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Bahstin: Days 4 - 5

In which Yours Truly ushers in the new year with a couple hundred of his closest strangers, finishes a book, closes a chapter, buys some embarrassingly humongous sex toys (from the $1 bin!), rediscovers that some people never shut up, and revises (tentatively) his opinion of that city.

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I suppose I should mention, before forging ahead, that I bought--as a sacrifice to the Demanding and Insatiable Goddess of Nursing--a small assortment of pungent cheeses underway to the fondue party which crowned Day Three. This really doesn't matter too much, except I mentioned it in the lead-in to my former post and because it got me held up by the TSA en route back to Texas--I was accused of trafficking in biological weapons of mass destruction (I suppose if they couldn't find them in Iraq, they might as well dig through my luggage). And just in passing, I'd like to say to all of you: if you think the TSA's infringements on your Civil Liberties are (1) effective, (2) necessary, or (3) Constitutional then . . . well . . . may you spend all eternity listening to Andrew Lloyd Webber's shitty, sophomoric, badly composed and lyrically embarrassing musicals performed, in John Ashcroft's arrangement for SATB Kazoo Ensemble, by the Special Olympics Sing 'n Fart Chorus.

But enough about that.

Day four of my New England sojourn began with . . . well . . . dry-mouth and a minor headache (no idea why. Nope). It was followed with a bit of lounging about, a good deal more Barthing of the Barth and eventually a trip into town for a late brunch. Delicious, too. Plans were laid for the evening, which was to begin at the home of the Commie and the Dommy, after which I would wend my way with my Evening's Guide to some vaguely described houseparty in Jamaica Plains where there promised to be a very large crowd, lots of carousing and music, various modes of inebriation and enlightenment, and a general good time to be had by one and all. After we had a leisurely meal, Entropy asked if we might not mind stopping by a certain "adult novelty" shop (Grand Opening!) which was owned by some casual acquaintances and which was going out of business that very day--having been purchased by a larger franchise called "Good Vibrations." Being ever the intrepid adventurer, I quickly cast my Aye, as did the others, and off we went. The place was already largely picked over, with virtually everything on sale for pennies on the dollar. Yours Truly found a large (heh) assortment of high-end, top-dollar sex toys in the several $1 bins spread throughout the store. Some local rag had a photographer on site to cover the closing of this well-regarded underground establishment and--with my permission--he followed me about, click-click-clicking as I hefted this, that, or the other dildo, salve, book, buttplug, cockring, or vibrating personal assistant. I took a few minutes to examine the oh-so-clever Audi-O and had a particularly good time verifying the efficacy of the suction cups on the bottom of various silicon penes (an important feature, don't you think?), doing my best to look contemplative and matter-of-fact for the camera as I smacked them down and then peeled them back up with that wonderful "thwack"ing pop sound. All in all it was a good time and, at $1 each, who could walk out the door without an amusing specimen or two? We'll just call them "conversation pieces" for my next loft party, ok? Nice entry points (oooooo . . . sorry. Had to go there) for discussion when I bring the folks from work home?

Yeah.

Sure.

Why not?

If . . . errrrr . . . Otis can, why can't I?

Well. It turns out that even after a visit to the remains of the hip little adult sexshop there were some accoutrements that hadn't been assembled yet for the evening. Members of our foursome still needed stockings and other New Year's Eve formalities, and so I found myself in Teddy Shoes--a store which I wish I'd've found much earlier in the day for it was full to the brim with DANCE SHOES (you listenin' to this, V??): Tango shoes, Salsa shoes, Ballroom shoes, Tap shoes, S@!*g shoes. The walls were covered with them . . . but we were only there for a few brief moments before the shop closed its doors and left us to our well-laid plans. Fine. Good enough. Everyone was ready to go now, we only had to go home and get cleaned up. And boy did we! Everyone emerged from their preparations looking like a shiny new nickel--clean, happy, sexy, celebratory. Even Yours Truly was pimpin' (once again).

And as much as I love long, detailed descriptions of EVERYTHING, I'm gonna rein it in a bit in order to finish this damned post. We stopped by the apartment of aforementioned Russian and fiance for a few hurried hugs and hellos, a bit of wine and some chevre, and then left the Queen and the Hungarian behind--grabbing a cab to this much trumpeted party. I have forgotten to mention that--just for me--the gods of weather had decided to make it SNOW on this wonderful afternoon/evening/night/morning, so the Evening's Guide and I arrived in JP upon a blanket of fluffy whiteness. The house had not been overrated: three stories, a basement, a converted barn out back with a dancefloor and a DJ named Bryan (whom one might fairly have called an "E"J on this evening, if you know what I mean), an honest-to-goodness bonfire in the courtyard, a "graveyard" for the departed year--made out of dozens of luminarias, a semi-abandoned bus converted into a cocoon of comradery using sleeping bags, blankets and other warmth-inducing items, a "meditation" room with lots of mirrors and pillows on the floor for the (many many) people who were imbibing that ubiquitous Love Drug rather than the traditional alcohol, and lots of munchies, wine, and music. The home was inhabited by a local band called, I believe, Incus, and there were several drum circle jams over the course of the night. It was my great joy to flit from group to group, greeting everyone with a Happy New Year, sharing champagne and stories, and sitting--at the precise stroke of midnight--in the living room of that house, listening with teary eyes to Astor Piazzolla's Milonga del Angel from Tango: Zero Hour and calling (though an hour too early in her time zone) my partner in crime, Nurse Ratched. I think she probably didn't hear the tears . . . but I took the random choice of music to be a wonderful sign, a reaffirmation of a tremendous, unexpected friendship.

I danced a bit right then and there, the music itself serving as surrogate for my dancepartner so far away. To her, and to all my wonderful, caring friends I drank a toast. To Sistrah Suplex, whom I miss terribly, admire greatly, and love dearly yet cannot rescue from her plight; to Luna, a free spirit in the making--my once and future savior--and to her charming and brilliant daughters; to Dancer X, who underestimates herself ten thousandfold, dances better than all the rest of us put together, and who always knows just what to do and to say; to the Germanic Stainboy, his insights, his easy wisdom, his newfound happiness (hi kim!), and to the complicated past our friendship survived despite ourselves; to my mother's improving health and the new person she has become; to my dear and long-departed father, who would be so proud of the things I have done in his absence; to the one I so easily and deeply loved and whom I learned to let go (though not to unlove) with so much difficulty (to her I drank thrice, and closed the chapter); to my old friends Toddles and Mybargybosybiyban of the Garbonzobeanian Clan (wherever she may now be); to my revered Frau Fellenz; to Renate and her better-late-than-never Love and Joy; to Essie-Mae; to the Queen of Entropy--now so happy and fulfilled--and her wonderful partner in crime who has done so much better for her than I ever could; to the long-suffering and profoundly brilliant Linda K--who loved and longed and gave like no other human being on this planet ever has before or will again; to Jemma and Ruby; to Hillary the ne'er-do-well and her simple, sincere brother Collin; to Colleen and Tim and Steve and Lee Anne and Brad and Rhonda and Jackie and Marianne and Tom and Kate Hearden and Mairi Cooper and Molly Fung and Lelach (sp?), Tomer and Claude; to the most wonderful dog I have ever loved and lost: my dear Matthew; to Katje; to Jana; and to as many people as I could think of who have helped to make me who I am over my too-many years. To all of them I drank, eyes closed, and drank again . . . and danced quietly as Piazzolla continued to fill the room. When I opened my eyes, people were staring at me (it's ok, I'm used to it at this point); I smiled and danced on.

And then, once more, I drank a special toast to the One who keeps me sane and gives so much of Herself: my Bearded Friend. (Since I know she's reading, I say it directly . . . "thank you my friend, you are more amazing than you can possibly know.") To You, Dear Readers, my wish is this: May you all be so lucky as to find a friend like her in your New Year.

Anyhoot . . . it was, at least to me at that time and at that place, an amazing music . . . a music to usher out the old and in the new. Fully content, I eventually (around 2am) wandered out into the pristine snow and took a cab to a nearby hotel, where I enjoyed myself, quite alone and satisfied, for many more hours before finally slipping into a content slumber. When I awoke, I returned to Ye Olde Lofte, ate another homemade Entropic dinner (some specially-crusted pizza thingie), spoke for a brief while with and about those innocent of Claude Shannon and Information Theory (spoke, to be clear, with people . . . not trees or thermostats), and promptly passed out from my previous 36 hours' exertions.

And that, folks, was more or less that.

Your Hero's Flight left at 7:25am on the morning of January 2nd, 2006, and I used the flight-time to finish Mr. Barth's Great Book (which is, truly, wonderful). Somewhat like Somebody the Sailor, I disembarked back into my "real" life--though without a near drowning or other epic event--and made a beeline back to DFW, where I spent my afternoon practicing with Nurse Ratched (joy of joys!) and having a long and stimulating conversation about genetics, free will, blonde wigs and tango.

It's just SOOOoooooo damn hard to be me, no?

Have a Wonderfully Happy New Year.

Your,

---PseudoLatino

 

ps

As a favor to the Queen of Entropy, I concede that Boston may actually not suck as hard as it did in my memory. I had a fantastic time, largely due to her and her husband and the general (howth castle and) environs . You win, m'lady . . . and an eternal blessing be upon you, the Goulash, and your communal alien.

Salaam.

---the PL

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

Happy Wowiversary, Hamburger . . .

...and what a wow it was. Sorry you lost your pickles.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 10:16 PM

Dopamine Detour

Sometimes even a world-travellin' son of a Gunn like Your Salsa Pretender can have a great time doing the most ordinary of things. Tonight my simple voyage was down the aisles of the local Central Market. For those of you who don't have a CM in your area, it's a large, gourmet "world" supermarket, with an excellent selection of fine wines, cheeses, meats, fresh fruits and vegetables, homemade salads, bulk olives and pickles and garlic and capers and various sauces, fresh-baked breads and the usual assortment of culinary staples. I could feel that extra spring creep into my step as I browsed through several varieties of hummus and sniffed a broad assortment of cheeses from around the globe (I made it home with a buttery Manchego al Romero and a Pyrenees). Shopping for wine is always good for a smile or two, and tonight was no exception as I happened upon a 2004 Australian Shiraz called "Jim Jim [the down-underdog]" with a drawing of a happy canine (named Jim Jim, duh) on the label--wagging at me happily. Serendipity. Jim Jim is helping me write to you at this very moment, and Jim Jim isn't bad. Not nearly as exceptional as its namesake, but passable. End result? Happily full refrigerator, titillated palate, minor endorphin release.

Sometimes all it takes are simple pleasures.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Toadally Awesome

In which Yours Truly makes an unexpected roundtrip, shuttles the Matriarch, and finds himself dancing.

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After receiving urgent word that the PseudoMatriarch needed a ride into H-town to take care of some unexpected--but not serious--medical issues, and after hearing further that said Matriarch was without her usual contingent of friendly neighborhood transporters for various reasons, The PseudoLatino fired up the PseudoMobile and headed down to the Bayou City in his best chauffeur's attire (whaddaya MEAN chaffeurs don't wear chippendale collars and thongs?!?). His duties there being somewhat quickly and most easily discharged, he wondered aloud just what sort of trouble he could get into during the balance of his stay which would de-lopside-ify the tribulations of his projected 8 hour roundtrip. Oddly enough, at precisely that moment he heard a breathy, earthy, sensual and compelling female voice from somewhere deep inside his clearly overtired and borderline schizophrenic psyche beckoning unto him: "Call me," urged the voice. And then again, immediately thereafter: "call me now, you lethargic, halfwit excuse for a two-bit boob!"

Well then!

Shaken from his alarming reverie by a growing fear for his own sanity, Your Hero thought for a moment about this voice, and about how demanding and insistent and resolute it had been, and then did what anyone in his position would instinctively have done: he pulled out his cellphone and called The Bearded One. Though she didn't ask what had taken him so long, she did say she had just been thinking it was too bad he wasn't in Houston as there was--later that very evening--an argen-tango Milonga in West Houston. "Too bad?" he asks, then tells his friend he has known all about her wishes via his saturday morning conference call with The Amazing Kreskin and has indeed undertaken, for no other purpose than the appeasement of her momentary, selfish whim, an 8 hour round trip to that very city. Our selfless Hero, conveniently forgetting to mention the true nature of his trip south and laying on the resulting guilt with such unreserved and masterly strokes as would bring a tear to the eye of even the most accomplished Jewish or Roman Catholic mother, acquired from Ms. Ratched the general coordinates of this much-lauded Dance Extravaganza, took his leave, and made haste to acquire garments suitable for such an event (an easy task for Our Intrepid Fashion Slut, as you may recall from Days Gone By).

Having reassured the Madre and the PseudoChihuahua that his intentions were purely honorable (umm . . . were His fingers crossed? Duh.) and that he would remain in town long enough to dine with them on the 'morrow, The Ambassador of Boo-tay set sail for the Isle of Consumerist Excess (aka The Galleria) and quickly assembled a spiffy little ensemble (pronounced with the haughtiest, nasaliest french accent musterable). After a few hours spent gazing--as is His wont--into the Mirror of Narcissus (what can I say? Purty is as purty does, yo) He was awakened by a chortling gaggle of Boy Scouts discussing a passage on nocturnal emissions from the Boy Scout Handbook. One youngish fellow was overheard repeating his older brother's claim that said emissions were only a problem on american-made cars of pre-1980 vintage; japanese cars ("AND TRUCKS!" he added) were apparently safe. Overhead next was, as far as I could make it out, the word "spoogecake," followed by a loud burst of laughter. Somewhat frightened, Our Hero headed outdoors to the relative benignancy of the parking lot.

As I neared the location described to me generally by ShoeSistrah (and with somewhat more precision, via PseudoPhone, by Luna), I slipped into a convenience store bathroom, made the transformation from Clark Kent into Tango Leper, and hit the dancefloor running. More or less, anyhow. In keeping with my New Year's non-resolution to avoid narrative prolixity (yeah. Riiiiiiiiight), I herewith synopsize the remaining events of the evening:

In the initial thirty-or-so pre-Beardacious minutes of the Milonga, it was excrutiatingly clear that, generally speaking, this was yet another typical tango crowd: bored and boring. Remind me again why I do this dance? Oh. Right! Because conceptually and theoretically and occasionally even in practice it's an amazingly passionate and intricate and challenging and expressive dance. Sometimes (I've been told) it can even be . . . fun. Yes. Fun. Sadly I have no direct experience of this myself, being, as I am, a curmudgeonly old Buzzkill's Killjoy, but I have it on good authority: Tango can be sexy, engaging, and enjoyable.

With that in mind, I passed that hemi-hour, Beard-free eternity by seeking out one or two demi-pulsed individuals and semi-quavering myself out onto the floor with first one, and then the other, of these ladies in tow. These dances were surprisingly nice, and I was reminded again of how far I've come in the last year. I'm confident enough to dance with anyone, anywhere, at any time and to do a reasonably decent job of representing myself.

Add to this basic confidence the prowess and sensuality of the finally-arriving Valerina, and you've got a respectable amount of chemistry kickin', yo. We stood out from the lukewarm musicality of the rest of the crowd, and attracted a lot of attention and a good many inquiries as to our city of residence, our instructors, and how long we had been dancing together. I can say for sure that the crowd was very personable and gracious, and that there were no obvious Anal Bede's in the group . . . although there was one snaggle-toothed old fellow there who smelled like a soggy ashtray from 15 paces and was inexhaustible in his desire to express to me how he was generally frustrated by the low quality of local dancers. He was, in short, an arrogant, malodorous phallus who was unable (I know, I watched him carefully) to dance his way out of a soggy pair of edible undies. Ummm. I mean "wet paper bag," naturally. At least the Anal Bede--when he isn't engaged in selling all those used cars--has a modicum of technical prowess to go with his silly primping pimpitude.

I guess one meets this type of person in every style of dance and in every part of the world.

Too bad, so sad.

To wrap it up: I danced for almost the entire 4 hours of the milonga, with scarcely a break. Most of the 4 hours were danced with the Partner of Partners, with whom (as per usual) I had a great time, experimented freely, fucked up repeatedly, expressed myself thoroughly, and laughed unreservedly. It was awesome. She is awesome. In an effort to promote Truth in Advertising, I will admit that there was one dancer--a well-dressed, handsome black gentleman in his mid-to-late thirties--who so utterly and completely mopped up the floor with me that my head was spinning for some time thereafter. This guy arrived about 45 minutes before the milonga ended, stood on the sidelines looking curious, and then--when I decided to share the Bearded One with one of the many drooling onlookers for a song or two--snatched up my partner and hit the floor. And . . . WOW. . . could he dance! Particularly on the milongas that were being played: very musical, great style, lots of attitude (in the good sense), and (try not to be alarmed) he was VISIBLY having . . . FUN! Oh my god! What a concept! Suddenly, my poor fragile ego was shattered as everyone the room quit watching ME (pout pout pout) and started watching HIM!

Now, don't get me wrong. *I* was even watching him, although I was ostensibly dancing with the charming (and quite experienced) Asian woman who was in charge of the night's event. But my less gracious inner dancer was thinkin' "dammit! Why'd HE have to show up?!?!?!" Quietly, but nevertheless. In my defense I was, despite my juvenile reflex of jealousy, taking his style in: watching his every move as closely as I could, given my current activities. It turns out that our mysterious visitor was a Tango instructor from Boston, who had been dancing for many years. Go figure.

And enough already. The Veester and I went for a late-night snack at IHOP, and then I drove home--at the verge of total physical exhaustion--while the Valerina recited, telephonically, that famous legend of the Dancing Fairy Princess who meets a charming-if-ugly dancing Toad. They dance and dance and dance and dance, happily ever after, through the night skies and beyond.

Good night, folks.

Your Loving PseudoToad,

---the PseudoLatino

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

Friday the 13th

Friday the 13th

Despite expectations to the contrary, Jason didn't rear his ugly head. Instead, Your Beloved Salsa Pretender and His Beloved Bearded Wonder met with Young King David for another exciting night of Latin thrills and chills at everyone's favorite Global Greek Cafe, Stratos.

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Thanks to the very recent Grand Opening of Episodes, near both downtown and The Mothership, Stratos was like a Ghost Bar this evening. Ratbastardo's lesson began promptly at 9:30 (it was scheduled for 9pm) and it felt great to once again stand in that circle and listen to those same old jokes ("if you fake on the dancefloor you're bound to fake in bed" and "we usually have a bunch of Jerry Lewis kidz in the house" and "we call this a shoulder blade, we call this a booty blade" and "if you dance like this [dances like Napoleon Dynamite] sit yo ass down!" etc, etc) while warming up for the night's adventures. King D and the Valerina got in on the action, too, and by the end of the lesson Your Hero was ready for some 3:2 claves and a whole lotta ass shakin'.

And that's just what He did. Moderately well, too, for one so utterly out of That Latin Groove (last time I danced Salsa? At this same venue on the Friday before Halloween with--not surprisingly--the same two accomplices). As a matter of fact, I made quite a splash (thanks, largely, to the absence of most of the really good dancers, who were all at the aforementioned venue checking out the new digs) . . . being asked by an entire table of charming women to dance with each of them in turn. Which request I naturally--my pseudolatino arm having been twisted oh so viciously by a table full of smiling beauties--and obligatorily obliged obligingly. 'Twas compulsory; an opus obbligato. There were so few dancers here on this evening that we (moi and the Vee) were never once crowded for space on the dancefloor, and actually spent a large part of the evening more or less performing for the crowd. There were never more than maybe 10 couples dancing at a time, and often it was just one or two pairs--one of them virtually always being the PseudoLatino and She of the Shoes.

Another funny thing happened on this evening: not only did I dance unexpectedly well--relaxed, light-hearted, controlled--but I had absolutely no Disciple's nervousness under the scrutiny of my former Master, that Bastard King of Rodents, Ramiro. I'm not sure why this is, because even though I was receiving compliments from random strangers and old acquaintances alike, and having a totally fantastic time, I was cognizant of the ways in which my salsa dancing had slipped as a result of my salsic inactivity via my dedication to Tango. AND I was aware that the Master was watching me closely from time to time and whispering things to his table full of friends (note to the uninitiated: when Ratbastardo watches a dancer and whispers, it is nearly always something like "oh my GOD, he wasn't that good to begin with, but he's sooooo much worse now! Look at him FLAIL!!"). Yet . . . I experienced no panic. No sweaty forehead--at least not from nerves. No fuck-ups because I knew I was being watched. Nothing at all. Even when the Veester and I were the only couple on the floor--something that happened quite a few times, it was all good. Just lots of fun dancing with (as you all know by now) the Greatest Dance Partner on Planet Earth (or anywhere else for that matter).

We lost King Davey early on to the baroque machinations of his inflamed libidic itinerary and, from that point on, it was just the two of us--with a nice dancefloor all to ourselves and a DJ willing to play requests and the whole staff at Stratos, completely in shock, apologizing over and over to us for the all-encompassing emptiness of their establishment. I'm not sure why anyone would apologize to a guy who is dancing his face off with the most beautiful woman in the room (I could see how they'd apologize to HER for being stuck with the likes of ME, but vice versa??), but it kept happening. I swear on the glass eye of Iannis Xenakis that it happened. And so . . . you, Dear Reader, can imagine that I was the happiest, most content, and luckiest guy in the room for the rest of that evening. Dancing, dancing, and dancing some more with You Know Whom.

The sparely populated dance surface was beneficial in at least one other way on this evening: at the Valerina's request, we danced Tango during one of the Cha-cha sets. The conditions gave us a lot of room in which to work, and we took full advantage of that fact. You'll recall--from just about every other freakin' post I've written in the last 3 or 4 months--that dancing Tango with the Valerina is a life-altering experience. It's profound. Amazing. Sensual (though don't tell her I said so; she'd run fer them thar hills!). At times damn near erotic. Ok. Not "at times." ALL the time. But I digress (and risk rebuke as well). With tonight's prevailing joyous mood it was almost embarrassing--dancing with her as one of only two pairs on the floor; being watched by the Ramiro table and a few others; drawing attention because we were so obviously dancing something so obviously not-Cha-cha. I mean, like, y'know, like, the attention and, like, y'know, exposure put me in mind of a dream I keep having where I'm standing in front of precisely 4,289 people, reciting the prologue from "The Canterbury Tales" and masturbating in rhythm to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" and--at the penultimate moment--spelling out the word "Pomegranate" in viscous, Klein Blue ejaculate. Hey. What can I say? That's the way the dream goes!

And we all have dreams, do we not?

So back to the point: thanks to the success of Episodes I was able to tear up a couple tangos with my better dance-half. And (here comes the obligatory Him of Her Praise) I was once again reminded of what amazing good fortune I've had, over the last 8 months or so, to command the attention and friendship of the Empress of All, Nurse Valerina Bearded ShoeHo Ratched.

To cap off a fantastic night, we headed down to Deep Ellum and Cafe Brazil, where I had my standard BLAT (Bacon Lettuce Avocado Tomato) sandwich and the Big Vee tried in vain to obtain a chocolate-based pastry created to her satisfaction (no nuts, not too dry, creamy but not overly so, dark but somewhat light, rich but not nauseatingly so, correctly portioned, presented and--just to be sure you've got it--NUT FUCKING FREE!!). She finally settled for some kinda cheesecake, of which she ate perhaps one quarter, the other bits not living up to her exacting culinary standards. (When I observe the degree to which she is the embodiment of Finicky, I'm often at a loss to explain just WHY oh WHY she bothers to dance with such a palsied FEEB as Yours Truly . . . the universe doth indeed contain Great Mysteries, no?)

And so ended Friday the 13th: on Saturday the 14th--happily and contentedly--as I bade my companion farewell gegen vier Uhr morgens.

Lucky PseudoLatino am I.

Oh so lucky.

And good night to you, too, my friends.

Your Loving, Steadfast, Curious and Bombastic,

---PseudoLatino

ps

A MAAAAAAAAAJOR piece of kick-ass news: Sunday's Salsa at Monica's is moving BACK TO DEEP ELLUM!!!! It's all of 1.5 blocks from the PseudoLatino WorldHQ!

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

Saturday the 14th ( the ÜberWow)

According to a certain mental health professional to whose opinions I am regularly privy, I, Mr. Pseudo H. Latino, am a pretty date-oriented guy (figs were never my thing, and pomegranates, well, they're a bit too Klein Blue & semenesque for Yours Truly) and, with that in mind, I can reliably say that January the 14th, in the Year of Our 'Tard Two Thousand and Six, is a day that will live in my pseudo-memory pseudo-eternally--at least until I get on with every man's ultimate profession: worm feeding.

While I love telling you, My Beloved Readers, about sooooo many of the fuck-ups and foibles that make my life so very much worth living, I can't--or, more accurately, won't--give you an accounting of why this day was one of the most wonderful days in my entire adult life . . . nor a synopsis of why it was hands down the most wonderful day in the last several years. What I can tell you is that the reasons are many, and yet reduce to one; that the day was confusing, yet blindingly clear; that I was surprised, even though I had imagined exactly this day for a very long time; that it made me hopeful beyond reason; that I have now seen the Promised Land (and, ummmm . . . NO, it doesn't look anything like Michael Jackson's boy-fucking NeverLand, or whatever it's called); that I am full of Joy; that Life is Really Fucking Good®; blah blah blah, etc, etc.

"WOW!" is . . . like . . . y'know . . . woefully inadequate.

It was unbelievable (aka 'unglaublich").

Incredible.

Heart-warming.

Profound.

Unrepeatable . . . and yet I hope to experience it again and again and again, the world over (in Iceland, for starters?).

And therefore and forthwith ends my obfuscated recounting of this Day of Days, with an humble, inadequate appendation: "Thank You."

Yours Most Awed,

---the PseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Life, The Universe, and Everything

Funny how things you thought couldn't be improved upon get better, as though they had a mind of their own. Two years ago my birthday was the most disappointing of my life. One year ago, I thought the event was incapable of being improved upon (and it was fantastic). Today, well in advance of the celebration, I have incontrovertible evidence that--appropriately enough--I'm going to have the best birthday of my life as I celebrate becoming, however briefly, the answer to Life, The Universe, and Everything.

What's even more important is that . . . ALL OF YOU ARE INVITED, my Dear Readers. I intend to hold my birthday celebration--which takes place on Friday the 3rd of February--at that oh-so-famous Global Greek Cafe Stratos. Hopefully, by that time, some of the dancers will have tired of the incessant Reggaeton and non-salsa offerings they're finding at Episodes and will join me and mine at Gyroville.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

"You Make People Happy"

Tonight was the Annual Kickoff Celebration Gala for Yours Truly's company of employment. Basically it was the Office Holiday Party, delayed by about a month for esoteric reasons known only to the HR department, former president Gerald Ford, and three aboriginal Medicine Men from Papau, New Guinea (one of them, Toobu, a recent immigrant from Australia). As is proper for an admitted Fashion Slut, Your Leprous Tanguero prepared for the evening's event with a trip to the Galleria. Conspicuous consumption ensued.

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First stop? Yup. Kenneth Cole. Results? Some KICKIN' new black snakeskin shoes, a sexy teal shirt and some KC "Stretch" pinstripe pants (black, with a VERY subtle teal pinstripe). Next stop? Macy's Men's Department, Kenneth Cole section. Results? Black wool jacket and a new belt. I also stepped out on KC a bit and picked up two Perry Ellis ties--one in glistening yellow to complement the teal shirt, and a simple black one because black is always good--and a cool brown belt from Fossil. Most Excellent. I left the mall confident that I had assembled a memorable, interesting ensemble and headed home to get myself all purtyfied 'n stuff. I should probably mention at this point that my date for the evening was none other than the Veester, and I was hoping to perhaps impress her just a wee tad by trying to "clean up nice." Those of you who don't know the Veester may not know that she is a drop-dead gorgeous specimen of femininity, but she is . . . hence the task of dressing so as not to look, by comparison, like a canine fecal deposit is non-trivial and often daunting.

Yet I was determined to measure up this time, and so proceded enthusiastically with my preparations (my "twa-lette" as the frenchies like to say). If I must say so myself, the results were pretty darned nice. I looked good, I felt good, I definitely smelled good . . . and I was ready to go.

So go I did.

Still thinking I had a chance to measure up, I pulled up in front of Nurse International, spied my companion and subsequently almost plowed the PseudoMobile over two pedestrians and into a concrete barricade, so distracted was I by the unbelievably gorgeous woman standing there awaiting my arrival. Always beautiful, Nurse Ratched had even outdone herself on this fine evening. She was . . . transcendant. An amazing feast for the eyes: her blouse, skirt, shoes and jacket were all extremely sexy--yet classy, her hair down and elegant, her jewelry well-chosen and emphasizing many of her already-irresistable . . . ummm . . . "features." Yours Truly hat dun dite 'n goan t' hebbin. Although I clearly wasn't going to measure up in the Eye Candy category after all, the more charitable readers amongst you will surely forgive me for forgetting allllll about that as I pulled away from the curb with such a Heavenly Navigatrix. Sometimes losing is winning.

We arrived one fashionable hour late, just as the buffet line opened up. Of course we made the rounds to see who was there, to introduce my dance partner to all those folks at work who hear me talk about her day after day after day after day, and to ogle all the pretty shiny people and their significant others. The whole event had been nicely planned: the food was good, the bar open. The decor was nicely done and the Dueling Piano guys were good at their job even if the crowd never quite warmed to the whole idea. And so we got on with our mingling, our dinner, the never-ending introductions, the predictable self-congratulatory propoganda of the CEO (Chief Executive Onanist, is the accurate deciphering of that acronym, by the by), a funny little film of our company's first 20 years (riddle me this, batman: what's cinematic, soporofic, and onanistic all at the same time?) and, as the pièce de résistance, a chocolate sex fountain.

Perhaps it wasn't meant to be a sex fountain, but by the reactions of the various people who were lining up to have various items (strawberries, bananas, cake, oreos, nutter butters, fingers, vaginas, toes, penes, nipples, ummm . . . NO! Dammit. Sorry. Wait a minute. I think they didn't allow any of that, though it may have crossed someone's mind. Not MY mind, naturally, just someone's mind) doused in the dark, rich, running chocolate it was certainly a de facto sex fountain. I'm not sure what my date for the evening thought about this burbling phallic entity in our midst, but she did have a big goofy smile on her face, lost in thought as she munched on her strawberries and cake. When I disturbed her reverie she mumbled, half-intelligibly "do you think it comes people-sized?," which she denied vigorously having said when I asked her to repeat herself a few moments later.

Hmmmmmmm . . . .

So anyhoot. The evening continued on its chosen path, the Dueling Piano guys convinced several folks to come up on the stage and play the Oh-So-Heterosexual roles of The Village People. Yours Truly was the Indian Chief (but no--no loincloth for me, just the headdress). At least 3 of the 4 of us reproved an age-old theorem during those few minutes: White Boys Can't Dance. As a tribute to days gone by, I did some infamous Pilot Ben moves and then happily escaped with most of my dignity to the bar for a glass of wine. As very few people were paying attention to the Dueling Piano guys, I was called upon to assist a couple more times . . . most notably shouting out a truly Texan "Yeeeee-HAWWWWWW" during All My Exes Live in Texas and "Yeah, yeah, yeah" during Louie, Louie. Please keep in mind that, unlike many of my coworkers, I was stone-cold sober during all of these proceedings . . . just a little less inhibited than most others.

I know, I know . . . you can scarcely believe what you're reading, but 'tis true Dear Readers. 'Tis true.

And speaking of inebriated coworkers, one attractive young woman from my very own team turned around about this time, looks directly at the Valerina, and sez: "OH MY GOD! You are SO BEAUTIFUL! You are STUNNING!" [I leave out any semblance of slurred speech to simplify my journalistic task on this one occasion. Forgive me] "I hope you don't mind my saying so, I mean, I'm as heterosexual as they come but when I see a beautiful woman I figure I need to say OH MY GOD YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL because it's good for a woman's self-esteem to hear how beautiful she is when she's beautiful and YOU, Mr. PseudoLatino, sir . . . where have you been keeping her? I mean, WELL DONE, MAN! SHE'S GORGEOUS! AMAZING! I mean, really, no, I don't just say that it's true she's just so STRIKING you've done WELL young man ok you're not so young maybe but you've done well man! Really!" This went on for a while, while Nurse Ratched graciously said all her thank you's and responded--quite truthfully--that her complimentatrix was also very attractive. You gotta love office parties, eh?

So as not to let my OH MY GOD STRIKINGLY BEAUTIFUL GORGEOUS WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING HER Valerina go without something to sip on, I chose this moment to do a trademark PseudoLatino spin in place (this one clockwise, on my left foot) to reorient myself towards the nearest barman, whereupon I managed, oh so unceremoniously, to slam smackdab into stunningly attired, beautiful coworker/teammate number 2--splashing her eye-catching black dress with goodly portions of wine from her just-filled glass.

Holy WineSpooge, Batman! What a fucking DORK I am!

To make matters worse, Yours Truly is sooooo embarrassed by his little stunt that he begins--without thinking--to wipe the little droplets of wine from the front of said coworker's dress, inadvertantly rubbing thereby upon her left breast as her large, muscular, beefcake (and luckily benevolent and good-natured) husband (!) looks on. Ok. At this point I'm feeling like Woody Allen at some horribly embarrassing moment in any number of his flicks, and so I cut my losses, snatch up a clean napkin, and hand it to her--muttering as many apologies as I can think of. And some others I can't think of at all. Fortunately for me, the amount of vino is relatively low (nothing soaked, no stains) and my teammate replies good-naturedly that I'm a bit of an odd fellow, always dancing around the office, listening to music and having a good time. She sez that she finds it appropriate that it should be one of my trademark spins that caused the damage, rather than just a random run-in. She sez I'm "unique" (a euphemism for "mildly retarded," methinks) and that all is forgiven. Still embarrassed, I thank her, apologize again, and point out to my (also laughing) companion that this is further proof that I am not exaggerating when I tell her that everyone at work thinks I'm a little odd because of my dancing habits. Both my team manager and the Senior Manager of my department hastened to add their agreement to any presumptions of oddness on my part, the former pointing out that I often spin in the middle of discussions and meetings for no apparent reason, even when there is no music audible. "Audible to YOU," I add, thinking how glad I am that my teammates from my former place of employment are not here to add to the image and ask my new teammates questions like "has he done any spins in meetings with Management yet? How about during brainstorming sessions, standing at a whiteboard? Or . . . maybe at a lesbian birthday party at a well-known local topless establishement?" Ummmm . . . errrr . . . ehhhhh.

I'm innocent, goddammit! INNOCENT! It's all a frame-up! Big Brother's out to get me!

I'm innocent!

Thus ended the "Spin 'n Spill" portion of the evening's entertainment, and--very nearly--the entire evening. As Nurse Ratched had patients to torture first thing in the morning we needed to head out pretty early, and so we said our goodbyes to many folks in the rapidly-thinning crowd. As we made our way gradually to the exit, there was but one final encounter I should mention. We had made it from the banquet room out into the foyer, and were heading for the stairs. A small gaggle of women were standing near our intended route and one of them turns to me and motions me to step over to their group. I don't quite recognize her, but I acquiesce. She smiles, holds out her hand, and introduces herself. I return the courtesy. She sez "I see you all the time at work. You're always dancing . . . and I need to tell you a couple of things. First of all, THANK YOU for wearing NORMAL HEADPHONES and not those horrible earbuds that are so bad for everyone's hearing. You're doing a good thing! Second, you are always so happy! I mean, like, lots of people dance and listen to music . . . but you are always so completely lost in it and it is so obvious that it makes you really happy . . . that makes ME happy and, actually, you just generally, well, you make people happy. Thank you." Several others in her group smiled somewhat tipsy ascents to her proclamation, to which Your Hero could only humbly say "thank you," grab his partner's arm and walk delightedly away.

I mean, really, all I've done is to listen to music and respond. Music makes me dance, or conduct, or play air guitar, or what have you. Often it's what keeps me sane when the LAST thing I really am is happy. But no matter . . . if my response to music continues to make ME happy, and my dance partner happy, and a few random onlookers happy, too . . . then I'll count it all as "A Good Thing" and go on my merry way.

One thing's for sure, this evening made me happy. I had a great time, walked away with some good stories (and a really nice photo of me and my elegant, gorgeous date), and some strengthened bonds between me and my team members (with the possible exception of the spillee). All in all, 'twas a good night for the Pseudo Latino.

Ciao, Amigos...

---the PL

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

Lots o' Strep. Lil' Pep

And that about sez it all. The Tango Leper awakened Sunday with a SCREAMINGLY inflamed throat and an inability to swallow. This morning the doc sez "Strep Throat, Sucka!" and gives Your Humble Scribe a mega-antibiotic dosage, which already--within 24 hours--is making an impact. Is it a coincidence that both love and sore throats have taken on an annual cycle in the Life of the PseudoLatino? Pah! I'd say that a few days of lethargy, pain, and the voice of Barry White are a small price to pay.

No? Yes!

And: the birthday's approaching. Dust off your dance shoes, get ready from some good Greek grub, and join me at Stratos on Friday, February 3rd. Be there or be square.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Less Strep, Mo' Pep

Despite best intentions to the contrary, the PseudoLatino stayed home from work today and recuperated . . . watching some great movies, sleeping abundantly, studying a little spanish, and generally giving his anitbiotics some time to do their job. One thing on the viewscreen was the Fandango de Tango "Video Notebook" from this past Thanksgiving . . . which doesn't do much to encourage an inveterate Tango Leper like Yours Truly to sit about and relax. Rather, it prompted numerous text messages to You Know Whom along the lines of "when can we dance??!?!?!" and "can we dance NOW?" and "how 'bout NOW??" And, although a short visit from Nurse Ratched was forthcoming, it was sadly ONLY in her role as Professional Giver of Care--verifying that her dance dummy was getting an appropriate amount of rest and was recuperating acceptably. Grrrrrrrrr. Screw THAT, gurl, I wanna dance NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!

(Yes, I've learned how to throw a tantrum or two)

By the time mid-evening rolled around, I felt well enough to attend my weekly Spanish lesson . . . and hopefully tomorrow will find me more or less back in the saddle again: ready for work and for tomorrow evening's advanced Tango class and for some weekend social dancing (Salsa AND Tango this weekend) and tango practice with the Veester.

That'll do for today, folks.

---the PL

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Dance-a-thon (200!)

...at least it felt that way to the PseudoLatino, as he danced his blackened, shrivelled little heart out for almost 6 hours this fine evening. The festivities began with 4 nearly-uninterrupted hours of Tango (aka "Chess"--for reasons described forthwith) at the monthly Dunn Bros Milonga and continued unabated with another couple hours' worth of Salsa at Stratos.

[Editor's Note: This is post number TWO HUNDRED since the PseudoLatino discovered Salsa and rediscovered His Inner Child. You'll be either very happy, or very sad, to know that there'll be another 200 coming your way.]

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Not too much worthy of note on this occasion other than to say that I was sorely in need of a physical release of the sort precipitated by tonight's exertions, and that my dance "groove" was absent the entire time, regardless of genre or partner (and I danced the majority of the 6 hours with You Know Who, so my suckage was definitely NOT due to my partner). It felt wonderful to dance myself to exhaustion once again and, although it was definitely overkill, to continue dancing another couple of hours after that point had already been reached. By the time we arrived at Stratos I was already completely drenched in sweat and ready for bed, but . . . noooOOOOOOO . . . instead I just dragged my ass out onto the floor and started in again.

I had a great time despite my consistently quasi-musical flailings, although I think Nurse Ratched got a good deal more than she had bargained for.

Mea Culpa.

Another tidbit, funny to none other than Yours Truly (and perhaps a certain errant genetic mutation): at Dunn Bros I purposely danced a tango with ChessMistress Ava, whose pomposity and ridiculous thoughts about Tango have given me much to chuckle over since I attended my first milonga and who, despite her pomposity and ridiculous thoughts about Tango, did encourage (read: command) me to take my first ever steps within a Tango embrace. Some 14 months down the road, it turns out that her pomposity and ridiculous thoughts about Tango are nothing but pomposity and ridiculous thoughts about Tango and that she should keep her pomposity and ridiculous thoughts about Tango to herself, as she dances about as engagingly and passionately as a deaf paraplegic on PCP. We're talking CHECKERS here, babe, CHECKERS . . . not CHESS! Ava of course had no clue that she was dancing with her own (*cough*) "protege," and I cared neither to enlighten her as to the identity of her current partner nor to disabuse her of her pomposity and ridiculous thoughts about Tango.

My evening came to a close with a pair of very sore feet, a nice glass of wine, and near instant loss of consciousness when my head hit the ol' pil-low.

Tomorrow promises to be another draining dance-fest, with at least three hours' worth of intensive practice at Fred and Ginger's new "PrivACTICA." But more on that after it comes to pass.

Until then I bid unto each of you, Dear Readers, a most fond adieu.

Your,

---pseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

Blind Dwarf Swinger Party

I awakened this gray morning with a bit more spring in my step than I'd anticipated, given last night's intensive exertions. After a nice long shower or 10, I was able to enjoy a scrumptious breakfast at Cafe Brazil and then practice a few things prior to the privaCTICA, which turned out to be a great success. After nearly three hours of ganchorama, I served as guide to one of our local Salseras who doesn't know her way around the downtown/deep ellum area and wanted to follow Yours Truly to the Latino Cultural Center. How could I say 'no?' I am, after all, a . . . leader.

Hardy har har.

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Along the route we stopped for some grub at Eatzi's and got to know one another a bit better. I learned, for example, that my companion had been beaten, battered, raped and generally accosted on this very morning. When I suggested she call the police she laughed, and told me that the foregoing--while assuredly traumatic in its way--was far from criminal behaviour, as it was actually an improvisatory theatrical exercise designed to test her "commitment to the moment." Uh huh. I'm thinkin' she ought to've committed her foot up someone's ass, but she is clearly more refined and tolerant than Yours Truly and, rather than pedal-rectal implantation, she stayed the course and passed the test with flying colors . . . and a little rug burn. The whole theatre group sounded rather interesting and she asked if Yours Truly might be interested in writing some music for their performances--an invitation I felt compelled to decline, as I hardly have enough time to practice, rehearse, dance, and sleep as it is. Although . . . on second, third and subsequent thoughts it occurred to me that I should at least find out a bit more about such an opportunity, no? I could always skip my domination sessions with the hermaphrodite Chimpanzee on Wednesday nights or the biweekly Blind Dwarf Swinger Party down in Oak Cliff if push came to shove and the situation looked promising. Well . . . ok . . . you're right . . . maybe I couldn't skip the chimp . . . but the dwarves are a no-brainer.

Be all that as it may be, the meal was short and sweet, the conversation stimulating, and Your Favorite Tango Leper exhausted. Believe it or not, I headed home post-haste, watched most of Carlos Suara's Flamenco , and passed out satisfied and early (nine hours of dancing out of the last 24 hours can do that to you).

All in all a very nice, and unquestionably productive, day.

Woo fucking Hoo

Your Pal,

---the PseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

In Memoriam

Just a short moment of silence in memory of an old guy who checked out way too early. Thirteen years it's been: an eternity in dog years.

Wuff. Wuff.

Me and the Madre miss you (and yes, in a couple of days I'll be old enough to know better and young enough not to care).

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM