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Short But Sweet
Last weekend's Tango experience has set Yours Truly on fire once again. Nearly every evening this past week has been spent in front of Ye Olde Monitor de Computadora studying various choreographies from the CITA (Congreso Internacional de Tango Argentino) 2003 DVD. And when I say studying, I mean studying: bookmarking steps and techniques of interest; watching certain performances over and over at 1/4 speed (it's definitely a humbling experience to watch a step 10 times that slowly and still have NO idea how in the hell it's being executed); deciphering execution and then, much more difficult, how to lead it. Tonight I finally had a chance to try a couple of these steps with The She of the Shoes.
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Our rehearsal was short, lower energy than usual (though after last weekend nearly anything would've seemed low energy), but nevertheless productive. Most of our time was spent working the single axis steps we learned from Julio and Corina and then filming the results. I REALLY don't know why I waited so long to purchase a camcorder, as this is hands down the best tool available to aid in one's progression as a dancer. In this case, I was able to quickly see problems with my foot placement which was causing our point of rotation to be unpredictable. This is not something one can easily see while swirling around the floor in real time. I can also tell you that I look down too much, that my posture SUCKS ASS, that I have an ugly chin, and that I leave my feet too far apart when I collect. Because I can tell you these things, I can fix them. Or at least my odds of fixing them are greatly improved (well, the chin is what it is. Can't do anything 'bout that). Another thing I can tell you? My dance partner is a knockout, and moves like a dream. On the dancefloor she is my superior in every way (this was established off the dancefloor months ago--she just kicks my ass if I do anything of which she doesn't approve) . . . and Your PseudoMajesty is consistently reminded of how lucky He is to be working with such an extraordinary personage as Her Beardship.
I spent a good hour studying my español and then watched the rehearsal videotapes before retiring early for a good night's sleep.
Hasta pronto,
---the PseudoLatino
ps
A word of Good Will goes out to the Queen of Entropy this evening as she travels to Portland, Oregon to discharge a sad-yet-inevitable duty. May she find her peace with it quickly and return home without regrets. See you soon, my friend!
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
Hearing the Same Song
Tonight was the annual DFW Christmas Milonga, a formal affair held at Taubman Atrium on the campus of SMU. Last year I attended this event less than two weeks after taking my first-ever steps of Argentine Tango, so tonight was, for all practical purposes, my first anniversary. A year ago it took every ounce of concentration I could muster to "express" the music with my profoundly far-reaching repertoire of a basic 8, forward and backward ochos. Perhaps I was able to get REALLY fancy once or twice and throw in a rocking step. But . . . what a difference a year makes.
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It was a year full of hard work, dedication, persistence, excellent instruction, and good friends . . . including the best dance partner a guy could wish for. This last, especially, has made it possible for me to have the kind of time I had tonight: relaxed, fun, light-hearted, exhilirating, satisfying, and . . . transporting. Of course I'm speaking of the Mighty Miss Thong Thang, The Bearded One (and Only). Second to her comes the delightful, near and dear to my heart Dancer X, who was my regular and reliable and obliging partner for the first several months of this journey and who I really first got to know at this same event last year while avoiding the Dreaded Napoleon. I spent countless hours with her, butchering both the basics and her poor toes, and wouldn't have accomplished anywhere NEAR what I've accomplished without her patience, generosity and constructive criticisms. She is a magnificent dancer, and her departure from the Argentine Tango community was our great loss. Then there were the instructors, Fred and Ginger aka George and Jairelbhi Furlong. They are the instructors to seek out in DFW: motivated, energetic, warm, talented, thoughtful, friendly and engaging people without bloated egos or a pompous sense of their own self-importance. They took me from total novice, without the slightest clue of the dance, to a confident dancer who is reasonably assured and relaxed on the dancefloor. Compared to them I still suck golf balls through a garden hose, and I have an overwhelming number of things still to experience and to master . . . but with their instruction and friendship I've come a long way nevertheless. As for the hard work, dedication and persistence I'm afraid I have to take credit for those myself--cuz I busted my skinny white boy's ass to learn this dance and I beat my ornery skull against the brick wall of certain facets of this community a lot longer than most mortals would have persevered. After my first blacklisting from the community, I wrote to one of those involved: "I am going to learn to dance Argentine Tango, I am going to learn to dance it well, and I am going to dance it in Dallas, Texas if I have to dance naked with a blow-up doll on the corner of Oak Lawn and Cedar Springs."
I meant it, and I stayed true to my word (though the blow-up doll never became a necessity . . . ummm . . . at least not to improve my DANCING).
But on to the event itself, which was efficiently hosted and well-presented by the Entre Amigos cuarteto of Daniel y Susana y Fred y Ginger. As far as I could see, everything ran without a hitch. The setup was pretty much identical to last year's: huge christmas shrub in the middle of the floor, reaching upwards nearly 20 feet or so; tables in the center and in the corners so that the dance area actually ran in a circle around the tree and the gathered revelers; dozens of said revelers attired in their Better Than Sunday Best--some pimpin' (aka Yours Truly), others dashing and debonair in Tuxedos and evening gowns, others looking like used car salesmen (no idea who, though); some very tasty whores d' nerve (hors d'oeuvre?); and of course a nice selection of music by DJ Fred. Last year, with my three-step repertoire, the floor seemed huge. It was all I could do to get around the floor once, at most twice, in a song . . . and I was completely paralyzed the instant that any traffic appeared in my path (it's hard to move out of someone's way when you don't have even the basic ability to TURN). The confluence of events led me to feel SMALL and the space to feel BIG. So I was shocked when I realized that the very same dancefloor was actually quite tiny and was limiting in many ways, particularly on the single-lane sides--where a single couple (either oblivious to, or unconcerned with, the flow of traffic) could easily block the passage of all other couples, creating a serious problem of congestion and, concomitantly, a lack of space in which one could express oneself musically. Unlike last year, a lack of space is something I can now adequately work within . . . but that doesn't mean I LIKE it, goddammit! My changed perception did, however, draw my attention to how much I've grown in the last year . . . to the complementary ideas of perspective and relativity . . . to the surprising number of things I've learned and experienced . . . to the new places I've been . . . to the joys, sadnesses, successes, and failures that together make up yet another annum in the Life of Yours Truly, The PseudoLatino. This reflection is, I think, a natural byproduct of the Year's End . . . and of the bittersweet Holiday Season that marks that passage. But I digress. . . .
I danced almost the entire evening, with very few songs spent on the sidelines eating or recuperating. I danced with the expressive and wonderfully-flamboyant Mila (abrazo, mi amiga!); with the thoughtful and fun-loving Candice; with the dedicated and hard-working Connie (a woman after my own heart!); with Faria (sp?)--a fellow long-legger and beautiful dancer whom I've somehow never danced with before this very evening (ich bin doch voll Idiot, ne?); with the Incredible Mrs. Furlong (whose perfection on the dancefloor will still make me nervous if I live to be 103 years old and dance every single day of the time between now and that birthday--what an AMAZING dancer, and an amazing person, too); with Jane (me Tarzan!)--a heretofore semi-anonymous commodity with whom I hope to share many more dances in the future; with one of my (more-or-less) contemporary Tangueras Kay (my apologies that you had to suffer through my "warm-up" period; next milonga owe you a full tanda of non-suckage--which you did NOT get this evening); with the elegant, graceful Karen--dancing Swalsa (we danced salsa to a so-called "swing" tune, because--as you all know--friends don't let friends dance S&#!g) and of course, with the Valerina. As usual, there's so much to say about the V-ster that I know not where to begin. But let me try. Our first few dances were ok . . . reasonably musical if repetitive (on the part of the leader, naturally). I think I was still feeling a little underwhelming--having let her down on the previous evening at Al Amir by dancing like a Football Star with a Lobotomy (a redundant operation in most cases). It took me a while to relax. But when I finally did, a little bit of the Austin magic (in my opinion) crept back in. We danced moderately well and, much more importantly, we started to laugh and to play off of one another.
Whenever that starts to happen, I--as a leader--am in a position to notice something that my cherished partner (and, I suspect, virtually all talented and concentrated followers) can not: people on the sidelines start to watch what we do. Leaders have the luxury, indeed the obligation, to look ahead a bit; to keep tabs on the surroundings in order to avoid traffic and protect their partners from harm. And so I, making my sometimes-successful attempt to survey the landscape, see people smiling as they watch us dance. I see them nudge one another and follow us as we pass through their arc of the dancefloor circle. I have no delusions about why this is . . . it is not because we (and particularly not Yours Truly) are any kind of hotshot dancers--this is not an "oh man do I ever kick ass!" kind of thing (because many of these people dance simultaneous concentric circles around me with their eyes closed and their feet tied together) but to acknowledge gratefully that our good humor and playfulness is somehow both obvious and contagious. I have SOOOOOO much fun on the dancefloor, particularly with the Valerina . . . and so it tickles me ten shades of pink that people can see that, and that it infects them, too.
At this point I am certain that all of my Dear Readers are SICK TO DEATH of hearing me sing the praises of the Bearded Lady, but I can not do otherwise. She made me look good the entire evening, and upped the level of playfulness several notches as we got into a who-could-more-severely-gancho-the-other competition (don't really remember why . . . perhaps unresolved childhood issues on her part? Perhaps that sado-masochistic bent which is a priori part and parcel of the Nursing profession and which my partner has suppressed all these years with the help of some Mormon Undergarments and her trusty braille edition of Magna Carta, 3D! There's just no telling). When I dance (any kind of dance . . . even just sitting in place bobbing my head to some tune on the radio), I dance because music makes my body do so . . . I feel possessed; I have no problems, no concerns and no bad memories while I'm dancing--my entire existence is reduced to the kinetic embodiment of an externally received and internally transformed sonic message (try saying that three times fast). This isn't some kind of pretentious, "spiritual," hoity-toity crap I'm talking about here, folks; I'm talking about visceral energy; about something I feel in my gut. So, what has that got to do with the Valerina? Well . . . with her I have found a perfect vessel for expressing that energy, and a perfect counterbalance thereto. She doesn't bring an attitude or a swollen (or, worse still, fragile) ego with her out onto the dancefloor. She can focus, relax, learn, have fun, adapt and express herself all at the same time . . . which makes her, well, utterly amazing to dance with (and I know there are lots of you out there who've had the pleasure and are nodding your heads in knowing agreement as you read these lines, eh?) As she said--so much more succinctly and clearly than I've been able to put forth here: "I feel like we hear the same song."
Exactly.
Well. Anyhoot . . . we danced until the SMU Nazis forced us all to Get the Hell out of Dodge at 11:45pm (son las doce menos cuarto de la noche), which really sucked. I was just starting to get warmed up!
Not ready to retire just yet, five intrepid souls headed down to Deep Ellum for some coffee and grub at Cafe Brazil . . . and one of them, our own King David, almost didn't make it. You see, it turns out that the Boy King has a case of N.A.D.S. which makes my beloved Sistrah Suplex look like Christopher H. Colombus. His Majesty got lost in downtown Dallas something like 5 times in 30 minutes, calling us repeatedly in a state of extreme agitation--cursing the inventor of One Way Streets and whomever it was who built all those tall ass buildings he couldn't see around in order to orient himself.
Ummm . . . ooooooKaaaaaayyyyyy.
After a good long sesh of friendly debate and conversation and good-natured ribbing and general getting-to-know-one-another type stuff, we all called it a night and went our separate ways (the Boy King probably going several different ways all by himself while trying to find his way out of the Kafkaesque maze). I deposited the Mother of All ShoeShoppers before her humble abode a little after 2a.m. and arrived back at PseudoLatino World HQ satisfied and glowing. I had had yet another fantastic weekend, full of good friends and creative self-expression . . . and had experienced yet another symbolic milestone in my sometimes-troubled journey down the Road Less Travelled.
My wish for you, my friends, is that you are as fortunate as Your Inimitable Hero,
Who Remains,
As Ever,
Your,
---PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
A Quick Note
In case you've not been around these parts in a while and you've given me up for dead, please note: it simply isn't true! I've been writing . . . it's just that some of the writing was very involved and I didn't want to present it for public consumption until I was sure that I had said everything I wanted to say, and no more. Surely you know how that goes . . . right? One way or the other, I'd like to point out that there are some new posts that range back to the 23rd of November, and that you might jump back to that point and work forward if you're interested in a halfway decent picture of how incredible my life has been over the last few weeks.
And it has been incredible.
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At the risk of being labelled a pathetically underinformed wanker, I'd like to leave you with a poem which is akin to someone presenting Beethoven's 5th Symphony, Mvt. 1--or his Ode to Joy from the 9th--as their "pertinent" musical selection of the day. Oh well. So I'm an underinformed wanker . . . wanking can be quite exciting, anyway, so I'm sure I'll get over the criticism. This poem is also relevant because I just watched Jim Jarmusch's Down By Law this last weekend. If you've seen it, you'll already know what's coming.
A brief, related aside: I have recently lost something I had sought after my entire life . . . or something that seemed like the thing sought . . . and I have lost it largely because I am who I am. I lost it because I never take anything at face value; because I don't feel the need to do things in a "normal" way; because I think everything (no exceptions) should be questioned and that love places demands on lovers (for example); because I think that the inside is much more important than the outside; that the ordinary should be eschewed when the extraordinary is possible; that we should shun superficiality and not waste too much time on those whose idea of living life is knowing the names of every bartender and barfly in every trendy meatmarket within a 10 mile radius. Who gives a fuck? Precisely what value does that create in the world? Users and Losers, they are. Shitheads who make fun of sincerity and creativity in others because they are afraid (rightly) that they don't possess it within themselves. In short, I lost what I lost because to keep that which was lost would mean being less than what I am. And what I am is good.
And so I return to one of the two predictable embodiments of this mindset (if I were to say "no, not the 'different drummer' version " whould you know where we're headed?) . . .
Yes . . . the other one . . . by Mr. Robert Frost:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
And it has . . .
---the PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
My Teeming Brain
Fine. So I chose a predictable poem to express myself yesterday. Fine. Be that way. Here's one that no one--not even the Queen of Entropy--would expect from me, and I'll leave it to you, Dear Readers, to let me know who it is (and yes . . . Googling is CHEATING!).
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When I Have Fears
---[guess who]When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
Or . . . after a herein-undocumented trip to the zoo--which involved touching various sealife (and learning that without bats there would be no tequila):
Starfish
---[guess who]The stellar sea crawler, maw
Concealed beneath, with offerings of
Prismed crimson now darkened, now like
The smile of slag, a thing made rosy
As poured ingots, or suddenly dimmed--I appreciate the studious labor
Or your redness, the scholarly fragrance
Of your sex. To mirror tidal driftsThe light ripples across or to enhance darkness
With palpable tinctures, dense as saltYou crumple like a puppet's fist
Or erect, bristling, your tender luring barbs.
Casual abandon, like a dropped fawn glove.
Tensile symmetries, like a hawk's claw.You clutch the seafloor.
You taste what has fallen.
Let go the seafloor, my friends. . . .
---the PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
I Have Many Anuses
Can you tell?
Let me say a word or two about my ongoing spanish lessons (tonight was numero tres). Firstly, I suck. No, not in the sense of having no ability or it being beyond my grasp, but in the sense of "I have a really excellent and energetic teacher and I'm not doing my part during the week, so I suck." Lourdes: Lo siento! Secondly, Lourdes Molina is a wonderful teacher. I said as much after my first lesson, but I now have 3-times the experience and am sure it wasn't some kind of a fluke. She's got game. If any of you are interested in learning spanish, or perfecting the spanish you already know, send her an e-mail. You won't regret it.
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Unlike many native-speakers of various tongues who teach their language simply because they know it and need some extra dough, Lourdes is clearly an experienced teacher. She is organized (ummm . . . that's my nice way of saying that she's as OCD and anal retentive as Yours Truly), patient, interesting and interested, responsible and reliable (more so than moi), clearly cares about what she's doing, and is easy-going and good-natured. If you've been looking for someone, look no further. Her prices are comparable to the other instructors I looked into ($35/hr for a single lesson or $30/hr if you pay for a group of 10 . . . maybe she'll make you a better deal if you're more responsible with your homework than I have thus far been), and she isn't a clock-watcher ("sorry, it's been 61 minutes, next week we'll have to stop one minute before the hour!"). Yo canto sus praises (even if I don't really know how to say that in spanish).
Lourdes . . . if you're out there: gracias y mucho gusto. Tienes confianza!
It also doesn't hurt that she has a highly refined sense of irony and a good sense of humor. For instance, I learned that many of her students have not one, but many anuses. Interestingly, many high school spanish students have 15 - 17 anuses, while most college students have at least 18, sometimes as many as 21 or more. This would suggest a hypothesis that college students are less full of shit than high school students, having so many additional points of egress, but sadly this hypothesis doesn't hold up to the data. Oh well. In any case, this proliferation of anuses comes about due to an underdeveloped sense of appreciation for the tilde: anos != años. (!= means 'not equal' for all you non-computer literate folks out there) Yo tengo 20 anos = I have 20 anuses. Yo tengo 20 años = I have 20 years, or I am 20 years old. Anos v. años. Remember the tilde, for it is The Kingdom and the Power and the Guh-LOH-ray!
And really, other than an excellent day at work (the explication of which I'll save for another time) that's all.
Have a nice day, and please enjoy the cumulative benefits of all your anuses.
Your,
---Pseudo-Latino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Sunday Funday
After a full day stretched out on the PseudoLatino Loveseat (read: dog couch) reading the inimitable John Barth's The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor, Your Intrepid Concoctor of Charm and Gregarity tore himself from that strangely convoluted amalgamation of Maryland and Sinbad's City of Peace (ironically, Baghdad) to prepare for the Sunday evening milonga at Salon Pavadita.
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When I say convoluted, I refer to a plot that involves speaker A regaling interlocutrix A with the heretofore untold tale of speaker B regaling interlocutor B with the tale of speaker A--in yet a third spatio-temporal locality--regaling interlocutor C and a whole host of C's guests with the tales of his, speaker A's, six mystical voyages in order that he (again speaker A) might correlate these tales with the serially presented stories of the six (rather more famous) voyages of the legendary interlocutor C, aka Sinbad the Sailor. This is a novel where everything is a story, and the "real" story (e.g. the plot of the book) only emerges as a secondary byproduct of the actually told tales. Of course there is lots of sex in the stories, and in between the stories, and implied by the stories . . . as is there greed, and fear, and human striving and love and frailty.
Of course lots of sex is a really, really cool thing, but particularly in (some of) his books . . . beginning with Giles Goatboy.
But . . . what does this have to do with the milonga? Not a goddamned thing, my friends. Not a goddamned thing. Or . . . maybe it does. For . . . like Your Tango Leper's situation relative the local Tango pantheon . . . the book is rife with people saying one thing, and meaning another; people bowing and feigning respect when behind one another's backs they chatter and deride and scoff; people so caught up in culture-imposed etiquette that their passions are extinguished or, if they're lucky, merely suppressed.
However one reads it, I arrived with the Mother of All Dance Partners around 8:30pm (believe it or not--and I know the answer is "not"--she called me almost 30 minutes before she said she would be ready, in order to tell me that . . . she was already READY!!!!!!), and immediately set about the business of dancing. The honest Truth: for Your Hero this was an off night. I didn't exactly suck, but I was definitely not "on." My lead was generally a few milliseconds behind my intentions, which means it was ineffectual and substandard. When I manage to confuse dancers the calibre of Valerina and Mila, then I'm just not doing my job. And boy did I ever confuse them. Truth is that late in the evening I damn near brought Mila to the floor while trying to do a set of sequential crosses; that I regularly had The Bearded One asking me, "what was that??"; that I couldn't bring my internal interpretations of the music into synch with my physiological expressions thereof. Muy bad Juju, Dear Readers. Muy bad.
Be all that as it may be, I danced damn near every song . . . sitting out only a single tanda and perhaps an isolated song here or there. I resolved to dance through my mediocrity, even when I was aware that some of the community veterans where taking note of my suckage (one example: during a couple of dances I noticed the Pavaditress herself taking stock of my abwesend skills . . . and the more I tried to compensate and rise to the occasion, the more I floundered). And dance through it--at the very least--I did. Perseverance is something I have mastered . . . even in the face of the most overwhelming odds, Yours Truly keeps plugging along like the godforsaken Energizer Bunny. And that's nothing to sneeze at, right? That's worth something, right?
Right.
I even danced about 45 seconds of a tango intermission song (some s&$#gified xmas tune, though I don't remember which) with the oft-unapproachable Phyllis (of Phyllis and Darryl phame) who--upon departing--commanded that I save her a tanda at the next milonga. Eh?!! Surprise, surprise. I agreed, naturally. And . . . whatever else it may mean (or, most likely, not mean), I find it interesting that the very folks who were part and parcel of my first blacklisting are gradually getting to know me (and my dancing) in the midst of my second. . . and that they (rightly, in my opinion) don't seem to give a shit about the vagaries of the situation. Even the Pavaditress (despite my poor performance over the course of the evening) embraced and kissed me upon my departure at milonga's end! What on earth is the world coming to? Is it possible that by continuing to work hard, by continuing to be the warm and friendly guy that (you all know that) I (duh) am, and by nevertheless continuing to write what I feel like writing . . . is it possible that by doing all these things that I might actually make some small dent in the crippling cliquishness that so handicaps this community? In my own small way??
Maybe. Maybe not. But . . . it sure is a shitload of fun to be me . . . and to see how it all plays out. No?
The important thing to note: when we left I was completely drenched with sweat . . . I had continued to dance despite my mistakes and my mood and the various distractions set before--and within--me . . . and I had intensified my ties to the local community: particularly factions of that community where I have previously been unwelcome or (best case) unknown. This perseverance in the face of discouragement is the thing which matters most to me . . . and it makes up--after a fashion--for my inconsistent and unsatisfying performance as a leader on this fine december eve.
No matter how far I have left to travel, I've come a LOOOOOOOOOOONG way, baby.
And I remain,
Yours Truly,
---the PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
An Early Christmas
Today was yet another day of the kind that makes all of you, my Dear Readers, wish you were me. I know, I know . . . only one person gets to experience the distinct pleasure of being me, and that's me . . . but days like today spur each of you onward in your fantasies of Being Yours Truly. "And what," you may rightly inquire, "was it that made me [meaning you] want to be you [meaning me] today?"
I'm glad you asked.
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Let me first tell you what it wasn't. It wasn't the $700+ bill I received to repair the beloved PseudoLatino PseudoMobile (and this because the godforsaken "service engine soon" light came on shortly after the engine started to idle like . . . well . . . after it started to idle like old people fuck--an image I'll leave to your fertive little imaginations, which are certainly more than up to the task). Nope. That weren't it. It wasn't oversleeping my alarm and waking up an hour later than necessary with an explosive case of the god-I-hope-I-make-it-to-the-bathroom-in-times (a condition I'll also leave to the aforementioned mental faculties). Nein. Das war es auch nicht. Nor was it my fragmented and disrupted workday. Or the hours-long delay in getting the PseudoMobile back from the mechanic--preventing me from leaving work early to run any number of long-overdue holiday errands.
None of those things made you want to be me on this happy day.
"So cut to the fucking chase already, dood," I can hear you saying . . . and so I shall. Or rather, I shall after I give you three guesses. You're only hint is this: it follows a recent pattern. Ok? Good. So . . . your guesses?
First: Yours Truly was the first recipient of a successful penis transplant, the donor being an inordinately endowed donkey named "Buckwheat."
Ummm . . . though I appreciate the sentiment . . . no. That's not it.
Second: Your Favorite Tango Leper received word from the Nobel committe that his research paper entitled "Radiation-induced transmogrification: observed cross-species personality shift comparisons in the evolutionary development of ninja tortoises, verdant humanoids, and hypo-thyroidal, flame-excreting amphibians. A case study" is being considered for the 2006 Nobel Prize for science (in place of the recently discredited Korean MORON who was in the running for the prize until this week's debacle).
Well . . . you're getting warmer, for sure. I'm really proud of that research. But the answer is still 'no.' That isn't it, either.
Third: The PseudoLatino spent yet another fantastic evening with his favorite dance partner: exchanging christmas gifts, dining well, chatting amiably, and dancing tango on the sidewalks of Knox Street.
Hey! How'd you know?!? I guess the third time really is a charm. Or else you folks are following me around like the insensitive, belligerent goddamned paparazzi you are! Ok then. Fine. So you already know that tonight was the night I set aside to celebrate with the newly-minted (errrr . . . "pinned") and damn-near-totally-official Nurse Ratched her newfound Nursitude and, obviously, the warmest and most wonderful holiday of the entire annum. You already are privy to our appetizer selection (Samba Ceviche) and our utterly scrumptious meal selections, Teriyaki Salmon (Nursey Nurse) and Florida Red Snapper (Dorky Dork). You are aware that we each had a zesty glass of tangy, citrus-imbued Sauvignon Blanc while discussing the many meaningful events of the past year, our mutual love of Tango, the appropriate way to ring in the New Year, the inexorable (logistics of the vampyric perosis) nature of time and its implications (basically she sez--correctly-- it means carpe diem), the preferred manner of grasping stemware, the internationally manifested onset of demitasse spoon-specific kleptomania and a host of other stimulating topics. Spying bastards! Quit following me! I know you're desperate . . . but . . . I have earned the right to my privacy! Damn you! I am NOT a terroriste you Patriot Act intoning Ballsacks! Leave me in PEACE!!!
uhhh . . . sorry. Temporary Tourettes Syndrome; old army injury, probably.
You know already that cheese was discussed in detail and that--since I won't again dance with the Valerina until 2006--we attempted to sort out the subtleties of back secadas while walking and window-shopping along yuppified Knox Street. These activities, and many others, will be old news to you. Fine then, I have nothing new to add and I will leave you to go your merry ways, wishing yourselves to be Me.
Next stop: New Year's in Boston!!!!!!!! . . . via the PseudoLatino's H-town Hacienda, His Madre, His PseudoChihuahua, Luna (yay!) and the mooonchildren, and even via an ooooooold German Hunter with whom some Salsa may (at long last) be danced.
Stay tuned as I remain,
Your,
---PseudoLatino
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
A Crass Platitude
Though Yours Truly is many things, a poet He will never be. His refrigerator, on the other hand, has served as a sort of cosmic Ouija Board for the past 18 months, channeling--through the medium of magnetic poetry (the Genius Edition, naturally)--the third-person sentiments that have been floating about His Pseudosity ever since they managed, seemingly of their own volition, to form that oh so pithy epithet of separation He returned home to find in the summer of The Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Four: "FUCK YOU!"
Lovely. . .
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
. . . and not too creative, perhaps, but there they were. Sentiments writ large. I guess one may have prefered the image of the holy virgin at the bottom of a teacup, or--as was recently proferred for sale within that amoral sea of humanity known as eBay--engraved in the menstrual discharge of a possessed woman from Lithuania. But there were no holy virgins to be found, merely anonymous, faceless anger speaking to me in low-contrast white-on-white.
Since that time, the little magnets have occasionally wakened from their usual dormancy to speak to me of other things. Nearly one year ago, the awful sting of FUCK YOU was transmuted by another to create a healing psychic salve: "Y OOLI EVU."
After I scratched my head a bit, I considered the transmutrix and saw . . . well . . .the holy virgin: "I LOVE YOU." This was a vast improvement, I thought.
Time passed . . . lots and lots of it . . . and then came a silence colder than any my refrigerator could muster. The magnets woke once more and spoke of a "curious woman." They ended up dancing across a music video, and clamouring for poetic superstardom.
No, really! I swear it!
But the stardom didn't come. And the board lay silent once again.
Then . . . strangely . . . and seemingly to the rhythm of my dancing . . . some other hopeful messages appeared. Some unexpected Ouijist was playing with the magical oracle and serving as a medium for other words, which changed frequently: "always question beauty. never follow" and "give with temerity" and "represent my solution" and such pearls would appear and morph from day to day, when I wasn't looking (pearls being more than appropriate in this case, but . . . never mind that).
Like I said, my fridge had evolved a mind of its own . . . or perhaps it was those little magnets which held the magic. I know not. What I do know is that shortly before heading out for the holidays, whatever power motivates the muse took possession of this Ouija Board one last time . . . bringing together a wealth of earlier phrases and new inclusions to form an insightful (if poetically awful) whole. This one even had a TITLE! And though the source of this little center-aligned tidbit is unknown to me, I feel compelled to share it with you--just because.
So, without further ado, here is . . .
A CRASS PLATITUDE
(a magnetic pseudoPoem from the pseudoFridge)
She
who
eschewed
individuality
&
could
never
give with delight
(nor receive)
languishes
&
follows
miscreants
willingly
a deft usurper
an ersatz solution
question
that
veil
of
beauty
a
crass & vapid
platitude
who
in hindsight
almost had everything
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM
Bahstin: Days 1 - 3
In which Yours Truly tangos with beauties, wins a lisp-off, rides in his ex-girlfriend's flamingly red, brand new Vulva . . . ummm . . . Volvo, befriends a finger-sniffing dog, is informed that trees can talk, relearns that the popular metaphor known as "spirituality," in the hands of the naive and ill-educated, is bankrupt and utterly ridiculous, attends a "poly" party, buys stinky cheese, etc . . .
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Hola, amigos! Just back from Boston, Mass, Your Intrepid Dancer of Dances had a wonderful time visiting his ex-gf, The Queen of Entropy, her Hungarian Goulash Hubby, and their happy-go-lucky pooch, Pici (pronounced "Pitsy")--a strapping, joyous 10-month-old Great Dane. Upon my arrival last wednesday evening we (Queen, Hubby, and oh-my-sciatica-hurts-please-pay-attention-to-me Boy) headed straight for a Mongolian BBQ restaurant and some Yummy Chow, along with their charming friends Daniel (the Crazy Russian), his partner in crime Kamela (the 6' tall and stunning Dominatrix), and Jack (the 5'-and-change cycling, rock-climbing, poly-amorous midwife). You might imagine, correctly, that the dinner conversation was out of the ordinary and quite stimulating.
After a satiating meal, Queenie, Goulash, and Moi headed to a regularly-scheduled mid-week Milonga that I had found online, and were able to watch the end of the "intermediate" lesson--led by a very capable and somewhat masculine woman whose name I no longer recall. We were joined by yet another friend of the Queen, the diminutive, 6'9" Ted the Tall. Mr. Ted was a jovial fellow who, unlike the ex and her Eastern European BoyToy (ok ok . . . he was warm, intelligent, giving to a fault, and utterly likeable in all respects . . . but if I wanna call him "boytoy" you'll just have to fucking DEAL WITH IT, ok? Ok.), had--long ago--danced a bit of the old T.A.NGO, T.A.NGO, T.A.NGO and Tango was its name-o. The four of us watched the couples go through their paces and I was again reminded of November 20th, 2004 (hereafter "the 9/11 of Tango"). Of all the students (perhaps 12-15 couples), only ONE GIRL seemed to be having fun. The others were dancing equivalents of fornication with a blow-up doll (as compared to actual sex with an actual human being). My dismay only increased as the lesson ended and the milonga proper got underway. Ick! Did these people have a fucking PULSE?!?!? It was clear that they couldn't, alas, follow one and, though I considered briefly that they had perchance all taken lessons with the Anal Bede in DFW, I quickly discounted that theory and wondered, aloud, to my friends: why, oh WHY, would anyone want to pursue this dance when confronted with such amusical, passionless, stiff and UTTERLY FUCKING BORING exemplars thereof? "Why indeed," came the reply--uttered most emphatically by Herr Hungary.
Oh well. I've been completely and profoundly correct on this matter since my first experience therewith (the aforementioned November 20th), and all new data I collect regarding the state of Tango as practiced in the U.S.A. (at the very least) further underlines the righteousness of my indignation (can I get an "amen?!?!"): these life-sucking paragons of passionlessness need to be tarred and feathered; run out of town on a rail; disemboweled with a rusty butterknife by the ghost of Captain Kangaroo; drawn and quartered; et cetera, et cetera.
Despite the embarrassing display of ass-suckage (and how many times should a devoted acolyte--a literal lover of Tango, like myself--be expected to sing the praises of the dance, only to find his praises pissed purposively, in parabolic patheticity, unequivocally earthward?), I persevered . . . and danced several happy, satisfying tandas. The first with fungirl, named Anja, an exquisitely beautiful, happy, buoyant Russian from St. Petersburg--stranded for some time in Boston and pleased to make my acquaintance (so she said), as was I hers. At tango she was a beginner, but she danced with joy . . . and her enthusiasm for tango (and life) gave Your Happy Tango Leper (though my leprosy is fading! On which more later) a quick and easy stiffy (virtual, at that moment anyhow). I invited her to join us sur la table, where we all conversed enthusiastically.
Next we observed, communally, a couple displaying an abundance of fancy, nuevo-tango moves. Musical? Not particularly . . . but at least rhythmic. The girl seemed graceful enough; the boy grace-free and semi-semian. Downright ape-like, even, but with a large repertoire at his disposal. Song after song they danced. Tanda after tanda. I was intrigued, if not precisely impressed. Eventually they took a break and I asked the girl to dance. Note 1: she was no Valerina (yet who is?). Note 2: she clearly had adapted to semi-semi's patterns and--while pretty decent--was nowhere near the dancer she appeared to be with apeboy (I danced two tandas with her to be sure it wasn't just getting-to-know-one's-partner jitters that formed my e'er-prescient and ne'er-erring opinion.).
Another disappointment.
Finally . . . my dear ex, her hubby, and too-tall Teddy were all ogling (understandably) a striking asian woman in skin-tight black pants (skin tight = one could take an accurate count of her pubes from 50 paces) and a transcendently revealing black top, cut--literally--down to her navel and covering none of her blemish-free, silky smooth back. I found their ogling amusing and, being ever-ready--and self-confident enough--to dance with pretty much anyone at this point, I decided to tease them by inviting Miss Perfectbody to dance. I did. She accepted, apologizing for being a beginner. I reassured Mai-Lee (for so-named was she) that we all were beginners at some point and that I, in particular, had yet to progress beyond said point of egress into anything beyond middling mediocrity. Mai-Lee smiled, and relaxed. I watched my comrades watching me dance their objet d' LUST around the floor and discoursed with said o d' L on all manner of subjects as the tanda unfolded and I--remaining, like the gentleman which I most unquestionably am, within the limitations of her repertoire and confidence--enjoyed the easygoing company of my partner. An altogether enjoyable, if not challenging, experience.
Shortly thereafter we (ted, queen, goulash, leper) left, one quarter of us excited, the remaining portion dubious and unconvinced.
*sigh*
And so ended day one of my Bostonian adventure, and a good day (though short) it had been.
Day Two was as uneventful as Day One was surreal. We sat about Ye Olde Lofte reading (I deeply submersed in Barth's Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor, others in others), surfing the internet, discussing pornography, listening to lots of music, eating the Entropic Queen's Scrumdiliumptious homemade chili (for a non-texan, she does herself purty durn proud) and generally hanging out. In the evening we decided to catch a movie and, though Queen E almost landed us in The Muppet Movie (an honest mistake, so she swears), it was our good fortune to find a small theater which was showing that foul, ribald, completely debauched documentary, The Aristocrats. When, in passing, they lambasted the utterly mundane, predictable and poetically useless Maya Angelou Yours Truly was about ready to befoul himself (an activity much in keeping with the theme of the film's subject). The flick is short and VERY sweet, and worth the trip--just don't watch it with your delicate young'uns. Trust me on this one.
After returning Loftward and reading myself to sleep with a bit of Shiraz, I awakened to the glory of Day Three as Goulashito departed for to purchase unto Himself a New Car Most Holy (I believe I've already mentioned the flaming red volvo, no?) I had some time to converse with the Entropic One; to congratulate her on finding a most admirable and perfectly matched mate; to muse a bit over the strange unfolding of our lives and to mush--repeatedly--with their Giant Dog of Dognessicity. I was informed that there was an interesting party being held that very evening a wee tad outside Boston proper (read: in the middle of fucking nowhere), and that she would like it if I came along and met a great many of their new friends, Pynchonesque one and all, so she said.
Hard to say "no" to that, no?
I happily tagged along to said party, hosted by one Sierra Mist (both her name and favorite potation) and attended by perhaps 30ish guests, which gathering turned out to be--for all purposes practical--what we'll here refer to as a Poly Party ("Poly" being thoroughly homonymic with 'Polly', one 'L'). After a bit of a slow start, Yours Truly warmed to the occasion--tossing back a variety of wines and scarfing a large quantity of fondue and Yummy Pretty Cheese. He watched folks huddling in small groups as they began to hug one another, to give one another back rubs. Foot rubs. Hand rubs. Head rubs. He himself had his hair fondled and braided--being but one of many such braidees--by a jovial young vixen whose name he has forgotten. All of this amorphous one-another-loving began to wind down and I headed back to the Hall of Entropic Goulash with old and new friends and a rudely finger-sniffing canine (about which more ought not be said). The return voyage lasted no less than 90 minutes (I DID say "bum-fucked-egypt," did I not?), during which I had the distinct and titillating pleasure of conversing--in my compromised condition--with that Holy of Holies: my dance partner Extraordinaire, Nurse Ratched. Apparently my friends, who had seen brief video snippets of my practice sessions with The Bearded One, encouraged me to pass on, telephonically, their evaluations of said Tanguera ("truly HAWT!" or something thereabouts) to Her Danceship. Live. In real time. I do recall that the Valerina laughed at me. Sweetly, of course, but nevertheless. And repeatedly.
She does this often.
One other event from the polyparty remains to be described: the Lisp-off. My newfound friend Towering Ted and I somehow or another (the large amounts of wine imbibed have clouded memory's precision) found ourselves in a most friendly competition concerning our respective capacities for feigned lispitude. I recall only that some random comment from the peanut gallery encouraged me to respond lispily, and encouraged Her Entropic Majesty to warmly commend my ability thereso to do. Mr. Teal Teddy opined with scarcely restrained hubris that Your Hero was absolutely NOT the most gifted lisper present, and began to respond to my lispicious loquaciousness with his own lilting lispitism. I rejoined. He re-rejoined. We bantered and entered into a merry exchange of the moatht thweet thibilanth ever exthchangthed. Not to be deterred or defeated, Your Leperous Hero switched sharply away from Lithp and easily stepped into his most inbred Texan drawl, which may have given him a thlight advantage in thith war of wordth. Ted however, determined to up the ante, pondered aloud if One Leprouth Tanguero might not perhapth be able to meld hith two accentth motht favorite and arrive forthwith at . . . a drawly taykthuth lithp.
Bathtard!
Gauntlet having been thrown as thrown it assuredly wuth, the TheudoLatino reflected inwardly, gathered hith conthentrative powerth, and gave it a shot. And after a few halting, misapplied thteps he thuctheeded: out came the Texthan Fairy in a gutht of diaphramatic wind. I don't know if Too-Tall will conthede or not, but perthonally I'm claiming a victory (however slight) ath a result of my amalgamation. And, win or lose, the contetht was a great deal of fun. I'm thorry Y'all mithed out oan it.
Tay-ud, if'n yore out thair, I take ouf muh hat tuhya. Yewz a fayur ayund deethunt adverthairy thweetheart.
And so endeth Dias Tres.
[more to come, Days Four and Five...]
Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (2)