my Friends, it's time to work. And during lunch? Yup. More footage.

Yours,

---the pseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 09:35 AM | Comments (0)

Happy Returns to My Soul Sistrah

The Pseudo-Latino wishes to extend His BEST Wishes to SistrahSuplex aka the PseudoGift aka . . . well . . . ummmmm . . . nevermind. On this day he wishes her once again the Happiest of Birthdays. He misses her madly and is closing His eyes, grunting, and fervently hoping when he opens them again He'll find He's standing next to her at Stratos and they've been dancing Salsa for the last 4 hours and it's really still 2004 and He's only dreamt of her departure to Lands far away.

I love you, DeeDee!

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 02:15 PM | Comments (0)

Bearded Breakage

Other than crawling out of my PseudoLatino skin and doing some Post work (sounds grandiose, eh?) on my in-progress video, only one thing of note happened today. Just when Your Wondrous Personage of Palpitation thought he was going to lose his marbles his phone rang. Who was there? The Bearded Lady. What did she want? A study break (she is next in line to give Nurse Ratched a run for her money). In what manner did she wish to spend her break from Studies? Yes: dancing Tango. WooHOOOOO! I just about fell out from glee. I was in no mood to attend the Entre Amigos milonga last night, and so have not danced since last Saturday, when I learned of my newly-reaquired Tango Leprosy. Valerina's request was music to my happy little feet, and I quickly converted the PseudoLatino World HQ from soundstage to dancefloor, changed shoes, and cranked up the Argentine Jams brutha.

What a great release it is to dance such an expressive, complicated dance with a partner like her! I was transported. Rejuvenated. Uplifted. Revived. Encouraged. Relieved. And, yes, also distracted. It was a great help and I am much in your debt Lady V.

And dat's dat, yo.

---the pseudoLatino
Over and Out

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

Not-so-Happy Monthiversary

One Month ago today Yours Truly bade farewell to His Beloved Alien as she returned, perhaps eternally, to The Mothership. This is a horrible terrible no good very bad tragedy. One supposes that worse things could have happened, but one would have a hard time imagining--if one is being honest--what such things might have looked like. Castration by plastic fork? An uninterrupted performance of the complete works of Andrew Lloyd Webber with no way to excuse oneself, no intermissions, and no bathroom breaks? Being forced to perform oral sex on Martha Stewart while watching snuff-porn involving Michael Jackson (wearing a priest's collar) and three handicapped 10-year olds from Brooklyn?

*shudders*

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No matter which way one slices it, one comes up with a queasy, empty feeling in one's stomach; a feeling this humble reporter has kept at bay--as indicated a couple days ago--by making a video. A MUSIC video. (Ok. ok. OK! Maybe a couple of bottles of wine assisted in the at-bay-keeping as well, but nevertheless). I'll not yet let on what song I chose, but let's just say that it was appropriate for the subject at hand and that . . . here's the cool part . . . I AM FINISHED!!! Most of the shooting and a rough edit were complete as early as last thursday night, and I spent the greater part of the weekend--when I wasn't pulling out large clumps of hair, screaming, or bouncing off of the walls--working on cleaning things up and adding a little prologue and end titles. There was a brief and near-suicidal scare late friday night when I returned from an evening of Salsa dancing and managed to corrupt my main project file, losing virtually ALL the editing work I had done over the previous three days. Don't get me wrong, I save my work CONSTANTLY (being a computer worker, this habit has saved my life numerous times), but the crappy piece of shit software that I'm using (Pinnacle Studio Plus) has a horrible bug that appears when you try to save your titles work into a separate file. So it corrupted the file that I'm actually saving INTO . . . WHILE I was trying to do the save. Ouch. Fortunately, my years of audio editing experience came to the rescue and I was able to import one rendering of the semi-final product that I had done earlier in the evening, slice it into (slightly less high-fidelity) bits, and layer it with some new footage and the new titles. Too close for comfort!

I'd really love to share this--my first-ever attempt at making a film of any size, shape, or magnitude--with all of you, but . . . I have to wait until I can transmit the message first to The Mothership. The content is directed towards an audience of one, an Alien Extraordinaire, and much of it may not make sense to you--my fellow earthlings. I will put up a post in a couple of days with a low-res version available for download to those of you who have an interest . . . but not until I've given the transmission time to travel through the cold and barren vastness of outer space and to arrive, hopefully intact, at its target.

Since I did mention Salsa, I'd like to say that the scene on friday night really left me cold. Despite the fact that virtually EVERYBODY who is ANYBODY in the Salsa scene decided to show up for some reason or another (and I mean EVERYBODY; Stratos was absolutely JAM-PACKED), I just couldn't get into it. Part of that is simply that Your Pseudo-Latino's chops have atrophied. Use it or Lose it, as they say. I have become so thoroughly immersed in Tango of late that my body just wanted to do different things than the music and my head wanted it to do. It's never particularly fun to do something when you're sucking at it. Part of it is that the whole "hmmmmm . . . I think I'd like to fuck HER, let me ask HER to dance" attitude on many people's parts is just so . . . lame. Part of it is that . . . well . . . my favorite Salsa partner is no longer in this galaxy. Hard to get motivated at the moment. You know. Video. Transmission. Etc.

On a happier note, my barely tolerable former coworker from The Evil Empire (read "Verizon") showed up: Bad Evil Badness. Excellent!! I haven't cut a rug with her in a coon's age, and it was lots o' fun. 'specially when she had to start warding off the advances of some guy who looked like a lineman from the Dallas Cowtoys. Little Shy Badness havin' to fend of the smooth moves of Big Bald Bachata Bubba. Excellent.

And with that, I'm off to send word to a star system far far away.

Fondly Yours,

---the pseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 01:00 PM | Comments (0)

Well Wishes for Nurse Ratched

A brief shout out to the Bearded Lady, who on this Day of Your PseudoLatino Lordship, the Eighteenth of May, Two Thousand and Five, is going to meet her Destiny with Chin held high. Today is the Day upon which she takes the Big Evil Scary Nursing Exam which determines whether she's the bomb, or whether she bombed out. Of course, she's the bomb . . . and we all know it.

Go Valerina! Go!!!!!!!

Love,

---the pseudoLatino & all the Tangoids and Salsoids and my various other Minions and opinions.

Posted by earwicker at 08:27 AM

Ass Kicked. Names Taken

The Great Bearded One gave Yours Truly a call yesterday evening to let me, and indirectly all of you, know that . . .

SHE PASSED HER EXAM!!!

After weeks of nay-saying and doom-crying and pessimistic whining and dance-avoiding and all kinds of anti-social and negative behaviours, my favorite Tangoid blew the exam out of the water and is officially going to complete her Nursing School Studies. Now she just has some sissy-girl BUTT-EASY "Boards" to blow through (*whistling innocently*) and she'll be the Once and Future Nurse Ratched: Bane of all Unruly Patients and Boon to the Compliant and Obedient (trust me, she brings her riding crop to all of our rehearsals and WOE UNTO THEE IF THOU PRACTICETH BADLY!)

Way to go Valerina!

---Your Admiring Pseudo-Latino

Posted by earwicker at 08:57 AM

Feet and Film

Well, The Bearded Lady pulls through again with a post-Nursing-Triumph practice-jam-filmfest at the PseudoLatino World HQ. The two of us got together to wiggle wigglers and waggle wagglers and generally attempt to execute gracefully moves that we've learned from Fred and Ginger, our own imaginations, or this, that, or the other DVD of Dancers-Greater-Than-We. Despite some marginal successes, and much fun had by all, it is enough to make one feel Wee, alright. Expected difficulties notwithstanding, these sessions with SistrahShoeFetish make Tango Leprosy bearable, though only barely. Perhaps more on that some other time, perhaps not. It is--in any case--a joy to learn, screw-up, and discover new things during sessions like these.

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In other happenings of note, I would like to thank Glenda the Good for her Oz-like Wonder Working and for helping me to realize that There's No Place Like Home (even when I'm NOT wearing ruby slippers--ummmm . . . not giving anything away about my Halloween outfit of course . . . but . . . well . . . nevermind).

In an attempt to ramp back up into PseudoSalsic awareness, Club Babalu was briefly considered on this fair evening, but I'm thinking that Nurse Ratched must've secretly done the electroshock thingie when I wasn't paying attention. I was definitely not up for ANYTHING after our dance-and-film sesh (and one can't attend a sesh if one is not fresh because that's just not spesh), and instead did some long overdue reading and tinkered with yet another Video production, this one a simple Tango called "Malandraca." If anything worthwhile is to come of all this video tinkering, I most certainly MUST get new editing software soon . . . as Pinnace Studio is a near-useless pile of shiesty jank (did I get that right, Elizabeth?)

Party on, folks.

Your Arbiter of Abundance,

---the PseudoLatino

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

Dwarf Porn, W.A.S.T.E., and Liberace's Grave

After a long day of finally-productive work, Yours Truly headed home to the House of Chutzpah where He began ruminations upon His long-languishing loft, which will--as of this coming Saturday afternoon--begin to take the shape it inspired so many months ago when He was abducted to the Land of Deepest Ellum. Again Your Hero opted out of the dance scene (Carson's Live and Gloria's on Greenville being the two options), and instead wandered around the 'hood shooting gloomy footage in dark alleyways. No muggings were experienced, though beer bottles and barbed wire were everywhere to be seen, filmed, and enjoyed in that Oh So Urban way we have of enjoying such things.

:::::::::::::::::

Also of note on this evening was a rather long and detailed phone call from the Bearded One, who rang excitedly after her Tango rehearsal (yes, indeed, that very same rehearsal where Your Heroic Tango Leper would Himself have been plying his newfound Art had things unfolded a bit differently) to inform the folks at PseudoLatino World HQ that the rehearsal was, indeed, exciting. Whoa! Who could IMAGINE such a thing??? Actually, she primarily called to confide in me a secret--which I vowed on the grave of Liberace never to disclose--but which I intend to tell you anyway because (1)who gives a flying spudbucket about LIBERACE(?!?!?) and (2) how often does one get the chance to disclose a story involving a beautiful woman's secret past as a circus performer: running guns for the recently disenfranchised Soviets, laundering money for a stealth organization known--to a small number of paranoid cognoscenti--as W.A.S.T.E., spearheading cosmetic interventions for Divine and Tammy Faye Bakker, and competing as a quarter-finalist in the Miss Universe pageant (her primary talent was Shoe Shopping, performed with such virtuosity that the judges were unanimously reduced to tears), all while performing nightly, and with flawless perfection, a juggling routine with a toothless one-armed hermaphrodite named Jodi and four Dwarven Porn Stars (Tim, Dack, Horry, and Otis . . . Otis being the, ummmmm, "bright" one in the group. Heh.) wearing shamelessly view-thru unitards and tophats, singing excerpts from "The Wizard of Oz." I mean really . . . with a story like THAT? Liberace be damned!

It turns out--to the Good Fortune of all who now know and love her--that the Valerina was rescued from her fate back in '96 by an Agency Operative known only as "Thoreau," who fell in love with her and sent her to Nursing School. Though Thoreau was killed shortly after her rescue by a giant octopus somewhere in Europe, she continues to honor his memory and his love by her disciplined studies and an unwavering dedication to perfecting the principles of Sadistic Nursing.

Enter Nurse Ratched.

In any case . . . more of this tale I shan't tell . . . for it could be that her enemies still lurk in corners dark and secluded. But know, Dear Readers, that we have amongst us a strange and wondrous beast. Tread lightly, and be nice if you value your frontal lobe.

Reporting The Truth,

---Your PseudoLatino

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

Work is Play. Halloween Appears.

Although The Guru of FooFoo rarely speaks in these Annals about His Occupation, I would like to state today, simply and for the record, that I am VERY good at what I do. I now work on a small team of people who are ALSO very good at what they do, and today--at long last--my contributions to that team are starting to become tangible. I solved a reasonably complicated task in the (unreasonable) amount of time alotted, did it in a way that is high quality and can be extended easily as the need arises, and had to learn quite a few new things in order to accomplish that task. Basically, at the end of the day, I rock. Please feel free to congratulate me now [insert short pause for congratulatory murmurs, hearty applause, and deafening cheers].

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After last week's disappointment at Stratos, I decided not to dance tonight . . . and once again worked on my current video. Tonight's experiments had me suspending the camera from a decorative girder at PseudoLatino World HQ, turning off almost all the lights, blurring the focus, and then laying on the floor and trying to do some tango-steps while prostrate. Surprisingly, some of it turned out ok, though the technique was more interesting than most of my performance. I also tried filming matches, smoke, and a burning cigarette ember in the near darkness. Mixed results. Finally, I rigged the camera to a skateboard with bungie cords and used a hiking pole to push it ahead of me (or pull it behind me) to create some tracking shots. Again, the shots worked better than my performance in them . . . but still. Lot's of fun. Our philosophy here at pseudoLatino.com is that exploration is the bomb, yo. Leave the nightly enactments of S.O.S. to the lemmings and strive for the Less Ordinary . . . right? Right.

We try, anyway . . . and sometimes even succeed!

I suppose, though, that in the sake of full disclosure, Yours Truly must admit that even HE loves to be a lemming twice a year: Halloween and New Years Eve . . . and with that in mind, today also brought into focus Our plans for All Hallows Eve, or at least for the weekend leading up to it. Our plans went from zero (two days ago) to three: friday night at Deep Ellum Live (a party sponsored by the landlords of PseudoLatino WorldHQ and a couple other trendy downtown loft properties), saturday night starting at the Cedar Springs Street Festival and ending at an as-yet-to-be-determined-but-certainly-costumed location with the Sadistic Nurse Ratched (dancing will most certainly be involved), and sunday night dancing Salsa at Monica's with whomever happens to show up (certain to be quite a few folks given the crowd and this particular holiday).

And that, Dear Friends, is enough for today. I must rest and be ready for tomorrow's renovation aspirations.

Yours,

---the PseudoLatino

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

SpongeBob. Batman. Ralph Lauren.

With the assistance of Spongebob "Fergus" Mixolydian, Dallas' only Irish Armenian Jew, renovation of that Bastion of Good Taste and Erudition known as PseudoLatino World HQ began on this fair day, however slowly and uncertainly. After a morning filled with "Panic Dissolution Exercises" (which, if I recall, were comprised of singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" in Lithuanian whilst popping Ativan and shooting heroin directly into my eyeballs), Yours Truly welcomed Spongebob and his son into the PLWHQ with a springing step and a smiling heart (because, in verse seventeen of the aforementioned Dissolution Ode, We had only moments before the arrival of Our guests learned that All Our Limitations have Dissolved into Grace; this same gem of wisdom coming shortly before taking one down, passing it around, etc. etc). We measured some measurements and thought some thoughts and said some sayings and wrote some writings before piling into the PseudoMobile and venturing to the Home Despot, where we said "Yes Ma'am! May I have Another???!!" to the cashier who informed us that the requisite 4 gallons of Ralph Lauren paint were going to cost USD$118.00, not including the plethora of supplies required to colorwash a wall some 56' long by 13' high.

Holy AssRape, Batman! Can I be Ralph Lauren in my next life??

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After momentarily considering a PlanB approach using crayons and a curling iron Your Fearleth Leader (yes, that's a lisp you read) sucked it up, bought the good stuff, returned home, poured a stiff drink or 5 and started painting (Spongebob and Son had to run off to some sort of Little League baseball game; uh huh; yeah; SURE they did! Although I must admit that having the young whippersnapper oh so conveniently bring a very official-looking baseball UNIFORM did make it almost believable). It took me just about 2 hours and two-thirds of a gallon of RL RiverRock "Brick" to cover 13' of the 56' wall. Not quite one quarter of the way done (and I have no ladder, so the very top strip will have to be done later, which Spongebob assures me will look just fine). At this rate, I figure I'll need at least one more gallon of this Holy Elixir--at the cost of my first-born child and another ankle-grabbing session . . . but I should be able to finish a good three quarters of the Monolithic Wall over the course of the day to-morrow.

Over and Out.

---the PseudoLatino

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

Monolith. Morality. Monica's.

At 12:15pm, after the requisite ankle-grabbing early this am, Your PseudoDesigning PseudoLatino has reached the 25' mark on the Monolith. One roller full of RiverRock "Brick" at a time it's happening. Painstaking and boring work it is, but . . . the results are gonna be great. Of course, should You or Yours happen to disagree, I can gleefully grab mein ankles once again--this time facilitating a powerful and wet kissing of my Lily White Ass on the part of the aforementioned You or Yours. In semi-unrelated news: for those of you living under a rock (or simply not lucky enough to reside upon this day in Dallas, TX), the weather outside is completely and utterly fantastic. Fall . . . as it should be. The most bittersweet, nostalgic, and cuddle-friendly time of year. Today's version is chilly, windy, gray and overcast . . . time for sweaters and sex by the fireplace (ok, maybe we're not quite ready for the fireplace to be LIT just yet, but sweaters and sex next to the UNLIT fireplace? Oh yeah, buddy).

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12:55pm, 30'3", but who's counting? On the bright side (depending upon how one looks at it), I never actually MEASURED the 56' wall, I just looked at a floorplan long ago and had that figure in my memory. So . . . I just now whipped out my FatMax (a TAPE MEASURE, you pervs) and took a measurement: only 44' and change!!! Excellent! That means I'm within 15' of my goal. I should be able to get another 6-8' or so done before my movie date at the Magnolia--3:30pm, Capote. I'm painting from the window back towards the door, which means that it gets harder and harder to see what I'm doing as I go . . . and I'm leery of trying to paint the last few feet in the dark, with nothing but artificial lighting, but . . . knowing me there will be the OCD drive to GET IT FINISHED (at least everything I can do without a ladder) and move on. [insert pause for a kick-ass sandwich here] . . . ok. Doesn't look like I'm gonna get anything else finished before the movie after all. My brain is about as numb as it's gonna get for the afternoon . . . we'll see if there's any time remaining after movie and dinner and before Salsa to do any more painting for today. Otherwise, it'll probably be Tuesday before I can finish it. 's ok, though. Plenty o' time. No hurry.

7:31pm, post Capote. I have to tell you folks, this is one tremendous flick. Amazing. Philip Seymour Hoffman deserves no end of awards for his performance . . . and the story itself is just mind-boggling; all the more so in that it is true. Not since I dated Greta, the lesbian Nazi Suicide-bomber (talk about a dead-end relationship!) back in '89 have I been involved in such a palpable moral conundrum. For those of you who do not know the story, Capote--by chance--happened upon the story of a gruesome multiple homicide in some backwater Kansas town (1956? 57? Somewhere in that vicinity). He decided he wanted to write about it, got his publisher to send him to Kansas with his long-time friend Harper Lee (of "To Kill A Mockingbird" fame), ingratiated himself with state and local law enforcement officers and--most stunningly--with the killers themselves. He fell in love with one of them, while simultaneously manipulating him in order to discover the most intimate details of the killer's life and the horrible crime itself. There are times in this movie where one wishes earnestly to press "pause" and go take a shower, because it's just . . . dirty . . . what Capote does. The real twist is that these amoral and despicable behaviours are obvious to Capote himself; his actions, and the book which was his excuse for perpetrating them, ruined him. He sank into depression and alcoholism, and never completed another book in the remaining 30 years of his life. That book, which Yours Truly has never read but will be purchasing tomorrow, is In Cold Blood, a "true crime novel" which made Truman Capote the most bankable and famous author in America at the time (for all the good it did him). This movie is just so . . . HAPPY! Uplifting! Joyful! Go see it when you're depressed . . . it's sure to lighten your load and make you feel good about Truth, Love, and the American Way.

Oy fucking VEY!

My date for the flick was (thankfully) the interminably optimistic and upbeat Essie-Mae aka Estelle Of The Wonderful Hands aka the Dallas Massage Diva who managed to bring a smile to my face and find plenty of positive things to pontificate upon during our post-film dinner date. It's good to have friends like Essie-Mae, lemme tellya. And now, as if I haven't already done enough on this lovely, cold, blustery fall day, I'm off to Monica's for some Salsic celebrations and libations. See you in a while!

...

11:21pm, post Monica's. Wow.

Let me say it again: wow!

Though it lasted only about 2 hours, the Salsa Pretender's night at Monica's was fantastic--precisely what He had hoped for and missed the last couple of times at Stratos. First things first: the new venue in Addison passes muster nicely, and is comparable to the Deep Ellum version in most regards (although there IS a little more room in Addison). The most annoying thing is that the bar area is at the far end of the building from the dancefloor, so it's in your best interests to show up a little bit early and grab a table somewhere near the band (which seemed to be most of the Latin Fire! crew, with a different singer and a couple unfamiliar brass players). Although I haven't been to M's in months, they transplanted much of the Sunday evening Deep Ellum staff to Addison, so when I walked in I was immediately greeted by my favorite bartender, who queued up a Jack and Coke without a word on my part. Ahhhhh . . . the fruits of long ago labors still in full bloom: it's enough to warm my aching little PseudoLatino Heart. And then there was the dancing. . .

My last few attempts at Stratos left me feeling a bit awkward and discouraged, but the Monica's crowd is truly MY crowd: RatBastardo students past, present and future, and a collection of partners to make my rusty knees weak with joy. The gorgeous and holy triumvirate of Annette, Alice, and Anna (an alliterative and arbitrary aggregation aptly assembled) kept me busier than all the others combined. At the far end of the alphabetic spectrum was the ever-seductive and enthusiastic Yulia, and somewhere near the middle was my charming and retiring Carson's Cohort Julie (with those REALLY nice braids). I was also taken with Alice's kind and talented Colombian friend Ernesto and was happy to see--amongst many other familiar faces--the non-terroristic, non-"abu," Nidal. And most importantly: there is nothing like the feel of dancing to live music. Nothing. It's soooooo much easier to tear it up when there isn't some half-wit, inbred, quasi-sentient DJ hacking and splicing the songs together without the slightest regard for the music, the composer's intent, or the dancer's needs. All of this to say, in the most long-winded and prolix manner imaginable, that I danced reasonably well; that I was able to relax on the dancefloor and simply listen--and respond--to the music; that I was able to get into my goofy, funny "character" whilst dancing Merengue with Anna (my favorite Merengue partner of all time, by the way) and with Annette--who was funny and sexy and light-hearted this evening beyond all reason; that I was able to shake off at least a bit of the rust which has developed on the salsa machinery during my time away on semi-permanent Tango Leave; that I performed acceptably, in a manner indicative of the level of which I had once attained and am certainly once again capable of reaching; that I didn't embarrass YOU, Dear Readers. Most importantly, I had bucket loads of . . . well . . . fun.

To dearest Annette I repeat my friendly advice of the evening: if You Know Who doesn't realize how beautiful and kind and sweet and funny and talented you are (and you are, most assuredly, all these things), then FUCK THE MORON!!!! Show him the door! Allow him to kiss your proverbial ass on the way out, eh? You deserve a thousand and one times better (and thanks again for the wonderful dances).

To Alice: it was definitely great fun to demonstrate "Salon" vs. "Club" tango to your buddy Ernesto . . . and on one of my favorite Cha cha tunes of all time no less. We need to be careful though, these Salseros probably lack the "discipline" to learn Tango!

*hoot!*

To add to the evening's wonderments, Lady Eyore was in attendance and . . . I swear this on a signed photo of Vincent Lenti's mole . . . SHE WAS SMILING ALMOST THE ENTIRE TIME!!!! It was amazing. A miracle. 50,000 people may have seen Our Lady of Guadalupe smiling and winking from within a puddle of spilt milk in Podunk, Idaho, but I--the PseudoLatino--saw Eyore with an uninterrupted and downright engaging SMILE for the better part of 2 hours. A Miracle! Next comes Armageddon (during which, if one believes the billboard, I have a special role to play).

And finally, before we go, I received--only moments ago--a warm and welcome study-break call from Nurse Ratched . . . 'Round About Midnight. Seems she was reading a study chapter entitled "Statistical Deviations from Client Requested Clip-Lengths amongst Occidental Hairstylists" which suggested that, to the average beautician, a request for "1/4 inch" was translated near universally as "1-1/2 inches" (or the metric equivalents). Said chapter mystified her and caused her some confusion which I, in My Wisdom, was able to summarily put to rest (eg. I certified that it's true). Even cooler, I think I have convinced the Valerina to come with me one Sunday soon to Monica's--to dance Salsa AND to show off our Tango Skills during the Cha chas (there were quite a few people intrigued by what Alice and I were doing, and though Alice dances wonderfully my regular sessions with the Bearded One mean that the number of moves we could bust would be exponentially greater). Actually, she's such a wonderful dancer that I'm working on dragging her to RatBastardo's Sunday evening classes from time to time . . . to make a Monica's evening out of it. We'll see. Her arm is often hard to twist, but Yours Truly DOES have his charms.

And with that, My Loves One and All . . . I bid thee Adieu.

Yours,

---the PseudoLatino

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

What the Wine Sez

God I love Tango. I love the music. The dance. The romantic atmosphere implied by the music yet so often betrayed by the reality of the common Milonga. I sit here listening to Juan Carlos Cáceres sing Darsena Sur, and I think "what more do I need than this dance? This music?" The answer, of course, is "a whole shitload, moron." But while the music is playing and I'm immersed in my pitiful-yet-passionate attempts to interpret it . . . there is nothing else. Absolutely nothing. It's enough. MORE than enough. And this when I'm dancing ALONE. Just me. Isolated in my loft; no partner; just me and a well-endowed iPod. The music plays . . . and my emotional losses and weaknesses dissipate into expressions of themselves which are under my control: Piazzolla's Duo de Amor queues up--I want to cry, but instead I dance . . . and write these horrid clichés which, despite being clichés are TOTALLY FUCKING TRUE. The bandoneon wails, and Yours Truly falters through a set of overturned forward ochos as Piazzolla (once again) sings of Soledad. And I understand. All too well. My body aches and cries the tears denied to me through other means. I walk. And walk some more. The songs give momentary reprieve, and I walk still further . . . smiling. At that moment I'm a dried-up, lonely cliché . . . but still I walk. A rulo. I stumble. With my imaginary partner: here a promenade, there a molinete. We walk. Tres ochos; I draw her near and settle slowly into an expressive downbeat--Milonga del Angel. Barrida. Her graceful boleo draws blood from stone. I feel her cheek next to mine and wait, ever so patiently, to lead the cruzada. My failures? Shortcomings? I hold them tightly in my arms and master them; imperfect but unbowed--an ever-walking, unyielding, self-aware cliché.

And if you don't like it?

Fuck you. And your mother, too.

Sincerely,

---the Pseudo-Latino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Babalu and Barkin

All manner of things seem to be brewing for Your Salsa Pretender, not the least of which is . . . ummmm . . . Salsa. After such an incredibly long time away, my reawakening is progressing slowly but steadily: buzzing along the freeway blasting a wonderful mix of my old faves as loud as my speakers will go (yes, Bijel, all the way to '11'). Once again I find myself standing in the hallway, doing Air Salsa to Bamboleo's Ya no hace falta--2'33", if you know what I mean. The people I work with are starting to ask "do you dance?" when they see me spinning in the cafeteria during my brief (and strangely coffeeless) breaks. Alternatively they smile as they walk by, pretending feebly not to think I'm a potentially dangerous whack-job (the gurlz are really bad about this--fake smiles pasted on their mouths while their eyes say "FREAK!"; most guys are trying too hard to be too cool to acknowledge that someone is spinning in circles for no apparent reason). And . . . my favorite coworker went out and bought herself a pair of headphones just like mine, perhaps hoping to descend into the same madness they seem to inspire in Moi? Dunno.

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Whatever the case, my renaissance has remained thus far largely in my mind with the exception of last Sunday at Monica's . . . and unfortunately tonight was to prove no different. I overcame my long-standing "18-and-up" reticence and decided to grace Club Babalu with my glorious presence, having heard that Havana NRG is now playing there on Wednesday nights and realizing that the club is only 5 minutes from PseudoLatino World HQ. It wasn't a mistake exactly, although it would have been in my best interests to phone ahead and find out when they open and when the band starts to play. As it was, I arrived at 8:50pm . . . club opens at 9, lesson between 9:00 and 9:30 (meaning, in Latin time, 10pm), band starts at 10:30. Can you say "dumbass?"

I can.

I did.

Fortunately there's a really good pizza and pasta dive right next door, where I was able to while away the better part of an hour devouring a yummy thin-crust pie and reading an obnoxious article about "unschooling" in the Dallas Observer. I believe the World Series was on the ubiquitous, inescapable TV set, for those whose IQs don't reach high enough to loathe the game or the rampant addiction to the medium. Heh. Probably baseball fans would at least have enough sense to phone ahead (during commercial breaks) before heading out to Club Babalu, which I suppose is worth something.

[Puerto Rican Power's Pena de Amor blasts in my headset . . . una profunda pena. Oh yeah, baby.]

So . . . how would I describe Babalu on this evening? Pretty much a disaster any way you look at it. The club itself is kinda cool, reminding me fondly of the very first establishment and the very first evening I ever took a Salsic Stumble: Therapy Lounge. Babalu is more about the Clubbing than the Dancing, with a small dancefloor, a kick ass sound system, and lots of cool lights to help out when the Vodka & Red Bulls and/or the Mary J and/or the MDMA kick in (not really an MDMA sort of place, I reckon, but you'd never know it from the lights and sound). The problem is that there wasn't a SOUL in the place until after 10pm, and even then it was a horribly skewed gender mix: probably 8 males to every female, and only two of the females could marginally dance (Eyore--once again smileless, *sigh*--and some latino hottie named Ginger ("ZHEEN-Zhair"), who helped Roberto teach an impromptu lesson abandoned by no-show Luis Delgadillo). It was nice to see Roberto and little Luis, but there was just NO ONE with whom a rug could be cut . . . or even trimmed. There were three early-20s girls who were fleshy and lusty and gregarious and drunk but who used the word "like" so many times, and chewed their humongous curds of pink chewing gum with such tremedous velocity and brainless enthusiasm, and danced with such profound badness that they were transported instantly to the top of the illustrious PseudoLatino "ick" list. No thanks. I'll dance here in the corner by myself, thank you very much. And then there were the two Jose Cuervo girls--one of whom showed up unceremoniously in baggy jeans and t-shirt, looking for all the world like someone so forgettable you can't recall what they look like for all the world . . . until she emerged from the bathroom, 10 minutes later, wearing the worlds tightest, lowest, hip-hugging jeans, a tiny little black halter top, a prominent belly button piercing and about 15 acres of soft, supple skin . . . with (no exaggeration) about 40 or 50 glow-stick bracelets on each arm and a pair of spike heels that would make Rupaul spooge himself with envy. I could only think of my old flame and (newly reclaimed) friend the Queen of Entropy, who would have wet herself with Neo-Gothic, Proto-Hippie glee upon sight of this tall, ultra-slender woman girl. But . . .

For Your Purveyor of Principle and Propriety? It was again a huge "ick." She moved at tempo A, the music moved at tempo B (and--trust me--there was no imaginable relationship, mathematical, spiritual, or otherwise, between the two tempi), and I was moved . . . not at all.

And then there was Ellen Barkin (let's call her); the very first woman to show up, she sat next to me and little Luis (whom she seemed to know rather well) and was outnumbered at that moment about 15-to-1. She was stunning: long blonde hair done up in some super-fancy, bun-based extravaganza, an unbelievably tight-yet-elegant and sensual white dress (spaghetti straps, mid-thigh, nicely slit) clinging to her profoundly well-formed and graciously endowed body. "Wow," thought Your Hero, as she turned out to be as sweet as she was beautiful. She had that quirky, half-faced Ellen Barkin smile from "The Big Easy," and was utterly without pretention. I was charmed . . . and her familiarity with Luis, her posture and general attitude made me think she was a dancer; perhaps a good one at that.

And then Roberto's lesson began.

Ellen danced, alongside the three giggling, puerile, smacking wenchies, and I noticed that--yes--she moved nicely but that (most regrettably)--no--she had absolutely NO rhythm. Tempo A and Tempo B without relation. [If you can imagine the sound of a really smokin', groovin' record being ground forceably to a halt, and imagine it right at this second, please do so: that's what it was like to witness this arhythmia] Dammit! What's UP with these people??!?!? Granted, she was still an engaging and attractive person, unlike the gaggling gigglers, but . . . no rhythm? No thank you. Ladies and Gentlemen: forget your jewelry and your clothing and your nice, tight little butts and bulges and boobjobs--it don't mean a muthafuckin THANG if it ain't got that SWANG! At least not to Yours Truly.

The upshot of all this is that I didn't dance a single dance the entire evening, for there was no one with whom to dance (who wasn't already on the floor dancing). I did dance two songs by myself, during the lesson, because the tunes were just too good to sit and drink Jack and Coke through.

So, Babalu strikes out (baseball metaphor! Shoot me! That's the sound of my brain--making big sucking noises as it oozes out my ears!) on my first attempt. I'll give it one or two more, though, because--as you all know--I'm the most forgiving, fair, and objective critic ever to set foot in cyberspace.

And don't you fucking forGET it.

Ok. Let's be fair. Forgiving. Objective. Balanced. Realistic. Were there ANY positives to take away from this Baba-loser Event? Yes. Certainly. I had a nice conversation with Ellen and little Luis before the lesson began. Nice conversation with nice people is always good. I also had a few warm fuzzies. Notably: the reminder of my first halting steps with my first halting partner at the Therapy Lounge--so many lifetimes ago; the lead singer of Havana NRG speaking rapid-fire, Cuban Spanish which my favorite sweat-free genetic mutant always good-naturedly mocked by saying, as fast as she was able (which was never quite as fast as she attempted it), "SAL-SA, SAL-SA, SAL-SA, SAL-SA, SAL-SA, SAL-SA!!!!"; a very unexpectedly tension-filled evening at beloved Sipango (the no-longer-existing Old Faithful of Wednesday Night Salsa) hanging out in the back room with self-same aforementioned mutant--beautifully attired--and wondering along with her "what's his story" about the little pudgy pervert dude with the pony-tail--who was also, creepily, on hand this evening to help dredge up said memories. These were some of the memorable positives this evening. Perhaps there were others. I forget.

It's my short-term memory, I guess. Failing?

Yah. Probably.

And with that? Bedtime for Beauregard.

Auf Wiederschreiben,

---the pseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

A Life Less Lofty

Your PseudoPimpDaddy found out that his full-steam-ahead loft plans are going to be a little derailed this weekend due to the nearly 72 debauched hours experienced by most of the Western World as a result of All Hallows Eve. Spongebob (he of highest DQ--Debauchery Quotient) had to take a raincheck on Saturday am's construction plans. Just as well, since Friday night promises to be a pretty thorough warm-up to Saturday's Cedar Springs I'll-Be-Lucky-If-I-Survive-The-Night exercise in braincell eradication.

Be that as it may . . .

:::::::::::::::::

The main story on this fine evening is mon triumphant return to that Venue of Venues, Carson's Live, and . . . oh. my. god. was it ever awesome. I was a little on the edgy side this evening, and so I headed out a bit early--arriving at Carson's about 8:45pm (after 18 miles of travel, as compared to the last location of the PseudoLatino World HQ, which was less than 2 miles distant). I was greeted by one of the longest-running characters in this chronicle of my life as the PseudoLatino: Kirsten Dunst. We promptly headed out onto the sparsely populated dancefloor where I could feel the rust falling off in huge clumps. I danced well, and felt in tune with the music (which was good, as was the DJ). Kirsten was the first of 7 people (yes, I counted) to ask after my significant other, 4 referring to her as my 'girlfriend,' 1 calling her my 'beautiful partner,' and 2--woe is me--as my 'wife.' Jesus Christ! Talk about walking into an open wound of memories! But . . . more on that later. One of the "wife" askers was the ever-horny Zach, a Latino (sans Pseudo) of Napoleonic stature with the concomitant complex. Upon hearing that I was not now, nor had I ever been, married, Zach offered his sensitive and empathic condolences--something along the lines of "dood, I'm sorry to hear that. And she was totally HOT, too!"--to which I replied "yes, she still is, and she's incredibly bright and funny and talented and creative too"--to which he replied "uhhh. Sure. Whatever. But she was really HOT, man." He then decided (perhaps because he had determined my focus was insufficiently superficial) to take me under his wing and teach me the basics of south-of-the-border chick-scoping. This is something indiginous to the Latino, Spanish, and Italianate men of the world which has always eluded my WhiteBredThroughAndThrough genetic composition. Zach stood next to me, searched briefly, then pointed out two very attractive women standing by themselves, dancing together. He said "do you want the left or the right?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Ok, I'll take the one on the right," he continues. "We're gonna go ask them to dance now. Ready?" I pointed out that I'd never seen them before and they didn't seem to have that attitude that dancers have. I suggested that--based on their current dancefloor gyrations--they probably would be terrible, and the experience somewhat less than satisfying. "Fresh meat is fresh meat" he said (I shit you not, that's what he said), and somehow I believe he'd have had the same response if I had tried to point out the difference between a fine cut of prime rib and a freshly opened tin of SPAM. However, being one to play along for amusement's sake, I said "fine. Let's go." And we approached with the expected question. Harmless enough, right:? It's a dance club, right? Well . . . to prove how white and inept I am, Zach's gurl sez "sure!" and the Salsa Pretender's gurl sez "ummmm . . . I really don't think I want to right now. *giggle* But thanks," and promptly turns her back on Yours Truly and begins to scan the crowd (presumably) for some long lost friend she hoped would suddenly stroll out of the men's room where he had disappeared . . . i dunno when . . . last month?

So much for my education in Latino Machismo.

Things improved greatly, however, once I took matters into my own hands. I stood on the sidelines for a while (which has often been my practice at Carson's) just dancing around; a combined warm-up and groove-attunement session. Strangely enough, this almost always gets me dances and tonight was no exception. After about 2 minutes of hopping around, an older woman approached me and asked if I'd like to dance. Stupid question. She wasn't really too adept herself, but I had a good time for a song or two. Then Kirsten decided to hook me up with one of two lovely ladies who were friends of hers, both inexperienced dancers. My partner for the next several Salsas, a Merengue and even one Bachata, was the vivacious Lilly, full of energy and replete with splendid curvaciousness. Lilly was a little shy, yet had a good sense of rhythm and picked up on things pretty quickly. I enjoyed our dances and was sad to see her and her friend leave shortly afterwards. Kirsten said they'd be back after visiting some other club, but Yours Truly knows a bit more about club hopping young femininity than THAT. And so he bid Ms. Lilly a fond adieu with promises to dance again on some other occasion.

Having gotten a pretty good warm-up, The Salsa Pretender was raring to have a go with a more experienced partner . . . but all the folks he knew were already on the floor, so he looked to his right, spied an attractive 30-something woman with curly blondish-brown hair dancing quietly (but very rhytmically) in place and asked her if she danced the dance of the gods. She did. Her name was Carol, and the three songs we danced together were worth the entire trip to North Dallas.

Have you ever had one of those experiences where you head out onto the dancefloor with someone totally unknown to you, where you aren't sure if you're really in top form yourself, yet immediately, as soon as you've entered into an embrace with your new partner and cycle through the first 1-2-3, 5-6-7, you get a big, goofy grin on your face, you feel everything kind of hum along like a well-oiled machine, and things just work? Well, Carol and I had that for 3 songs running . . . we read one another reasonably well, we both locked into the music, she followed some kind of funny Tango leads I threw in, and we both just burned it up--smiling at one another all the while like long lost friends.

Wayyyyyyy cool.

It was one of those experiences where complete strangers spontaneously hug out of simple happiness. Really wonderful.

And then there was Annette! Having made the comment last Sunday that she only makes it to Carson's about once a month I was (happily) surprised to see here wander in, and took immediate advantage of the situation by dragging her out onto the floor and dancing until my ponytail (which the Carol set had managed to soak about halfway through) was completely saturated. She's great fun . . . and again: this is so much more my crowd than the usual Stratos turn-out.

Eyore was here again, sadly smile-free. As was the mopey, flailing Ukrainian ASSHOLE (still thinking that if he buys enough drinks for a young, pretty girl that she won't notice he's a bad dancer, a smarmy perv, and a jerk) and the ever disgusting De la serra on the prowl as ever (unfortunately he always seems to sucker one or two women out onto the floor, but they rarely go back).

Most interestingly, I think, were the hundreds and hundreds of ghosts lurking in every corner of the establishment: I started my happiest birthday evening ever here--the year of the Cheese List; I witnessed a sexy wardrobe malfunction; I lead more alien spins than were precisely required by the music so that I had the opportunity to comment: "nice skirt!"; I met someone's best friend (who was profoundly charming and could do this sort of bobble-head thing at will which was unnatural yet completely awesome) and was diagnosed--via said friend's gaydar, and for better or worse--as "bisexual" (ummmm . . . whoa! Don't tell my momma!); I stood next to a woman for hours, trying not to kiss her because she didn't want to hurt a friend's feelings; I explored the vagaries of PDA with her in several of the booths while waiting on food orders to arrive; we watched Michael Jackson dance "Billy Jean" on the bar, and Summer act as though her beertub dances weren't well rehearsed in clubs where the women generally had very few articles of clothing on their bodies and made use of long, slender poles to assist in their gyrations; mostly we laughed, and danced, and drank, and kissed; and we laughed some more; and she complained of her pending commute, and I laughed, and we stayed up too late, too often, and things were very very good. More often than not.

So Carson's was my haunted house in advance of All Hallow's Eve, and I survived . . . emerging from the other side tired, sweaty, and happily nostalgic.

I drove home a little out of the way to pass a certain Skeevy Dive Bar where one final ghost and I had experienced no end of lip-locking glee . . . and then . . . back to PseudoLatino World HQ I journeyed, to fall asleep content. For the first time in a long time.

Good night, Friends and Ghosts,

---the PseudoLatino

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

"Women ain't nuttin' but ..."

Hey. Dr. Dre said it, not me . . . but tonight I was out and about as PimpDaddy, and so it seemed an appropriate title. On this evening, I think it safe to say that Yours Truly experienced perhaps the most enjoyable Halloween celebration of his Rather Short and oh-so-Sheltered Life.

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The day started fantastically when I decided to take action on a thought I had developed just the previous evening: I wanted to leave the great state of Texas behind me for a weekend and go visit someone near and dear to me, whom I've not seen in far too long. So . . . before 10am I had booked a roundtrip flight for this coming weekend.

Excellent.

Dashing home from work, I stopped at one of those Halloween Supercenters to complete my (not-so-stellar and totally not original but still pimpin') costume. I then arrived at PseudoLatino World HQ, slid down the pole to the batcave, and headed across the street to a collective party for Adam Hats, Futura, Elm Street, and 3200 Main Street Lofts. The Bearded Lady arrived at 8:30pm sharp (well, I'm not sure "sharp" is the right word, since she was supposed to arrive at 8pm) in a costume she had teasingly refused to reveal to me before actually driving into the PseudoLatino World HQ Parking Pavilion. And . . . WOW. . . what a costume! Keep in mind that SistrahShoeFetish normally arrives at World HQ ready to practice: wearing a pair of hiphop sweatpants, a t-shirt style top (which may or may not coordinate with the hiphop pants) and about 6 pairs of (new) Tango dance shoes she wants to try out. The shoes, being high-heeled, stylish and dressy, coordinate with neither hiphops nor top. But this outfit? Tonight's? WoooHOOO! She labelled the outfit as "Can-can Girl," though she admitted on the way over that I would be pleased at how well her costume coordinated with my own (though I can't indicate in what way it may have matched, as I am strictly forbidden from using any words rhyming with "flow" or "joe" or "no" ). So . . . Your Pimp o' Matic opened the car door for his fav-o-rite partner to discover a woman wearing black spike heels, black designer thigh highs (*gulp*), a rather short black and red skirt (how short? short as in "how else do you think I knew they were thigh highs??!?!"), a beautiful reddish-black corset laced to breathless perfection, and a long, perfectly integrated hairpiece extending her own lovely hair in a thick, curly mane down to her waist. In a word: sexy. Or, if you prefer: HAWT!

Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow WOW!

And again . . . WOW! (Lest you think I exaggerate, I will offer evidence to the contrary when we get to the Stratos portion of the evening, below.)

After dropping a number of her accoutrements in the foyer of the PseudoLatino World HQ (she needed no purse, because ID and ATM card were tucked, oh so ceremoniously, into the . . . ummm . . . thigh-level elastic of her stockings. *double gulp*), we decided to wander over to the Loft party--which was, after all, directly across the street--and snag some free grub before heading out to meet King David (who admits that Goliath was actually a pretty nice guy and that he just HATED having to smite him with his smiter) at the Martini Ranch. This turned out to be a great decision on our part.

Why?

Well, in short because the people were very nice; because the food was free, the DJ excellent, the dancefloor large and empty, and our desire to dance insatiable. As more and more people began to congregate, The Valerina and The PseudoLatino danced sweaty, sexy Neo-Tango to song after song after song. All manner of costumed cohabitators of the Tango Leper turned to watch us interpret Bob Seger, Hotel California Remixed, Enigma, and others unknown; some onlookers feigning disinterest, many openly appreciative and congratulatory, nearly all inquisitive, friendly, and openly expressing their enthusiasm for our impromptu exhibition. Or perhaps they were just ga-ga over my incredibly beautiful, graceful, and talented dance partner? Either way it was gratifying and--more importantly--turdloads of fun. Some fun wasn't precisely dance-related. For instance, there was the moment when I stood, with my embrace open and inviting, waiting for The Bearded One to step compliantly into my arms (this is, in Tango, her JOB after all), when she--quite uncompliantly--ran back to our table to extinguish a smouldering PimpDaddy Feather Boa which I, with callous disregard and total obliviousness had inadvertantly placed atop a burning candle. If you are of the opinion that the smell of burning human hair is disgusting, I do NOT suggest you try to ignite a low quality, flame-retardant, mass-produced feather boa purchased from your local Halloween Supercenter. It smelled like . . . fetid ass (and I'm leaving out the truly repugnant adjectives that should precede "ass"). Another high point? SOMEHOW (*blinking innocently*) my partner's corset came UNLACED while dancing and . . . let's just say that it was VERY VERY LUCKY for Ms. Ratched that she had decided to put another garmet underneath the corset. VERY lucky. We were also practically screamed at by one of the hostess ladies when we told her--around 10pm--that we had a prior commitment and would be unavailable for the 11pm costume competition.

Oh well. We were just like, so, y'know, like, in, like, demand . . . like, rilly. We, like . . . HAD to, like, GO.

So it was onward to the Martini Ranch--a promising venue moniker if ever a promising moniker there was--where we hoped to be granted audience with King David himself. After a bit of N.A.D.S.-assisted wandering, Valerina and the Leper arrived at the Ranch synchronously with His Highness David--King of Hippies and Peaceniks WorldWide. His Highness had assured us of a costumed party beginning somewhere in the vicinity of 9:30pm, yet we arrived into a sea of typically dressed and understandably gawking überyuppies. Not a single costume in sight beyond the three represented by Her Ladyship, His Highness, and Yours Truly. We walked the full length of this icky, pretention-pounding establishment searching in vain for these so-called friends of our beloved Afro-toting Peacenik. We held our heads high, but came up short--convinced that Ashton was gonna hop out from behind the bar any moment and tell us we'd been Punk'd. But no Ashton and (dammit!) no Demi. We left empty-handed. Alone. Disappointed (particularly David the King). Yours Truly-- being, as He is, ever an Oracle of Truth in Times of Dismay--recognized this sign of the gods: it was time to take His friends to Stratos, to dance Salsa and revel in the merriment of afro-cuban rhythms and sweaty, willing flesh.

And was I ever right!

We arrived to a jam-packed house sometime before 11pm (Your Pimpin' Narrator is none too sure of the precise time, as he was wearing 4 watches, to keep track of his Ho's in several time zones, and forgot which one was set to Central Standard Time), paid our cover fees to a couple of ghoulish wenchies, and fell into the House of Usher. MwaHaHahahahahahahaaaaaaaa! After managing--miraculously--to find an available booth in the back corner of the club, we ordered some drinks and appetizers, deposited our superfluous costume gear, and made a beeline for the dancefloor where (once again . . . wow!) I discover that Nurse Ratched is a SOLID salsa dancer. With a little more exposure, she will be really good--and could perhaps become one of the better dancers on the scene (just remember to keep dryin' those fingernails, honey chile!). Most excitingly, her Tango attitude translated immediately onto the Salsa dancefloor: an uncomplicated, attitude-free love of dancing, a visceral connection to the music, excellent rhythm, and an eagerness to figure things out. As an added bonus, it's pretty easy to throw in elements of Tango when one's partner is hard-wired to respond to them!

And speaking of Tango . . . perhaps you will recall Your Beloved Leper's wish of this past Sunday's Monica's outing: that I had been able to demonstrate Tango for Ernesto with my dance-o-holic, Bearded Partner? Well . . . tonight I got my wish in spades. After only one or two Salsas, the DJ (who was rather good this evening, in contrast to my usual Stratos experience) switched to Cha-cha. Yessssss! I wordlessly invited Nurse Ratched into our more familiar embrace, and took full advantage of the newly vacated floor space: Tango. Nuevo Tango. An uninhibited performance with lots of stops and synchopations, graceful boleos and ganchos, rulos, volcadas . . . the whole enchilada . . . while the few other dancers did their usual Cha-cha steps. If you're gonna dance the "wrong" dance in the middle of a Latino-centric club, you had better make it seem as if you're dancing the wrong dance for a reason and you'd better make sure you do it musically and well, or else folks are gonna laugh at you. But I don't think anyone was laughing tonight, and we found out later that a number of the ultra-critical salsa elite (read: Roberto, Sandy, Master Yoda and Fray) had been watching carefully and were rather taken by the dance (Fray doesn't really count, of course, since he's not-so-secretly been stepping out on Salsa himself, and is fully aware of Tango's charms). We had one other opportunity to dance Tango to Cha-cha a couple hours later in the evening, and--despite my dance date's . . . ummmm . . . well . . . let's call it "inexperience" . . . with distilled-alcohol-containing beverages (read: one daquiri = wayyyyyy plenty!) we did another bang up job. Too fun.

We returned to our table and to our (cooling) food and (melting) drinks and noticed Young King David prowling happily about the building for hot young Latina flesh, and subsequently--with nary a care in the world nor a second thought--asking profoundly good dancers out onto the dancefloor to accompany him in steps he had never before taken: in this case, Bachata. Apparently young Lord David has rocks the size of Mt. McKinney. Kudos, My King! I am unworthy!

I did already mention an infamous Strawberry Daquiri, did I not? Well . . . I suggested to my suddenly giggling and somewhat loopy partner that she accompany me once more out onto the floor to dance off her unexpected bout of near-blondeness. Bad move Leperboy! At this point The Bearded One's alter ego took wing, and I was immediately and in no uncertain terms reminded of precisely with WHOM I was speaking: N U R S E (thank you very much) R A T C H E D. As penance for my sin I was informed in excrutiating biological detail of the reasons why alcohol can't be "danced off" (it is due to liver processing of some variety or another) despite ridiculous and specious old wives tales circulating amongst the uneducated, gullible and superstitious laity (read: me) although (she helpfully adds) the effects can be diminished by the simultaneous ingestion of fatty foods--alcohol being lipophilic (and also, in large enough quantities, lip o' phallic, but that . . . well . . . YOU, Dear Readers, needn't be reminded of THAT fact, I feel certain).

Anyway, having placed My tail between My Gullible and Ridiculous and Superstitious legs, she decided to have Fray drag her out onto the floor instead. I smiled. SOMEbody was about to get rilly rilly DIZ-ZY! And it wasn't gonna be me. And surely not Fray.

*hoot!*

A couple songs later, She of the Shoe Fetish returns to the table glistening with happy sweat and wearing a big smile. "He's good," she sez. Ummm . . . yeah. No joke, dood! Although for my money, the dip he performed with her sometime later (which ended with her eyes opening wide with surprise and a cute little drum solo on her tightly corseted belly) was the most amusing poing of their interactions for the evening. Particularly since she spent the next half hour forcing both Yours Truly and King David to swear on Britney Spears' Musical Genius that we hadn't been visually privy, during said dip, to any . . . well . . . uhhhh . . . untoward "glimpses" of things not generally intended for public viewing. Yah, V . . . we SWEAR IT! DIDN'T SEE A THING! NO WAY!!!

As if this weren't enough fun for a lonely Salsa Pretender to endure by way of a wonderful evening, Nurse Ratched (who tried to hide in the back corner when the costume contest was announced) was hauled out onto the dance floor with about 20 other costumed lovelies--both male and female--for an applause-based evaluation of costumed delightfulness. Believe it or not, Little Miss Can-can took 4th place and walked off with some cash! This is no small accomplishment at Stratos, where the crowd is heavily loaded with Salsa Passion folks who cheer for one another with extreme vigor. The local Salsa Goddess and fantastically beautiful Bombshell of Proto-Femininity Sandy--a well-known crowd favorite--came in second place. One of the macho young Salsa Passion guys took first, and another Passionette took 3rd. This sez an awful LOT about The Bearded One--who was the only one of the four finishers who wasn't a highly popular regular. Otherwise worded, this is a subtle way of saying she looked PROFOUNDLY hot. INTENSELY hot. And (perhaps just as important) unpretentious, warm, and friendly. And . . . well, you get the picture.

Our Heroine did quite well for herself, in any case. Nicht Wahr?

We all danced a bit more, chatted with some folks, and eventually closed the club down at the witching hour of 2am. And so came to an end one of the most wonderful, untroubled, and delightful evenings in recent memory. And before I say "The End," I'd like to append a little epilogue.

[WARNING: Sentimentality to follow]

We rarely go out seeking a friend and find precisely the friend we need. We can choose acquaintances, but friends? Friends can't be planned. They just happen. And once they happen, they are--if they are truly friends--always there when you need them, and they give freely of themselves, regardless of whether such giving is easy or difficult, convenient or not. And they have no expectations in return, though they know that you will also be there for them when they need you. Often we don't even know we've found such a person until we simply notice "hey! So and so seems to always be there, doing just the right thing, right when I need it." Well folks, I realized tonight just what a good friend I have in the person of The Great Bearded One. In the last several weeks, when I have needed an uplift to my spirits, The Big V was always there to provide it, intuitively. For this I thank her and will ever be grateful. When I have found myself dwelling on deeply unhappy things she has refused to tolerate it and has whipped me into shape. Sometimes even *I* need a swift kick in the ol' PseudoLatino ass. In short, she has become much more than a dance partner to me, she has become a dear friend for whom I wish all the best that life has to offer (however she may define it) and whose friendship I hope to enjoy for many years to come.

Here's my toast to my friend, Nurse Ratched. Please lift your glasses with me:

"May you always find another pair of shoes you desire, and may you always wear them well."

And now, as promised, comes. . .

THE END

Your Happily Blessed,

---PseudoLatino

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

More Monolith. Fangs and the Alphabet.

3:39 pm, 8' remain on the Monolith, and a trip to Home Despot for a folding 11' Gorilla Ladder means that I can complete the ENTIRE Monolith before the weekend is up, including the trim near the ceiling. Awesome.

5:50pm. The Monolith has fallen! Along with a small window-facing wall in the kitchen area. The trim near the ceiling on the front 30' of the Monolith will have to wait until tomorrow, but for the most part it is done. Your Home Improvement Specialist even did a brief colorwashing experiment with color #2 on a portion of the Monolith that will be hidden by the office platform . . . deciding after about 10 minutes that (1) The PseudoLatino is no Painter (and doesn't want to take the time to become one at this juncture in His life) and (2) I prefer the original, rusty terra cotta color of the primary coat.

But enough of that stuff . . . let's get to the Halloween portion of the day.

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And the rest of the evening? Yours Truly headed out to the Cedar Springs Halloween Block Party shortly before 10pm. . . a little taste of Mardi Gras lunacy right here in Dallas, TX . . . where he met up with Bo and Daisy Duke, The Blue Man, and (I think) Albert Einstein and proceeded to imbibe way too much cheap beer. As fate, luck, serendipity, chance, or the gods would have it he also bumped into a vampiric alien countess--a highly unlikely encounter given the size of the crowd and his general preoccupation with his cadre of friends. About this encounter he supposes he ought not to say much, except that it felt very familiar, that it felt right, and that the fangs were . . . incredible. (Oh . . . and the boots/jeans combo thing? BAD ASS!) He does remember her talking at length about some . . . was it a band? A band with a funny name perhaps? He thinks someone asked her if she liked the band, but he doens't remember for sure. He can't even remember the band's name, because he's . . . ummmm . . . linguistically challenged? Maybe. Were they called the . . . Alphabets? No. That wasn't it. Damn . . . he just can't remember.

The evening's delights were completely unexpected and utterly fantastic.

And I suppose that's enough said. For now.

---the PseudoLatino

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

Pavadita. Milonga.

After an absolutely irresponsible-yet-incredible morning and early afternoon outlining the alphabet in unlikely ways and drinking Jack and Cokes before the hour had even reached double digits, Your Hero was forced to spend a couple hours sleeping off the effects of his irresponsibility, and as such did not get an opportunity to complete the Monolith's few remaining details. It was--you can trust me on this one--a small price to pay for such an amazing time.

And besides . . . the wall isn't going anywhere.

There were also some developments in the Tango Leprosy Department.

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The early evening was spent catching up with friends and family and giving some thought to the night's dance-related activities . . . there were two choices: a repeat of last Sunday's Monica's outing (which was great) and the annual Halloween Milonga at Salon Pavadita. The Big V and King Dave had encouraged me to attend the latter, but I was strongly biased towards Monica's for several reasons. As the last of those reasons fell through shortly before 8pm, I decided that it was high time to attend a Post-Leprosy Milonga . . . even though it was at Pavadita and I had no idea what to expect upon my arrival. For all the Doom-crying and Nay-saying and general Poo-pooing that attended my most recent excommunication, I half expected large portions of the crowd to avoid me like the plague, or to outright curse me out, or at least to refuse to dance with me. But instead, as one would expect from a group of (dare I say it) adults, no one really seemed to give a shit--shy of the one person I lambasted on this site, his partner, and a couple of folks who still don't really talk to me from the FIRST time I voiced my (still correct--like it or not) opinions. As a matter of fact, a number of people who were aware both of my comments and the consequences thereof took it upon themselves to approach me and tell me that they did (or did not) like what I said, that they thought I had every right to say it, and that they found my punishment to be ridiculous (which, naturally, it is). Of course, they DID follow those expressions with fervent hopes that I wouldn't write about them. Heh. One person--as I understand it an old and dear friend of my favorite smarmy TangoPimp--even said that if I were to write about her (which I have, and it was complimentary), she "could take it." Well of course she could! It's just a blog, and it's just one man's opinion. In any case, each and every one of the people who approached me said that they missed my presence in class and hoped I would be back soon.

I would love to do just that. But . . . unfortunately, THAT part of it is not up to me. . . and enough about my Leprosy for the moment.

The Milonga itself? It was nice, by Pavadita standards. The sound was ok, the DJ was Stephen Brown--which guaranteed that each tanda was well-conceived and that most of the performaces were recorded since the invention of the Television Set. This is always a plus. The atmosphere was festive and the majority of people were actually in costume--many quite creative. Fred and Ginger came dressed as Che Guevara and a Soldier (a leader and a follower, har har har), and there were numerous sexy policewomen, one Can-Can girl (guess who?!), numerous witch/vampire types, a corpse bride, elvis, and many others. I came dressed as the PseudoLatino, in Levis and a Kenneth Cole ("but wait, sir, isn't that how you ALWAYS dress:!?!?" Yes. It is. So what? Tonight it was a "costume."). And although I had two left feet and no balance for most of the evening (lingering ill-effects of irresponsibility no doubt), I did manage to score some incredible partners. I started with Mila (die charmanteste Frau im ganzen Christentum; vielen dank, Liebe Mila!), then had two nice dances with Joanne, then two with a woman named, I think, Yang. Yang claimed to be a beginner, but she was very musical and followed very nicely. I spoke at length with Connie, whom I somehow managed NOT to dance with--my apologies Connie, and next time I call first dibs. I had a charming set of dances with the ever-sparkling Kay and then a couple obligatory tandas with The Bearded One, followed by yet another with Mila, and somehow--to my great sorrow--I missed out on a Tanda with the glorious (and VERY sexily costumed) Candice White. Another mistake I must rectify at the next opportunity.

Not to disappoint those searching for a little controversy, I must report honestly that the ButtBede was on hand this fine evening dressed, appropriately, like a (Butt)Pirate (personally I prefer his usual Used-Car Salesman costume, but variety is, one supposes, the spice of life). Now, whatever I may have had to say about the ButtBede, I concede openly that he is a very controlled dancer, who is very aware of his space on the dancefloor and whom I've never seen collide with another dancer. As I've said elsewhere: technically he can dance circles around Yours Truly. So . . . I found it more than a tad amusing and very true to the spirit of Tango that he found a way, during the second Tanda after my arrival, to slam rather hard into the person of Your Humble Tangoidal Leper (without so much as grazing my partner or his own). Well done, Old Bede! A surgical strike! Be careful though, that seems just a wee tad like you were experiencing . . . ummm . . . Passion! Most excellent! Keep it up! There's hope for you yet, my son.

Anyhoot . . . to all of you who are vicariously lurking in the halls of pseudoLatino.com waiting for my next tirade--either because they assert things you too believe and prefer to keep to yourselves or because they reaffirm your conviction that I am, indeed, a first class asshole--I say this: does it strike YOU, based on people's behaviour towards me this fine evening, that anyone really gives a rat's defecatory orifice what I do or do not post here? Did you pick up on a sense of DIVISIVENESS amongst tonight's representative faction of the DFW Tango Community as a result of my colorfully worded adverse opinions about some prevalent educational practices and their chief proponents? No. You didn't. And so we're forced to ask again: what's the freakin' FUSS, yo? I show up, I dance, lots of people who were supposedly going to "take sides" and refuse my invitations were doing no such thing and were saying--to the contrary--that it has nothing to do with them: they just wanna dance. They voice their opinion that I should be allowed back into class. They're OVER IT.

Good for them! THEY have the right attitude about the whole thing. In short, for the love of everything good and true and right and holy--IT'S A FREE FUCKING COUNTRY! Some, in the pre-Patriot Act era, refer to this silly little document called The First Amendment to the U.S.Constitution. Furthermore, it's satire, it's on a blog of my PERSONAL musings which--like, say, The Dallas Observer--you're free to read or ignore if you feel it'll offend your sensibilities. My opinions are like gays in the military: Don't Like, Don't Read.

So I'm going to start a "Stop the Madness" campaign. Call your Congressmen, your Senators, the Mayor, and . . . sure, why not? . . . the ever-lovin' Pope. Ask them to end this silly/ridiculous/absurd banishment and reinstate me to all classes, lessons, and performances. It's the right thing to do.

And have a nice day, too.

I did.

---the PseudoLatino

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