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Übung macht den Meister

Just another Tuesday night? Hardly. It was a short but sweet evening embellished with a frustrating but productive practice session. Tango. The Bearded One. Volcadas mostly, and clockwise Rulos. We focused more on learning individual techniques than we usually do, which means that the gratification was less instant but that the results will be real and lasting. The problem with dance practice--for me at least--is that it's just too much fun to DANCE . . . to get carried away in the song of the moment (and the moment of the song). Rehearsing requires turning off your musicality for short periods to focus on unfamiliar mechanics. Because these mechanics are foreign to you, rehearsing them requires you to expose your weaknesses, to feel awkward and graceless and inept, and to do so in the presence of someone you would rather impress. It follows that learning to dance well requires a healthy self-esteem. If you don't believe that your weaknesses and ineptitudes are temporary--small, necessary steps along the road to improvement--and if you doubt that you possess the fortitude to persevere through discouragement, perhaps even embarrassment, you are lost. You will feel frustrated, perhaps inferior, certainly upset . . . you will cease to have fun. You will become angry with yourself or your partner as the joy of dancing sinks slowly into a fog of bad feelings and annoyance. You will take steps to avoid further vulnerability: perhaps you will move on to easier, less threatening things . . . or simply choose to back away, to remain at a beginner's level with self-esteem intact and well-protected. This may allow you to once again enjoy the act of dancing, but the dance will be ordinary. All risk is gone, and along with it all potential.

Nothing extraordinary is easy.

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And of course you realize that dance is an arbitrary example: it's the same with everything. Merely doing things you are already happy and safe and comfortable doing removes the risk . . . and the potential. Limit the possibility of pain? Limit the extent of pleasure. Take the path of least resistance? Stifle the opportunity for growth. Granted you'll gain a sense of security, but at what cost? You will have cheated yourself; robbed yourself of your potential; allowed the finest experiences to be had in this fleeting life to pass you by. And because you are intelligent and self-aware, you will eventually realize that you have turned your back on something beautiful, something rare, something special and irreplaceable. At this point, usually when it is far too late, regret will enter your life . . . and regret is a beast most fearsome. "What if," is the world's deadliest question. "What if I had . . ." moved to Seattle? Become a doctor? Written my novel? Learned Chinese? Quit my thankless job and opened a restaurant in Wyoming? Hiked the Appalachian Trail? Asked her to marry me? Hosted a Radio Show? Stopped to help? Directed a Movie? Risked a life less ordinary? "What if" is the Thief in the Night, extinguishing more beautiful possibilites than any other threat--real or imagined.

And my point is...?

I didn't really start out to make one. I'm just reflecting on a rewarding rehearsal, chatting with you, my friends, while I drink a nice glass of wine and listen to one of my favorite pieces of music. I'm reminding myself that everything in life is set up to pull us downward into the quagmire of The Average; that we are--all of us--constantly set upon by our own fears and self-doubts and carried along by inertia. Those around us want us to do things in the "right" (meaning "normal") way and warn us of the perils of thinking and acting differently, of painting outside the lines--and they warn us not out of malice (which would make things much easier), but out of genuine, if misguided, concern. They tell us, perhaps, not to ride a bike 1800 miles alone through the Rocky Mountains because of bears, and lunatics, and bad weather, and terrorists(!) and a thousand other dangers they dredge up from their TV-newscast-fueled imaginations . . . and sometimes we listen.

And when we listen, we lose.

So to all of you, dear friends, I say:

Take a chance: . . . don't Listen.

 

With Love,

Your Favorite Armchair Philosopher Hack,

---the PseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Babalu Blowoff

After last week's horrid disappointment, Yours Truly didn't have the energy to head back out to Babalu just yet. Instead he had a nice dinner con Margarita with his beloved Dancer X--recently returned from a short vacation in that infamous Land of Fruits and Nuts, California. Though Your Hero remains in a state of high agitation and restlessness, he did calm down enough for a lovely meal and some warm, wonderful conversation. Next, he struck up a brief but enlightening telephonic conversation with the Queen of Entropy, who mentioned "bondage supplies," colored cellophane and latex. She also won MAJOR Kudos for referring to Rainer Werner Fassbinder's The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant as . . . I shit you not . . . "the Veritable Wonderbra of German Cinema." If I've heard a better, more sarcastic and clever description of any film at any time, ever, by anyone--critic or otherwise, I can't recollect it. She took the cake on this fine evening.

*lifting glass*

Here's a toast to the Queen of Entropy. Long live the Queen (and her coughing Hungarian Goulash, too)!

*drinks*

Cheers,

--the PseudoLatino

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

& kisses are a better fate than wisdom

And another thing . . . because I'm feeling my pseudo-sensitive side this evening, I will share with you something I found--something so perfectly apt I could hardly believe my eyes and misfiring synapses. I offer this to those of you able, and willing, to hear what it sez (and yes, that would be you):

since feeling is first
---e.e.cummings (1926)

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

 

With Kisses AND Wisdom,

--your PseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Pissed-on Parade, etc.

Pissed-on Parade, etc.

Today was another outstanding slice of PseudoLatino life, at both work and play--where everything's on the move. At my new job I was even physically moved into the area where my eccentric and lively team whiles away its time (I was in newbie quarantine until now). I felt it necessary to sanitize my new cube before moving in, as the previous owner was perhaps not the world's . . . ummm . . . well, nevermind. Let's just say there were good reasons to break out the cleaning supplies. On the homefront, I did some packing and lots of happy mental backflips in anticipation of my coming trip to vistas non-Texan. By this time tomorrow, I'll be hotly and sweatily dancing with that luscious goddess of Bweep-Bweep Goodness, Sistrah Suplex! AWESOME.

It's been wayyyyyy too long.

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And . . . just back from Carson's, where the automotive gods decided to piss on my parade. The Pseudo-LatinoMobile is one fine set of wheels, but tonight it decided that it wanted to take me 18 miles from home and then loose its juice. Even when I headed out from Carson's, it started just fine . . . then . . . poof! Dead car. No electrical power, just lots of quiet nothingness. Fortunately, it gave up the ghost at a filling station and I was able to impose upon a truck full of kindly fratboys to give me a jumpstart. Even more fortunately, the jumpstart worked. This got me home to the PseudoLatino World HQ, where--even before I could get the windows completely rolled back up--my baby decided to go tits up once again. Fuck me! This really wouldn't be sooooo bad, but I myself am somehow without jumper cables and my back-up mobile (a very sweet 1978 Jeep CJ7) isn't trustworthy either. This leaves me without a way to get to work in the morning, or a way to get car #1 to the shop, or . . . and this is the part I care most about . . . a way to get ME to the everluvin A-port AFTER work.

The gods must be crazy.

Be all that as it may, I'll give you the lowdown on my second night back at Carson's Live (cuz I'm stuck at home with nothing to do and no way to do it and because surely you all want to know, having those inquiring minds, etc). Like last week, I arrived a little on the early side (pre-9pm) and settled down to a jack-n-coke while watching the end of Jonathan's free lesson. Kirsten Dunst was also in the house (it being her gig, after all). Slowly but surely the dancers began to arrive, and it occurred to me--after several times back on the scene--that something has changed. To wit: most of the guys are the same folks I'm used to seeing, but there is a whole new set of women at the high end of the ability scale. These are women whom, for the most part, I had never seen during my months-long, 6-night-per-week Salsa binge. And they're GOOD. So I found myself wondering from just where in the bejesus they so miraculously appeared. I have no clue. And since wondering doesn't generally answer questions of this nature, I can't enlighten you, Dear Readers, any more than I can enlighten myself. Suffice it to say that the old-timers have disappeared. In their place? The peroxide-blonde Suzanne Sommers, the dynamic asian duo of Kari (with whom I danced this evening) and her distinctly japanese and distinctly beautiful friend (whose name, sorry, I don't yet know). The two are both excellent dancers, and the japanese girl (let's call her Maggie . . . wearing Pigtails) was truly amazing--following the best Jonathan had to throw her way effortlessly. It also didn't hurt that she was drop-dead gorgeous, moved like a dream, had on what I consider to be the sexiest pair of jeans I've ever seen in my life (with cut-outs revealing small portions of her hips and with a waist cut low enough to show off a wonderful tattoo on her low-low-lower back), and was indescribably buoyant with joy while moving about the floor.

And these three are just the tip of the iceberg.

It leaves a poor out-of-practice Salsa Pretender a little befuddled and intimidated. Where to the partners with whom I've cultivated an on-floor friendship and respect? Those partners who know me well enough to tolerate my foibles as I shake off the rust and clean off the cobwebs? Where to? Eh? WTF?

It's enough to confound even an eternal optimist the likes of Yours Truly.

All of this to say that my reinitiation rites involve more than merely dusting off the chops . . . I have to get to know a whole new set of people, too. Which, to be quite honest, isn't first and foremost on my priority list. I already know wonderful people, talented people, beautiful people . . . all of whom dance well and whose company I enjoy. BRING THEM BACK NOW, YOU VILE SATANIC PSEUDO-LATINO THWARTERS! YOU BASTARDS!

I have never really been interested in fitting in with the crowd; any crowd. In the case of Salsa it was enough for me to attend these events with my beloved pseudoLatina (a good dancer) and to spend most of the evening in her arms (geschweige denn überhaupt von dem "liplocks")--occasionally spending dance time with other friends and acquaintances. Attending once again as The Single Dood--playing the social game--isn't really so interesting, and never was. I watch blueshirt and Zach on the make--not to mention the pathetic Delaserra--and think: not me.

On the other hand, they played a Cha-cha in Farsi! Pretty Random, no?

Off to bed, and then New Mexico . . .

---the PseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Dead Car. Dead Tired.

With a little (theoretical) help from the Sweatless Genetic Mutant, the PseudoLatino motivated himself to get a move on REALLY early in the morning so he could get his ailing (not to say "dead") automobile to Far Away Bedford, where work could be done and cars could get themselves all resurrected & shit & stuff. It turns out that the Alien didn't need to make an appearance, because Yours Truly was far too worried about breaking down in the middle of rush hour traffic to risk driving with a jump-started battery and unknown automotive ailments: a towtruck was enlisted to guarantee the timely and safe arrival of the PL-mobile.

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The actual problem? Permanently dead battery.

Could've been much worse (although the towing bill and dealership-rate repair expenses weren't exactly my idea of Good Times Good Times).

All that really matters is that my chariot was ready to roll in time to catch my 6:15pm flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico . . . where I was welcomed by the beautiful, charming, witty and wise Sistrah of Sistrahs: Sistrah Suplex. We headed immediately to the ABQ Hilton, where they have live Salsa and a free buffet on Friday nights. In order to facilitate the imbibation (no, not a word, but it should be) of much alcohol via many alcoholic beverages we reserved a room for the evening (it isn't so wise to drive under the influence ever, but particularly not in a not-so-large town where one's hostess has a brother in the Police Department, a cousin in the Sheriff's Department, and a relative of some derivation in just about every official capacity imaginable). We dropped off our few belongings and headed straight down to get in some dancing before the Latin music was stopped at 9pm. What we discovered wasn't mind-numbingly cool, but was just what we needed. The band was playing Salsa, Cha cha, and a little Rock en Espanol. The dancefloor was small, uneven and crowded . . . so we basically danced in between piles of band equipment. And OH were we rusty! Separately we were already rusty. Together?

Rust-o-rama.

There were a couple of unintended near misses regarding kitty-grabs and tit-grips (blame the over-rotating SISTRAH, yo. I'm in-no-cent!!!!), and definitely lots of flailing . . . but we persevered and managed to have a great deal of fun despite our weaknesses. One of those weaknesses being that we were BOTH exhausted. So . . . we were both in the room and asleep well before midnight.

Happily. With virtually NO alcohol and definitely no tipsitude.

Sometimes even a World-travelling Salsa Pretender needs to take a break and just . . . rest. And so it was tonight.

Ciao,

---the PL

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

The Punching Bag

Alright . . . surely each of you, my Dearest Readers, has experienced that primordial phenomenon whereby one realizes that the thing in life which would--at the precise moment at which said epiphany unfolds--make one Most Sublimely Happy is to punch the LIVING SHIT out of something fragile (something which, one hopes further, will make a REALLY LOUD NOISE as it SHATTERS into millions of tiny, irreparable shards of cathartic destruction). One realizes that one's foot would lead one nigh unto Nirvana if one could simply kick a HUGE FUCKING HOLE in that smirking, mocking, morally bankrupt stretch of DRYWALL adjacent to one's front door!

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Well . . . on this beautiful Texas evening Yours Truly whiled away a few memorable moments with a kindred spirit who was caught madly in the grip of this ancient desire. As we wandered about downtown Dallas, exploring whatever building, path, or object happened to strike our collective fancy, my slightly malformed (which is to say mutated) companion was stuck again with an appetite for sadistic self-expression and began--despite my FERVENT protestations and pleas--to simply WAIL upon my upper arms and shoulders with her fistfuls of steel. It was all I could do to protect my face, stomach, and groin from this onslaught as I was driven forceably into--and then, eventually, through--the glass enclosure of the Chase-Morgan building's lobby. Somehow, as the pummeling continued, I managed to pick myself up off the floor, remove several shards of glass from my hands and lower back and--while riffing on Bruce Willis quotes from the Die Hard movies--stich up the gash on my face using dental floss and a bobby pin. Apparently I interpreted her vehemence as exhortations to feats of defensive greatness. I was afire with bloody, painful, aching glee!

But it was too little too late: my companion, adrenaline kicking into overdrive, did a backflip off the mezzanine balcony and kicked me squarely in the back of the head as she plummeted downwards. I was rendered instantly unconscious and awoke several hours later at a nearby hospital, where some Nurse named Ratched was hooking me up to a machine labelled "Electroshock Blues." This machine wasn't fun either.

I did find out some time later that my companion for the evening was somewhat relieved by her Freudian Vent, and--as best I could speak with that annoying breathing tube down my throat--I attempted to indicate that the whole experience had been, indeed, my pleasure. And DAMN have I got the bruises to show for it!

May you all have such a lovely day as was had by Yours Truly on THIS day,

---the PseudoLatino

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

Giving Thanks, Day #1

Well. Yours Truly has been silent for a couple of weeks as many things have unfolded, refolded, misfolded, and eventually, thankfully, been discarded. What matters most, though, is that I just had the greatest Thanksgiving holiday of my entire life. Bar none. A holiday without other people's attitudes or neuroses or angers or paranoias or defensive avoidances or self-doubts or various and sundry other craps 'n stuffs. Why? Well, more than anything else I owe it to the Great Bearded One. Yup; she of the burning Feather Boa and the thigh-highs. I'm afraid there is no way to give you a complete blow-by-blow of these 5 days, but the rather long-winded synopsis begins with the Wednesday night opening Milonga in Austin, Tayx-sus . . . six hours of dancing pleasure--9pm to 3am. The occasion? Austin's annual Fandango festival.

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5 nights of social dancing, 4 days of master classes with some of the most renowned teachers in modern Argentine Tango, and heaps and gobs of fun ripe for the taking. And oh BOY did we take it. The Valerina had arrived some hours in advance of Your Loving Tango Leper (as the saying goes: "age before beauty") and had already taken the lay of the land . . . which in Austin isn't always easy. To conserve $$ she had booked a room in a motel which would've made Hitchcock proud, boasting cockroaches the size of warplanes in small third-world countries and further populated by old shriveled-looking rats who spent most of the evening telling me about their glory days as walk-on extras in those rat-centric thrillers Willard and Ben. One of them even claimed to've treated the white-furred beauty "Socrates" to a bit of fellatio in order to get a speaking (squeaking?) part and hence a bit more dough. Dunno if she was telling the truth, but when one is being spoken to by jaded, alcoholic vermin one tends to just nod a lot and say "wow" when it seems appropriate.

In any case, I grabbed an extra pillow, made my bed on the floor next to the warplanes and rodents (genus Rattus), changed into my Tangoid garb and spent the next hour or so convincing the Valmeisterin that she already looked great and was, despite any lingering reservations on her part, perfectly ready to go dance (in ValHours 9pm = 10pm, so it was a little difficult to get her moving), which we did, indeed, do. Or we tried. You see . . . the Bearded One has an unusually odd case of N.A/D.S which only occurs after dusk, and--since we were following her directions and since she was completely and totally the navigatrix on this journey--this meant that we got to see a good deal more of Austin than anticipated as we travelled the far-more-than-the-necessary-four miles between Motel Hell(o) and the Red Lion. But arrive we did. The scene that greeted us was wonderful: a very large dancefloor with LOTS of air-conditioning and a reasonably decent sound system. Well . . . I should say that the scene which greeted us AFTER I forcibly propelled Ms. Tanguera past the women's SHOE booth was wonderful. You see, my charming dance partner is instantly rendered senseless in the presence of for-sale shoes and I spent quite some time wiping the drool from the corners of her mouth and cooing the appropriate reassurances before we actually made it into the ballroom.

Such is the life of the Pseudo-Latino.

What's important is that we DID make it into the ballroom, and that we did ourselves proud--and represented our fellow Dallasites admirably--for the next several hours. I made a point of indicating to Beardo when we were dancing in front of the table occupied by numerous world-famous Tango luminaries ("hey! There's Julio Balmaceda! And that's Carolina and Diego!"), which earned me nothing but loud "SHUT UP!s" (and laughter) as I was informed that she simply didn't WANT TO KNOW when she was being watched by THE GREATEST DANCER OF VALS ON THE PLANET. Go figure. You'd think such a beautiful and talented woman could withstand, oh, say a little PRESSURE, no? What you must believe of this story is that we honestly did a great job. Everything clicked. We felt good, we were having fun, all the new moves we've been working on came together nicely and, in a room full of reasonably good dancers (and naturally not including the god-like instructors), we stood out--not as the best, but as noteworthy. When one considers that my first Tango steps were taken almost precisely one year ago, one can hopefully see how Yours Truly would be justifiably proud of his achievements. And he was! It helped tremendously that I was with the most talented and graceful (and obsessed) partner I have ever had the pleasure of embracing--a partner who consistently covered my mistakes and turned them into hot-looking "adornments." I could go on and on and on about my dance partner (and, over time, I will), but for now I'll just say, once again, WOW! She kicks ass, and makes it unbelievably easy to relax and Have Lots of Fun on the dancefloor.

So anyway . . . after shutting down the party at about 2:40 in the a.m. (we were one of only 2 couples left at that hour, along with 4 unpaired guys) we returned to the various and sundry vermin, basking in the glow of our excitement and chattering happily away until exhaustion finally won out sometime after 4 in the morning. It is truly one of life's great joys to share a passion (any passion) with a friend and an equal.

If it had ended at that moment, the holiday weekend was already a success. But there was soooooo much more to come!

...stay tuned

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

Giving Thanks, Day #2

The actual Day de Turkey began about 4 hours after the Eve de Turkey came to a close. We got up shortly after 8am ("Drag your ass out of bed, Loser Human!" was the gracious wake-up call I got from several cockroaches, singing in tight 3-part harmony) and started a day that would, eventually, be even better than its predecessor.

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First things first: we left Austin and headed for the PseudoLatino family Estate in H-town, where we arrived in time for an early afternoon Turkey Day dinner of (big surprise) turkey, dressing, potato salad, assorted veggies and sides, pies and cake. Your Tango Pretender spent an hour or so simply lounging in the big fat middle of the floor with his favorite PseudoChihuahua, Katje (we miss you, Matthew!). Life was good. We then changed into our dancing shoes and gave mi madre y mi perra a not-so-impromptu taste of Tango. Cool. It was then time to move on to the Estate of the Beardess' family Matriarch. Turkey Day Dinner #2. Yes: more Turkey. More Stuffing. Greens. Sweet potatoes (tangy and otherwise). Special, secret-recipe, homemade Macaroni and Cheese. Yumminess permeated all. But . . . two large doses of Tryptophan (or whatever the soporific element in turkey is called) and no sleep makes Jack a Tired Boy. Not to mention that I was the newfound playtoy for the Valerina's two-year-old nephew, Toddler Terriblé, who turned his back on his mom, grandmom, and aunt in order to teach Yours Truly the meaning of "boundless energy." Oi vey! After many rounds of his favorite game (Toss the Toddler), a few versions of Hide and Seek, some exploratory forays into Burst The Eardrums, Expert Edition, and a few sets of Hang Upside Down from the Silly Adult I was ushered by my kind Hostess into a quiet front room where I was able to lie quietly on a sofa for about 15 minutes. This short reprieve was ended with one last game of Sit On The Old Guy's Back And Giggle Loudly and then it was time to begin the trek back to Austin.

Oh how I yearned for some sleep! But our schedule barely allowed time to get back, exchange brief salutations with the roaches (now singing in 4-part, chorale style harmonies), change into our dancing garb, apply a few appropriate cosmetics (just the Valerina, not Yours Truly . . . Halloween having already come and gone), and head for the Milonga du Jour. Apropos cosmetics, I'd like to say that I learned something interesting about V on this evening. Before milongas, she doesn't completely apply make-up to the right side of her face because--when dancing close embrace with lots of sweaty men--it all gets removed anyway. Hmmmm . . . I think I'll apply this same technique to my shaving practice and only shave the right side of my face. It'll look funny, but the babes'll appreciate my thoughtfulness and consideration, no? (And we all know it's all about the babes! )

In the sake of fairness, I should say that the ride back to Austin and the hour or so of pre-dance preparations did not bode well for the success of our evening. We were both exhausted, quiet, and a little on the cranky side. To make things worse, we had trouble getting back to the event location because of a series of missed exits and confusing roadways and didn't arrive at the milonga until nearly an hour and half after it had begun (it was only 4 hours long this evening). Your Exemplary and Beloved Tango Leper does not do well with being late to things unless the lateness is planned and desired. So I was feeling both annoyed and disappointed when we finally rolled into the ballroom at 11:20pm. And when V and I took to the dancefloor our moods and exhaustion were apparent in every step. Dammit! After I bungled a tanda of milongas (badly enough that my own partner WALKED OFF THE FLOOR in the middle of the tanda!!!), the Bearded One shooed me off to dance with other, "non-Dallas" folks while she "rested." Uh huh. We all know THAT line, don't we gents? "I'm sorry. I think I need to sit out a couple of songs. I'm exhausted!" Riiiiight . . . Well, I did go seek out some new faces and danced with folks from DC, Austin, New England, and other places I've now forgotten. The people I danced with were less accomplished than the V-ster, so I was forced to relax and take everything down a couple of notches. The result? I slowly began to get my groove back. Me and Stella, eh?

A glass of wine helped in that regard.

Throughout the evening I did return to SistrahShoeFetish on several occasions, and though my energy level was once again rising, hers remained relatively low (it's true, gurl!). But we danced a little better. And then we saw my old pal Derek from Houston, who had just arrived for the weekend. Derek hadn't seen me dance since I met Luna and Moonchild at the Crossroads cafe nearly a year ago and took some of my first social Tango dancesteps ever. V and I talked to Derek for a bit and then a new Tanda began: Vals. Yessssssss! There were 45 minutes left to dance and I was bursting with energy, deciding on the spot to have a little fun with Derek and the Valerina both. I asked my beloved partner to dance, and I just let it all loose. I put every ounce of happiness and excitement and confidence that I had inside me into that tanda, and made it my goal in life to infect the Bearded One with the same feeling. At first she resisted: "don't you DARE do that volcada again!" she warned; and so I repeated it again and again and again, laughing and daring her with the sheer force of my good will not to laugh, too. Despite herself, she laughed. Around the floor we whirled and swirled and ebbed and flowed. With each new smile or laugh, things fell further into place. The tumblers tumbled; the clickers clicked. Her weariness was forgotten and we both began to play, to experiment, to beam, to . . . dance! I saw Derek and his crew watching us intently, and they weren't alone. As we passed the maestro's table I saw Fabian Salas stop in mid-sentence and watch us pass by; we passed the DJ's table and Alex Krebs and Robin Thomas watched carefully (Alex actually smiled); numerous groups of anonymous folks were not only watching us each time we passed by, but they were getting big grins on their faces, too. Yours Truly and his partner were a Happiness Virus infecting the whole room! I can honestly say that I've never danced this well or had this much fun on a dancefloor in my entire (admittedly short) career as a dancer. It was amazing. Uplifting. Transporting. When we nailed the ending of the final Vals, Derek and his crew erupted in applause.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

Perhaps I had.

My Dear Friends, let me be clear: if I were not already addicted to Tango (and I was) those three dances would've done it. My desire to do this dance and do it incredibly well increased exponentially in that instant . . . but . . . there was still more to come! V and I danced every single song that remained until 2am, and . . . somehow . . . that same energy continued unabated--quantitatively and qualitatively. We danced with poise, with confidence, with joy, with excitement, playfulness and a sense of comradery. We were perfectly in tune with one another and that connection kept us laughing, kicking ass, and taking names until the final Cumparsita had come and gone and we--in sweaty bliss (good thing she didn't bother with cosmetics on the right side of her face!)--collected our things and made our way back to Rodentia. It's hard to describe the feeling I had during that ride home--a feeling of limitless optimism, pride, of growing dreams and possibilities for the future, of simple, unblemished, imperturbable well-being . . . and all because of a few dances (well . . . a few dances and the 12 months of hard work and dedication which made them possible). I believe I was visibly glowing. And the V-ster must've been feeling something similar because she had the same stupid smile on her face that I was wearing upon my own. We didn't need to talk much . . . the effect was so potent and tangible that it was just understood: life is amazing; we just experienced a rare and beautiful moment; life is amazing; if I live to be 112 the last 45 minutes will never be forgotten; life is amazing; etc, etc.

I was overcome with the realization that this experience was of a very special calibre: it was based on accomplishment and ability and passion and dedication and mutual respect and friendship . . . a type of event that I could not have shared with anyone else at this particular time in my life; an excitement that many people may never experience due to fear or laziness or self-doubt or cynicism or simple inertia or what have you. As exhaustion took hold of me and I fell asleep face down upon my corner of the floor next to the washed-up rodents--still wearing my dance attire--I found myself thankful that my life had taken the turns that it had and that I had been, somehow, spared from the ordinary yet again.

Yours Truly sez: FUCK the ordinary . . . and have pity on those who purposefully reside within it in order to feel extraordinary.

Can I get an "amen!" or a "hallelujah!"? No? Well . . . I deserve one anyway. Don't shout me down jess cuz I'za preachin' good!

In any case . . . so ended Thanksgiving Day for the Tango Leper.

It was a Thanksgiving to end all Thanksgivings.

The best I have ever experienced.

. . .still more to come . . .

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

Giving Thanks, Day #3

Whatever you do, don't rotate.

When I awoke many hours later, in crumpled clothing and with breath to rival the stoutest Limburger, the rodents were long gone . . . off to spend their day lounging by the pool perhaps, or scavenging for Turkey Day leftovers. By the time we were clean and awake and duly caffeinated, the first master class of the day had come and nearly gone . . . thus invalidating my original plan to attend one class only, then abandon the Valerina and return to Houston for the rest of the holiday weekend. My intentions to follow through with this plan were good. I had sworn to remain steadfast. No . . . REALLY . . . I SWEAR it's true! Dammit! I PROMISE!

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It isn't MY fault that the first class we attended was "Single Axis Techniques" taught by the God of the Vals, Julio Balmaceda, and his equally amazing partner, Corina de la Rosa. There is no couple on the planet that can outdance these two in a Vals, and it turns out that they are also fantastic teachers: funny, helpful, entertaining-yet-intense. The class was rated "Specialty"--which was the most difficult rating, but V and I fared quite well and received a little extra help from Julio. He was passing by after we had mastered the basic mechanics of the step and he let forth a loud, approving, "Yaysssss! . . . BUT!" and then he takes Valerina away from me, leads the move with her, and shows me how I'm rushing her through the end of the step . . . not allowing time for it to breathe. I'm assuming it must've felt pretty awesome, because V is making sounds that one generally ought not to make in a public place. Naughty sounds! Hrrrmmmph . . . fine. He passes her back to me, I try again . . . and--believe it or not--I get it! He sez "Yayssss!" and V makes more of those sounds, like, y'know, right in my ear . . . sez it makes her feel like a "Fairy Princess." Hmmm . . . . Well. Ok, then. Fairy Tango Princess it'll be, dammit. We keep practicing, and I hear--a few minutes later, the now-familiar cry: "Yaysssss! . . . BUT!" and this time he takes ME into an embrace, leads ME in the single-axis turn, and shows me where I'm missing an important subtlety of the lead. Wow. And I mean "WOW" . . . can this guy lead! I only hope I wasn't making the same sounds The Bearded One made at the analogous point in their dancing, as that may've not gone over too well . . . if you know what I mean . . . but . . . I DID find myself feeling, if not like a Fairy Princess precisely, certainly a wee tad pampered and well taken care of.

The class could not have been better.

Fortunately for my screaming tapeworm (él llama Percy), this was the last class before the LUNCH BREAK, which we decided to take in the hotel restaurant so that Ms. V would have plenty of time to shop for shoes (read: experience shoegasm) before our next class . . . yes, I said "next class," for Woe is Me but what was a poor Tango Addict to do in the face of such wonderment other than give in to the Peer Pressure and the Rampant Call of One's Addiction? We signed up for classes by Guillermo and Fernanda and Carolina and Diego (Fred and Ginger's some-time teachers and mentors). Ok . . . but first, lunch. Unremarkable beyond the Big V rushing me through every bite with exhortations like "every time you chew before swallowing means less time for ME to buy SHOES!" And so on. I was also mildly amused during our meal by the arrival of the Tango Pimp aka the Anal Bede aka We Sell Our Cars For Less--Guaranteed! And of course the Bride of Chucky. But a tad more on THAT one later.

Ok, not TOO much later. After my impatient partner had tried on a pair of shoes or 10, checked her bank balance (I'm pretty sure that she has a special menu that presents her balance in PairsOfShoesRemaining rather than in US$), and decided that the only pair she really liked she didn't like quite enough to pay the asking price, we wandered around the corner and into Guillermo and Fernanda's class, "Secadas, secadas, and more secadas." It turns out it was a class on my nemesis: back secadas. For some reason I've just had a devil of a time getting this technique to yield its treasures to my eager feet . . . but I keep plugging away at it, and Guillermo and Fernanda helped me get a good deal closer. One small point of amusement, and a delicious irony---the Anal Bede and the Bedette were in the class with us. And I'm going to be completely predictable here and give you exactly what you were expecting to hear: I laughed my butt off. Let's be quite clear: I'm a beginner. I have a LOT to learn, and even what I do know needs a lot of polish. I have no delusions of grandeur about my dancing chops nor my profoundly low ability level in the overall scheme of things. But the Anal Bede has been at this a LOOOOOOONG time, and he "teaches" it professionally, and he so often and so lovingly takes on the dramatic role of his alter ego, the Tango Pimple . . . and he so loves to play his little high school behind-the-scenes games (quick, Germy! Go call some of your friends and tell them I'm at it again!"). . . and he SOOOOO sucked ass in this class! It was my moment of petty happiness for the weekend: Mr. Veteran Tango Poser sitting on the sidelines for part of the class. Hoot! Now, probably there's a logical explanation: perhaps he didn't want to muss his hair up or get any wrinkles in his well-pressed slacks or maybe the purple lace thong he wears was riding a little on the high side; maybe he felt the level of the dancers around him just didn't measure down to his standards of amusicality or his fashion . . . ummm . . . "sense;" maybe he'd been up all night the previous evening adding scratches to his Color Tango recordings and converting them to monaural to lend them an air of crappiness . . . ummm . . . authenticity. Goodness knows. But the results made Yours Truly smile inwardly.

So fucking sue me, ok? Even my therapist thinks it's funny.

My amusement continued as V and I headed over to our final class, with Carolina and Diego: "building Horizontal momentum," or something like that. Sorry Olde Bede was in THAT class too (although I'll give credit where it's due . . . Tangy McPimple fared quite well in this class and even asked Diego a really good question or two). I should say that I was thoroughly underimpressed with Carolina and Diego's teaching. After my previous two experiences on this day I had high expectations, and they were simply not met. Their energy was low, the material was extremely subtle (which is fine), yet it was pointlessly belabored and not particularly well presented. They were neither entertaining nor particularly inspiring or involved (although I did get to dance a bit with Carolina when V and I needed to figure out whether a particular problem was due to my lead or her follow . . . and dancing with ANY of the instructors at one of these events is a memorable treat). My pre-leper lessons with Fred and Ginger were far more useful than this masterclass, and I decided I'd just write it off to a bad day (on their part . . . assuredly NOT on mine! My day was bursting with Goodly Goodness). We all have 'em. Yes. Even Yours Truly (though I only admit it to my closest friends).

Another general observation about events like this one . . . actually, you can consider it a Law from On High . . . presented from me to you as a gift: don't EVER attend one of these things without your own partner, and don't EVER rotate unless you are ABSOLUTELY sure that you are at the same level as those around you. It is hard enough to learn the mechanics of a new and difficult (for you) step/technique without having to alternate with people whose opinions of their own dancing level bears little resemblance to its reality. The theory behind rotating partners is that if you have to lead a move with many different people, you will REALLY learn to lead it. This is, of course, true. But it's only true if you already have mastered the mechanics of the technique. If you have not, then dancing with multiple partners is at best distracting and at worst confusing, obfuscating and disheartening. You will learn new material best with your regular partner, provided that you are used to learning new things together (and if you aren't, what the fuck are you doing???). An example: in the back secada class, V and I refused to rotate, with only one exception. When we DID agree, I ended up--to my pleasant surprise--with the lovely and talented Mila . . . one of my favorite DFW dance partners. The Valerina, by way of contrast, ended up with a belligerent New York Buttplug who couldn't do the move any more than I could formulate a complete sentence in Swahili and so V spent most of her round with him arguing over which foot she was supposed to be on (keep in mind that she and I had already done the move many times, and had done so for both Fernanda and Guillermo). Naturally she was right, and the Asswipe eventually was forced (by one of the instructors) to acquiesce . . . but her time was absolutely wasted with him. She didn't "learn how to follow it with many different leads." She learned that an asshole is as an asshole does, and that most leaders who blame their followers for mistakes don't know what the fuck they are doing.

So . . . REFUSE TO SWITCH PARTNERS IN CLASS. Just say "no" to switching (paddling is ok, just not switching). Again, UNLESS you already know the technique AND you know that you'll be dancing with someone else who is relatively close to your ability level. It doesn't matter what the organizers say, or the instructors say . . . it's your money. You pay their fees, not the other way around. If you go alone, you'll have no choice . . . so refer to rule #1: don't EVER attend one of these things without a partner. But enough of my soapbox for now. Let's move on.

With the end of Carolina and Diego's disappointing class, my holiday of Tango with my beloved Tanguera came to a crashing conclusion. We went and got some dinner for the road, then The Bearded One headed back to DFW to play Nurse Ratched for the weekend and I headed to H-town for quality Dog Time. It was mentioned jokingly that--should Nurse Ratched's scheduled rehearsal in DFW fall through for some reason--The Tango Leper would be more than willing to reroute his return trip to DFW through Austin in order to do a bit more dancing (like, say, SIX HOURS of it) on Sunday evening. Jokingly, it was mentioned. . . .

So, yes . . . there's more to come.

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

Giving Thanks, Day #4

So . . . imagine my surprise when I receive a sheepish phone call late on Saturday from none other than the V-ster, which goes something like this:

v-ster: Ummm . . . dood! I was, well . . . ummm . . . I was thinking I might just . . . well . . . errrr . . . go back to Austin tomorrow night for the milonga. Uhhhh . . . what do you think about that?

pseudoLatino: well, I think that sounds like a fine idea. Are you serious?

v-ster: well . . . ummmm . . . of COURSE I'm serious, you dolt! Do you think I JOKE about tango???!?! You IMBECILE?!? You CRETIN!?!? Do you think I'm some on-again, off-again FLOOZY who JOKES about DEADLY SERIOUS things like DRIVING SEVEN HOURS ROUND-TRIP to dance at one more milonga, then subsequently getting less than 4 hours of sleep and driving home in order to attend class like the WALKING DEAD, COMPLETELY ZOMBIFIED but Tanguentially Satiated and Whole and Happy?!?!?! Izzat what you think, you WITLESS DWEEB!????

pseudoLatino: hmmmm . . . sorry! Ummm . . . well . . . now that you put it that way, I guess . . . well . . . yeah . . . s-s-sure. I'm game. I'll see you there. What time?

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And that's basically how it happened. Scout's honor (you've got to be careful with the Bearded One . . . she seems mild-mannered and charming on the surface, but there is a wild and unstoppable beast lurking within; cross her at your peril!).

So, after a wonderful Saturday night with Luna and friends at The Big Easy (where I danced with a completely drunken creature named "kitty" . . . swear to god . . . and learned that leading often means "preventing inebriated dance partner from crushing skull on corner of bandstand "), and a fantastic Sunday of DogLove and MadreSpeak, I packed up my things, loaded a metric ton of leftovers into the PseudoLatino Mobile, and headed North again . . . to Austin and the closing Milonga of the Fandango de Tango festival . . . and to the demanding and domineering Abrazo of my dance partner, the fearsome Nurse Ratched.

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

Giving Thanks, the Finale

I arrived in Austin at about the time the Milonga was scheduled to begin, quickly changed into my dance duds (I had purchased a new shirt before leaving Houston, since I had packed too few items to support Mizz Ratched's dancing addiction), and sat there WAITING for nearly an hour while the . . . what was it? . . . oh yeah . . . while the Fairy Freakin' Princess went on about her merry business of OH SO VERY SLOWLY preparing to head downstairs to the dance. Despite many years of cohabitation with the other gender, I am nonetheless repeatedly surprised anew at just how long it takes to prepare the (beautiful!) HAIR and to apply cosmetics to (HALF!) their adorable and unforgettable visages. Being thoroughly male, however, I admit freely that the end results are (generally) worth the wait . . . and tonight? Oh yeah! Were they ever! She of the Shoes had on a stunning all-black ensemble, with a see-through top (yowzah! yowzah!), and just the right accessories to make me the dancer o' the night with the HOTTEST partner. We're talkin' Grade Double-A SCARY beautiful and breath-takingly bodacious, yo. So . . . patience had its virtues after all.

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Anyhoot . . . we headed down to the milonga about an hour after it began (it ran until 3am, so we had LOTS of time left), and started right in. We sat at a table with a number of DFW folks, and I had the good fortune to dance with Candice "Calendar Queen" White (the Sexy Photo Goddess) and with Rene (whose last name I sadly know not), as well as with a number of people I had danced with on the previous evenings from around the U S of A. Although I had promised myself that I would ask Fernanda to dance, I never had the opportunity, as most of the instructors were either no shows, or they left within minutes of our arrival. DamnFuckShitPiss!

Next time, I suppose.

Because our weekend had been so fantastic, I demanded of my partner that she have a glass of wine with me so that we could toast our fun and good fortune. Grudgingly, she--TeeTotaler of TeeTotalers--eventually succumbed . . . a detail which was to prove both amusing and significant as the evening continued to unfold. You see, the Valerina had been whining to me since Thursday (or perhaps even Wednesday night) that she wanted to dance with Alex Krebs. On THIS evening, her whining reached INTOLERABLE levels--"Waaaaaaaa. WHHHHAAAAAA!!! WaaaaHHHHHHHH!" Etc, etc. Ghastly. So . . . after what seemed like several hours of incessant complaining, I countered with the one sensible ultimatum: either go ASK the MoFo to dance, or SHUT THE FUCK UP about it already!!!! Well . . . it seems that wine (who'd a thunk it?) is wonderful for the boosting of one's courage and so Nursey Nurse (who had, indeed, wined as well as whined) walked over to the DJ table and without further ado asked both Alex Krebs and Robin Thomas if they'd like to dance with her. Well . . . that's how SHE tells it. From MY vantage point it looked more like she walked up to them and said "dance with me or I'll BEAT YOU SENSELESS you MANKY GITS!" (in her best Thandie Newton British accent). Whichever is true, Alex took my friend into his arms and onto the dancefloor. I watched. My dear Valerina was more than up to the task. She was poised (not to say "cocky") as AK led her hither and thither . . . she was graceful . . . she was elegant . . . she was sexy and musical . . . she did herself proud. Just at the point when it was starting to get downright interesting, I was distracted from my voyeuristic intentions by an invitation to dance from a lady I'll simply refer to as Beelzebübchen . . . but I saw enough to know: my gurl did herself (and all of DFW) proud during her Tanda with AK. She glowed. She excelled. She did, as they say, "represent."

Word up.

"Well," sez I to myself, "Alex Schmallex! I REFUSE to be intimidated. . . dammit!" So I dance with her again . . . and then it starts. She begins to put me in my place with not-so-subtle comments, like: "but . . . ALEX did it THIS way." Or "ALEX did it THAT way!" Or "ALEX led this really COOL thing. Can YOU lead the really cool thing????" She was, it seemed, experiencing the dancing version of post-coital bliss, and lil' ol' me--the Napoleon Dynamite of Tango--couldn't measure up. Pah! Ok, fine. So perhaps I exaggerate a little bit. Or perhaps I. . . perhaps . . . perhaps I . . . just imagined it. Or . . . well ok . . . so I'm making the whole thing up. It's called poetic license, you philistines! One thing I CAN say for sure is that during this post-AK tanda--for some inexplicable reason--Ms. Thang walked off the dancefloor just long enough to lift her wine glass and guzzle it ("glub. glub. glub" was the sound I distinctly heard--from 20 paces away) and from then on things were really fun AND funny. There was a particularly amusing wardrobe malfunction involving a southwardly migrating tube-top and some, well, unwanted "exposure." I can't give you any intimate details about that part (though I would absolutely love to do so!), for I witnessed NOTHING. What I do know is that we spent roughly one half of a song dancing in place as she tried (with a profound lack of subtlety) to readjust said wardrobe without further displaying any juicy bits. Uh huh. Surely NO ONE is gonna notice when the most animated couple on the floor suddenly stops dead in their tracks, dancing in place for well over a minute as the lovely lady hops around and fidgets awkwardly in the vicinity of her bosom (pronounced "buhZOOM!"). Right, V. Absolutely. That's DEFINITELY the case. No one noticed. No one at ALL! No worries. None.

Ok. So . . . she gets everything adjusted again and we continue to dance. We have a great time, too. We aren't dancing as well as we did Thursday, but we're dancing well enough, and we're having a gay olde time (which is, I Swear To Me, the whole freakin' POINT of the exercise). And then, just about the time that the wine has reached full potency in her bloodstream, Robin Thomas wanders over and asks her for to dance. Awesome. She does, too. And unbelievably well . . . wine or no. Again she's poised, sensual, graceful. I'm amazed at my good fortune . . . for I am truly the luckiest guy on the planet. In all seriousness, I was overwhelmed. I had learned so much, and experienced so much, and made such wonderful friends in the last year . . . how could it get any better?

The night continued this way until 3am rolled around and the DJs played their final number. Photos were taken, hands were shaken, adieus and farewells spoken. We wandered slowly back up to our room, hardly able to believe our own good luck. I passed out in utter exhaustion (once again fully clothed) as I reflected back over the last few days.

Dear Friends and Readers, my post-holiday wish for all of you is that you might have an experience like mine: that you may find unexpected friends and revel in unrestrained passions when and where you least expect them; that you may find yourselves renewed and grateful each time the weight of the world bears down upon you; that you discover the joyful abandon which lives within you still; that you let sincerity overcome cynicism; that you may feel alive . . . vibrant . . . whole.

I wish all of you love and inner peace and happiness as you "muddle through somehow,"

Your Grateful and Overwhelmingly Happy,

---PseudoLatino

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

Yo no bailo tímido

As if I don't have enough on my bountiful plate, I started on this very evening to learn the language of Tango y Salsa y Cien Años de Soledad : Español. Si. Yo estudio español. Not one to take the slow track with anything (life's too fucking short for that), I contacted a local instructor about private lessons y voila! Off we go! (Yes, I know that voila is not spanish you nutheads). The instructor's name is Lourdes Molina: ella es de Cuba, muy bonita, muy baja, very knowledgeable and excited about teaching her language. My thoughts on the whole experience? It was mucho gusto. After the amazing fantasticity of the holiday weekend, this was just another dollup of icing on Ye Olde Apfeltorte.

Read 'em and weep, yo.

Read 'em and weep.

Your,

---pseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM