It seems that I'm surrounded by dancing lately, whether I'm voluntarily doing it myself or others are inflicting it on me. Andy and I went to see Chris Koza, Romantica and the Alarmists at the 7th Street Entry last weekend. Another venue, another nutter. The show started out innocently enough. Perhaps we can credit Koza's infectious melodies and riveting lyrics with keeping the insanity temporarily in check; the only odd character was a balding man leaning on the side of the stage. His eyelids drooped and he nodded his head absently as though he were about to fall into a deep sleep at any moment. The cause of this could probably be explained by his protruding beer belly.
When Romantica took the stage, though, all crazy broke loose. It came once again in the form of a particularly avid crowd dancer. Other people around us were moving along with the music as well, so she did not seem to be remarkable at first. In fact, she was very polite and apologised for each of the numerous times her fervor caused her to collide with an innocent bystander. But suddenly she decided she was not content to keep her momentum to herself and took to spinning those standing near her in the crowd. This, of course, included me and Andy. And about 10 other people. To her credit, she did not physically grab and twist us. Rather, she insistently offered her hand and commanded, "Spin!" until her target complied.
After she'd acted the dervish in our section of the audience, she started working her way through the more remote portions of the venue. She disappeared for a noticeable period of time--at least one song. When she returned, Andy and I started speaking with her. She enlightened us as to the logic behind her mission to spin. "I just want to have a good time," she said. "Good music, good beer...it should be fun. I'm trying to get people to have a good time." Indeed, many of our fellow crowd members looked as though they could use her assistance in lively-ing up themselves. Despite being at a concert and having easy access to an abundance of beer, a good portion of the audience seemed unaffected and wore stony, gloomy expressions on their faces.
The girl continued to recruit spinning partners throughout the rest of Romantica's set, through the break and into the Alarmists' set. And, far from being as hopelessly crazy as I first suspected, Andy and I became a bit fond of her. She did make the atmosphere a little more fun. And we definitely couldn't argue with her philosophy.
22 February, 2008
20 February, 2008
Squares
I have not done any salsa dancing since I've been back in the US, and I've been a bit restless. The urge to dance, combined with my quest to explore the Twin Cities as a repat, made my friend Erinn's invitation to a square dance very appealing. This despite having a great and professed inclination to stay home. Jackie's birthday celebration the night before had taken a small toll. I was also a bit concerned because my square dancing skills were limited to what I'd learned in 8th grade PE. But Erinn didn't seem too bothered by her own inexperience with dancing in squares, so I decided I shouldn't be, either.
We arrived at the Bedlam Theater just as a new dance was about to begin, and we initially partnered up to form one side of a square. But our square-mates decided it would be better to disperse us around the figure so as to minimise the damage we could inflict. That was a wise decision. From the beginning, my square dance experience was filled with rather exhilarating confusion. The caller walked us very slowly through the applicable calls before each dance, explaining to us what "allemand left" or "dig for oysters" meant in terms of motion.
I thought I had the hang of it until the band started playing and the calls came at full speed. I suddenly felt very inadequately prepared to face the mysterious ways of the square. For one thing, I hadn't thought to enquire about the step to use. I began with a fairly normal stride but quickly noticed that everyone around me was doing something else. I shifted into a small variation on skipping, which seemed to work well. I never did find out if there was a universally accepted step. After that, I was able to remember what the calls meant and execute them properly. And if not, I managed to get out of the way before I caused irreparable harm to the figure.
The dizziness that soon followed added another layer of complexity to the procedure. The second square proved to be particularly nausea-inducing. One of the calls, which was repeated four times throughout the dance, dictated, "Ladies in the centre, back-to-back, gents go around the outside track. You elbow-swing the one you swung and swing the next one on the run." That's a lot of swinging. And swinging is a lot of spinning around with your partner in one spot. Perhaps it was the vertigo, but that dance seemed particularly exhilarating.
After we took a break for some beer, Erinn and I felt confident enough in our new found square dance abilities to be partners. We made it all the way through the dance without causing any sort of breakdown, though there were a few narrow escapes. By this point I was able to start focusing some attention on my fellow dancers. They represented a wide range of ages, styles and experience levels. Some looked the (stereotypical) part in cowboy boots and plaid shirts. Some wore skirts. Some weren't wearing any shoes. Some men had a great and wild profusion of facial hair. Some were bald. But nearly everyone was smiling. One person I'm not sure about; his mouth was buried in his beard.
The last square of the night got me very dizzy again. It used the same "Ladies in the centre" call that had threatened my balance earlier in the evening. But it also incorporated a more complex motion where one couple split a second, made an arch with their arms over the guy, went slightly over to the right and, walking backwards, made an arch over the lady. It was called Peekaboo something or other. So after being spun like crazy, you were actually required to recover yourself enough to make or go under arches without smacking anyone in the head. This square was, understandably, the most chaotic of the evening. And the most fun, in my opinion.
After the hectic square was complete, the square dance finished with a waltz. My partner initially said, "I'm not going to show you what to do" when it became obvious I didn't know. But he quickly conceded a bit under the looming threat of me stepping on his feet (or worse). He counted the steps for me and pointed out how the dancers were meant to progress around the room in a large circle. I managed to catch hold of it by the end of the song. My satisfaction in this was short-lived, because I then erroneously referred to the Minneapolis Eagles club as a VFW. He then explained the difference between that and a community centre, adding in a slightly embarrassed fashion that noting the distinction was "an old man thing."
I think the excessive spinning jarred something in me and helped to reawaken my hibernating adventurous side. It was the first time since coming home that I'd entered into a situation where I didn't know what I was doing and didn't know many/any of the people who were interacting with me. I'm glad I made the attempt. And I'm glad Erinn goaded me into it. I'd gone so far as to send her a lame backing-out email on the day of the dance. A few hours later she sent me a text enquiring as to whether I'd changed my mind about dancing in squares. In fact, I did. And I've no regrets. Where's the daring in sitting home?
We arrived at the Bedlam Theater just as a new dance was about to begin, and we initially partnered up to form one side of a square. But our square-mates decided it would be better to disperse us around the figure so as to minimise the damage we could inflict. That was a wise decision. From the beginning, my square dance experience was filled with rather exhilarating confusion. The caller walked us very slowly through the applicable calls before each dance, explaining to us what "allemand left" or "dig for oysters" meant in terms of motion.
I thought I had the hang of it until the band started playing and the calls came at full speed. I suddenly felt very inadequately prepared to face the mysterious ways of the square. For one thing, I hadn't thought to enquire about the step to use. I began with a fairly normal stride but quickly noticed that everyone around me was doing something else. I shifted into a small variation on skipping, which seemed to work well. I never did find out if there was a universally accepted step. After that, I was able to remember what the calls meant and execute them properly. And if not, I managed to get out of the way before I caused irreparable harm to the figure.
The dizziness that soon followed added another layer of complexity to the procedure. The second square proved to be particularly nausea-inducing. One of the calls, which was repeated four times throughout the dance, dictated, "Ladies in the centre, back-to-back, gents go around the outside track. You elbow-swing the one you swung and swing the next one on the run." That's a lot of swinging. And swinging is a lot of spinning around with your partner in one spot. Perhaps it was the vertigo, but that dance seemed particularly exhilarating.
After we took a break for some beer, Erinn and I felt confident enough in our new found square dance abilities to be partners. We made it all the way through the dance without causing any sort of breakdown, though there were a few narrow escapes. By this point I was able to start focusing some attention on my fellow dancers. They represented a wide range of ages, styles and experience levels. Some looked the (stereotypical) part in cowboy boots and plaid shirts. Some wore skirts. Some weren't wearing any shoes. Some men had a great and wild profusion of facial hair. Some were bald. But nearly everyone was smiling. One person I'm not sure about; his mouth was buried in his beard.
The last square of the night got me very dizzy again. It used the same "Ladies in the centre" call that had threatened my balance earlier in the evening. But it also incorporated a more complex motion where one couple split a second, made an arch with their arms over the guy, went slightly over to the right and, walking backwards, made an arch over the lady. It was called Peekaboo something or other. So after being spun like crazy, you were actually required to recover yourself enough to make or go under arches without smacking anyone in the head. This square was, understandably, the most chaotic of the evening. And the most fun, in my opinion.
After the hectic square was complete, the square dance finished with a waltz. My partner initially said, "I'm not going to show you what to do" when it became obvious I didn't know. But he quickly conceded a bit under the looming threat of me stepping on his feet (or worse). He counted the steps for me and pointed out how the dancers were meant to progress around the room in a large circle. I managed to catch hold of it by the end of the song. My satisfaction in this was short-lived, because I then erroneously referred to the Minneapolis Eagles club as a VFW. He then explained the difference between that and a community centre, adding in a slightly embarrassed fashion that noting the distinction was "an old man thing."
I think the excessive spinning jarred something in me and helped to reawaken my hibernating adventurous side. It was the first time since coming home that I'd entered into a situation where I didn't know what I was doing and didn't know many/any of the people who were interacting with me. I'm glad I made the attempt. And I'm glad Erinn goaded me into it. I'd gone so far as to send her a lame backing-out email on the day of the dance. A few hours later she sent me a text enquiring as to whether I'd changed my mind about dancing in squares. In fact, I did. And I've no regrets. Where's the daring in sitting home?
03 February, 2008
Morning Bus Freakout
When I am not borrowing my friends' Subaru while they are on holiday in Hawaii, I ride the bus to work. Or, to substitute Raf's name for it, I ride the Rolling Box of Despair to work. Usually the Rolling Box of Despair from Maple Grove into Minneapolis isn't all that desperate. People tend to keep to themselves, reading the paper or chatting at a normal voice level to a friend. But one day last week, the typical atmosphere of calm was shattered.
The last stop on the route I normally take is a park and ride lot. The bus had waited for several minutes at the stop and was on its way out of the lot when a couple of straggling cars pulled in. "Stop!" several passengers cried. "There are people coming!" The driver didn't appear to be stopping immediately, so one particularly passionate rider yelled, "STOP! There are people coming! This is a service!"
The bus driver eventually halted the bus. While we were waiting for the late people to park their cars and walk over, he turned on his microphone and admonished, "Chill out. I don't slam on the brakes on the ice."
"You don't stop!" the irate passenger countered. "There have been several occasions where you haven't stopped."
"Sir, if you don't quiet down, I'm going to call the cops," the driver threatened.
"Ooooh, I'm shaking!"
"Sir, if you have a problem, call customer service..." the bus driver began.
"I DID!" interrupted the aggrieved rider.
"...call customer service, but don't create a negative experience for everyone else on the bus," the driver continued, seemingly unfazed.
"I think the negative experience is with you!" the rider exclaimed, his voice modulating to a higher pitch.
"Sir, like I said, if you don't stop, I'm going to call the cops."
The rider made some incomprehensible quip.
"Not another word..." the driver growled in a warning tone.
Not another word was heard. We made it downtown without any further emotional outbursts or incidents. But I was still really grateful to drive the Subaru in the next day.
The last stop on the route I normally take is a park and ride lot. The bus had waited for several minutes at the stop and was on its way out of the lot when a couple of straggling cars pulled in. "Stop!" several passengers cried. "There are people coming!" The driver didn't appear to be stopping immediately, so one particularly passionate rider yelled, "STOP! There are people coming! This is a service!"
The bus driver eventually halted the bus. While we were waiting for the late people to park their cars and walk over, he turned on his microphone and admonished, "Chill out. I don't slam on the brakes on the ice."
"You don't stop!" the irate passenger countered. "There have been several occasions where you haven't stopped."
"Sir, if you don't quiet down, I'm going to call the cops," the driver threatened.
"Ooooh, I'm shaking!"
"Sir, if you have a problem, call customer service..." the bus driver began.
"I DID!" interrupted the aggrieved rider.
"...call customer service, but don't create a negative experience for everyone else on the bus," the driver continued, seemingly unfazed.
"I think the negative experience is with you!" the rider exclaimed, his voice modulating to a higher pitch.
"Sir, like I said, if you don't stop, I'm going to call the cops."
The rider made some incomprehensible quip.
"Not another word..." the driver growled in a warning tone.
Not another word was heard. We made it downtown without any further emotional outbursts or incidents. But I was still really grateful to drive the Subaru in the next day.
The Bruise
I have a big bruise on my hip. It has turned a very vivid shade of purple and is shaped like a duck. It reminds me of falling off my bike last year. And falling off a tree this summer. And dancing with an elderly gentleman in Excelsior last Saturday. That was the cause of this most recent contusion. At the beginning of the night, Jackie and I met for comfort UK/Irish food at Jake O'Connor's pub in the beautiful and historic County Hennepin. Upon discovering that the pints there were a little dear, we decided to take advantage of the much cheaper local taps in a nearby townie bar.
We had settled into a booth and were chatting over the rather wretched cover band when a man approached us. He appeared to be about 50 and attempted to chat us up by asking, "Do you have any gum?" Both of us claimed to have eaten our last pieces earlier that day (an excuse that was true on my part; I'm not sure about Jackie). We suggested that he try asking some of the couples seated at other booths. They were far more likely than we to be in possession of such tools of personal hygiene enhancement, since Jackie and I have reached the point in our relationship where we no longer feel the need to impress each other.
The man's disappearance from our booth was brief. He succeeded in sourcing breath mints at a different table, and he took enough from the generous donor to allow him to bring some back to us. He then swept Jackie out onto the dance floor. After their song was over, he came back for me. We danced to a Rolling Stones cover. Between leading me in incessant spins, he morphed into Keith Richards (he was about the right age) and fit in some impressive air guitar work.
I rejoined Jackie at our booth, but we didn't stay long. The guy came back, bought us drinks, and took us out to dance floor again. When Keith was occupied with Jackie, a younger guy complying with the dress code of a t-shirt and backwards baseball cap captured me for a dance. He soon tired of trying to win me over with this gentlemanly display of culture and decided to revert to a more failsafe method: alcohol. He repeatedly asked me what kind of shot I wanted, despite my unchanging answer that I didn't want one because I was driving. I even resorted to steering an imaginary wheel to help illustrate my complex answer. Finally it either sank in or he became frustrated. In any event, he went back to the bar.
Eventually Jackie and I took leave of the dance floor, Keith and Bayside. Without consulting each other, we had both turned up dressed in brown shirts and cowboy boots. While we both shared the blame for committing this egregious fashion faux pas, I ultimately suffered more than than she. The lack of traction in the soles of my boots left me suddenly sprawled on the ice outside the door of the bar. During previous mishaps on ice, I've been able to tell that I was slipping and that a fall was both imminent and inevitable. This spill, however, was completely unexpected. I just suddenly found myself on the ground. "Are you OK?" Jackie asked (while trying to suppress laughter, I discovered later). I said that I was, but I wasn't entirely sure. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
In the end, I was OK. Despite the pain that indicated I should have a massive bruise, it was a few days before one actually appeared. It was worth the wait. In addition to proof that my injury was as grave as I imagined, I now have a nice memento of my first townie bar experience.
We had settled into a booth and were chatting over the rather wretched cover band when a man approached us. He appeared to be about 50 and attempted to chat us up by asking, "Do you have any gum?" Both of us claimed to have eaten our last pieces earlier that day (an excuse that was true on my part; I'm not sure about Jackie). We suggested that he try asking some of the couples seated at other booths. They were far more likely than we to be in possession of such tools of personal hygiene enhancement, since Jackie and I have reached the point in our relationship where we no longer feel the need to impress each other.
The man's disappearance from our booth was brief. He succeeded in sourcing breath mints at a different table, and he took enough from the generous donor to allow him to bring some back to us. He then swept Jackie out onto the dance floor. After their song was over, he came back for me. We danced to a Rolling Stones cover. Between leading me in incessant spins, he morphed into Keith Richards (he was about the right age) and fit in some impressive air guitar work.
I rejoined Jackie at our booth, but we didn't stay long. The guy came back, bought us drinks, and took us out to dance floor again. When Keith was occupied with Jackie, a younger guy complying with the dress code of a t-shirt and backwards baseball cap captured me for a dance. He soon tired of trying to win me over with this gentlemanly display of culture and decided to revert to a more failsafe method: alcohol. He repeatedly asked me what kind of shot I wanted, despite my unchanging answer that I didn't want one because I was driving. I even resorted to steering an imaginary wheel to help illustrate my complex answer. Finally it either sank in or he became frustrated. In any event, he went back to the bar.
Eventually Jackie and I took leave of the dance floor, Keith and Bayside. Without consulting each other, we had both turned up dressed in brown shirts and cowboy boots. While we both shared the blame for committing this egregious fashion faux pas, I ultimately suffered more than than she. The lack of traction in the soles of my boots left me suddenly sprawled on the ice outside the door of the bar. During previous mishaps on ice, I've been able to tell that I was slipping and that a fall was both imminent and inevitable. This spill, however, was completely unexpected. I just suddenly found myself on the ground. "Are you OK?" Jackie asked (while trying to suppress laughter, I discovered later). I said that I was, but I wasn't entirely sure. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
In the end, I was OK. Despite the pain that indicated I should have a massive bruise, it was a few days before one actually appeared. It was worth the wait. In addition to proof that my injury was as grave as I imagined, I now have a nice memento of my first townie bar experience.
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