Yup, I've become an alcohol snob...and an old lady

I hate fruity over the top sweet drinks. I remember once a friend had birthday cake vodka and when I did a shot of it, I wanted throw up. I didn't (I can mostly hold my liquor, thank you very much), but afterwards I wanted something strong, something that tasted, well, like alcohol. I've reached the point in my life when I want alcohol to taste like alcohol, not a mango or an apple or a fucking jolly rancher.

There was a time in my life in which I loved wine coolers. And the first alcoholic beverage I remember (there was apparently a beer when I was five that was supposed to calm me down...instead I was swinging from the shower rod. But I don't remember that) was champagne and Sprite thanks to an obliging grandmother (thanks, Crystal's Momo!). Early in my drinking days, a rum and coke was good. But as I've gotten older, it seems like alcoholic beverages have gotten a bit more ridiculous. Seriously, who wants a drink that tastes like Easter candy? And the worst Easter candy, at that (yes, there are a myriad of peep-flavored alcoholic beverages out there. You have been warned).

To top it all off, my body's response to such drinks has been to punish me mercilessly with the worst hangovers ever. Seriously, one of them lasted two days and the only thing I could keep down was McDonald's chicken mcnuggets. Hell on earth, people, and definitely not worth it.

My response to all this has been to get a little curmudgeony about the whole drinking deal, so much so that I now have the drinking habits of a 60 year old lady. And since its New Year's Eve and the name of the game tonight is alcohol, here are pretty much the only things I'll drink now:

1. Jameson on the rocks. Oh man, do I love Irish whiskey. Even when its cold, its warm and light and wonderful in my belly. And the real beauty? It hardly ever gives me a hangover.

2. Dewer's with soda and a twist. I know, all you single malt snobs are scoffing, but man is this little drink refreshing. You get the dark and smoky of the scotch and the bright citrus of the lemon twist, and oh man. So good.

3. Gin and Tonic. I've gotten to the point where I don't accept well drinks anymore. Some well gin might as well be pine pitch, and that's disgusting. But a gin and tonic, with an ok gin (I like Tanqueray or Bombay Sapphire), and a nice little twist of lime? I'm in.

4. A good Heffeweisen. I love hard alcohol. But if you're eating pizza or at a sports bar, well, beer just tastes better. I love the citrusy light of a good heff, especially since I pretty much only drink it when I'm eating. Its not too filling, but still full of flavor.

5. Good scotch. What does this mean? Oh, anything really. I've just ventured into the world of single-malts and I've found some that I like (Glenlivet, Glenmorangie, a few others that I didn't bother to learn the name of, mea culpa!) and a few that I definitely don't (Laphroiag? Laphrog? It was peaty and awful. And I didn't care for McAllen 12, although I know that's sacrilege). By the time I'm actually 60, I'll have figured it out. 

So there we go. Now, excuse me while I crochet a tea cozy and talk to my cat.

Why I Don't Compete in Lindy Hop Competitions

I love dancing socially and my particular scene, the lindy hop scene, is particularly awesome. I love the music and the movement and the people too. But there's one part of the scene that seems to be gaining importance: competition.

I get why it has become a thing. Competitions validate dancers and motivate them to get better. They can raise the general level of dancing in a scene. Watching amazing dances by amazing dancers can be an inspiring thing. And the prizes are often sa-weeeeeet.

But as the community gets bigger (and I have no doubt that its much bigger now than it was when I first started), more visible, and more connected through youtube and yehoodi, there seems to be a larger emphasis on being seen, rather than enjoying connection.

This whole more people = a greater awareness of appearance has been a theory of mine for a while. I'm probably not the first person to think this (in fact, if anyone knows any cool social theory books on this stuff, I'd love to read it), but I feel like the denser the population, the more invisible individuals become, and the more they try to stand out. This is functional, I think. If you see 200 different people a day, you don't have time to get to know each of them, so you make snap judgments based on their appearance. In a cycle of reinforcement, the more people judge on appearance, the more fastidious people get about their appearance, until appearance is the social cache that can obfuscate other (sometimes more compelling) aspects of people.

These snap judgments can be made anywhere, but in the lindy hop world, it seems like competitions are becoming the authoritative venue for being seen.  In order to "be someone" in the lindy world, you have to compete, to be seen, to win, even though I think there are lots of great dancers out there who don't compete. If you want to be a professional, you teach and you don't get students unless you win. And I don't really like it. There. I said it. I don't like competitions.

There are a couple of different reasons for this. Personally, I don't compete because I don't much like the idea of my dancing being judged on my ability to perform. I don't want to worry about people watching me and I just want to enjoy the connection with my partner and the music. Of course, I know even as I type that that its not completely true. On a certain level, I want people to watch me; the conceit of dressing up in vintage (though I rarely do) and acting out the past means that there's an element to performance to every dance...and what's a performance without an audience? But the idea of folks watching specifically for the purpose of judging me is off-putting. And a good dance with an amazing connection to amazing music can happen just as easily in a living room (especially if you're lucky enough to live with fellow lindy hoppers, like I did for a while) as it can on a competition dance floor. The fact that nobody is there to "judge" an amazing dance doesn't make it any less amazing for the two people doing it. And with the emphasis on being seen, especially in a competative context, maybe that personal part of dancing is getting a little forgotten.

And really, at a certain level, the results are pretty much subjective anyway. It really depends on who's judging. Maybe you've got a real technique hound who is constantly watching for clean swing-outs. Maybe you've got a judge who really looks for musicality and playfulness. Maybe one looks for lines and shapes. There's really no telling what you're going to get. Add to that that maybe the song isn't great for you, or you've never heard it, or (if it's a live band), you get the shitty drum solo, and well, shit. There's a lot out of your control and the results don't necessarily reflect what kind of dancer you are.

And honestly, some of my best "technical" dancing hasn't been very fun. I've had several dances in which the swing outs feel great and the lead leads me through turns and texas tommies like we've been pre-programmed with each other's moves. But the funnest dances are with folks who like to play and who try new things. If it works, great! We have a great "whoa!" moment together...but if it doesn't, well, we end up laughing and shorty georging back to each other. And that's great too. If you're constantly worried about messing up in front of the judges, can you really get into the spirit of innovation?

I know there are some folks, probably a lot of them, actually, who disagree with me. And that's fine. I watch competitions with good humor. When something spectacular happens, its amazing. But for me, dance nirvana will always be a good connection with my partner, playing around with movement to music, and not worrying one bit what someone else thinks about it.

Self-love

Before you think that this is some sort of She-bop deal, let me explain. October was a hard month. I made a really tough decision about my life and since then, I've been reeling a little bit. Everything right now seems uncertain: my job, my house, my future. I've basically spent the last couple of weeks feeling shitty about myself because my life feels like a mess. And I didn't really think it would be at this point.

But last night, after spending the entire day in my pajamas, eating leftover Halloween candy, and foregoing my usual personal hygiene routine, I sort of snapped out of it. I remembered that there are things that I really like about myself, things that (if I'm not mistaken) my friends like about me too. Things that I haven't really necessarily felt good about in a while. So allow me to go all Whitney-Houston-Greatest-Love-of-All for a moment and name a few of them.

1. I'm still curious. About everything. Why Chris Christie won the gubernatorial election in Jersey. How amazing the Catching Fire trailor is. The state of the Philippines. The state of particle physics. Medical breakthroughs in organ cleaning (seriously, have you seen that shit?). There's a big wide world out there and I like finding out about it.

2. How much I love books. I spent pretty much the entire weekend reading. Maybe this is some childish coping mechanism so that I don't have to deal with my own emotions (fair, probably, at this point). But even when I'm not in some sort of emotional upheaval, books are the escape. They're the word-pictures that take me out of this (amazing) world into limitless others. I love that. I love being a book person. I love meeting other book people.

3. How I can make people laugh. My friend Emily has the biggest laugh in the world. Hearing it reminds me that there's happiness in this world, and sometimes I'm the cause of it. When my friend Andy laughs instead of quipping back at me, I know I've said something clever enough that even he, my cleverest of friends, just enjoys it. I love it when Holly and I get to giggling so much at school that the students just look at us in wonder while we cry and sputter and point at each other. How I can surprise a guffaw out of Dad with a sharp rejoinder that's maybe just a little bit crude, just like the two of us.

4. I still like explaining stuff to people. Its maybe my favorite part of my job as a teacher. I don't really like explaining grammar in Latin or in English, but I love explaining a philosophical idea to my kids, or explaining the history behind a current event, or even just talking about celebrity gossip with them. And not just with kids. I love being the person with the answers, the knowledge and the wherewithal to solve problems.

5. I love intelligent discussion. Not debate, not winning an argument, but meaningful exchanges of ideas. This is one of the things I miss most about graduate school. Its why I still follow professor's facebook posts and why I get so frustrated with my students, whose teenage mentality, so focused on projecting their right to opinions, doesn't let them listen to nuances, to question assumptions, to tread lightly into a maze of complicated issues.

6. The sound of my voice when I'm singing just for myself. Its probably really annoying to anyone else. All I do is sit around and sustain long single notes in as pure a tone as I can muster. But in my head, there are at least 4 other voices singing with me. I wish you could hear them as clearly as I can.

7. My feet are just like my grandma's: small, with high arches and toenails that grow up rather than out (much to our mutual dismay). Mine have a bit of the hobbit to them as well, but when groomed, I love my feet. I don't take very good care of them, but they seem to be just fine. No huge bio-mechanical problems, no bunions. Just strong little feet that I can dance on for hours. I'm sure that won't last forever, but for now, they're just perfect.

I feel a lot better, seeing all of this out in writing. I hope that if someday you find yourself in a similar upheaval, you write a list of all the things you like about yourself. It helps!

Best Things on the Internet: October 2013

The internet was just not that awesome this month. Here's the best of the bunch, though!

Improv Everywhere's stint with orchestra conducting: OMG I would have had the most fun ever with this.

Duct tape surfing: A paraplegic woman wanted to surf. So she and her sons figured out a way to do it. It involves duct tape.

These crazy pictures of crazy awesome goats on cliffs: Most of these are like a 12d, I'm pretty sure. They all give me the willies. IN AN AWESOME WAY.

These photos of families across the world with their groceries: offered without comment.

This Buzzfeed list of awesome baby costumes: With the exception of the Trojan at the end, these are all awesome and hilarious. My favorite is a tie between Prince and the Dude.

These composers insulting one another: What is more pretentiously awesome than classical composer insults?!?! While I don't agree with all of these (I personally like Ralph Vaughn Williams' 5th symphony), the one about Handel is SPOT ON.

This cool interview with a NYC archaeologist: coooooooooooool.

8 Ways My Cat Makes Me Happy

1. The look Jack gives me when he knows I'm not giving petting him my entire attention. It says "I know you can do better. You know you can do better. Put down the laptop and give me my due."

2. Jack's obsession with the mysterious region known as under the sheets. Seriously, there must be something there that my feeble human senses can't get at, because, man, he loves it. CAT FORT!

3. The way he stretches out his back legs straight out behind him and his front legs straight out in front of him, like he's flying on the floor.

4. How happy he is when I finally sit down for the evening and he snuggles up either next to my hip or next to my feet.

5. The special meow that means "my food is stale. please either add fresh to it or stir it around so it appears fresh."

6. How much he loves it when I pick him up wearing my bathrobe. He purrs and kneads and carries on and generally has a great time.

7. How he turns on the extra cute if I momentarily stop petting him. Examples of extra cute: grabbing one's face with one's paws, flipping onto one's back to expose one's belly, pushing head under convenient surfaces (i.e. pillows, sheets, owner's hands), or any combination thereof.

8. The special meow that means "i know i have a cat door, but i would prefer if you would open the human sized door for my human sized ego."

A Fall Morning in Tucson

Its 6:15 and my phone buzzes my alarm. I hit the snooze button and try to go back to sleep. But its no use. Instead of a phone demanding my attention, now there is a kitty.

Jack sharpens his claws on the mattress, jumps up beside me and settles between the gently snoring Tim-mountain and me, but leaning against my side in a warm purry mass. How is it that when cats lay down, they seem to lose their bones? I scratch his ears and his chin and underneath his armpits and he stretches into a long gray shadow next to me. This is our morning routine, Jack and I; he hears my alarm, knows I'm awake and settles in for some snuggling.

But this morning is different. I'm trying to pinpoint how when I realize I'm cold, that Jack's warmth next to me is welcome, rather than an annoyance. I reach my hand above my head to crack the blinds a bit. Rather than a small beam of sunshine, grey pre-dawn light filters onto the bed. Winter is coming, I think...and then immediately chide myself for such a ridiculous thought. Its not even October, and maybe I've been watching too much Game of Thrones.

I'd like to continue lounging with Jack, but its a school day, so I get out of bed and get dressed. Laundry lies in heaps in and around the closet, clean mixed with worn in a jumble. I actually have to turn on the closet light this morning to search for something to wear, something that wasn't necessary two days ago. There's nothing to wear, despite the piles so I head out to the laundry room.

There's a smell in the air when Fall finally comes to Tucson. Its not the smell of dead leaves or of pumpkins or other Fall-y things; it's its own Tucson-Fall smell...maybe its the absence of ambient moisture or the collective smell of the post-monsoonal greenery. It could just the be coolness of the air in my nostrils rather an actual scent, but at any rate, its here this morning. The cement of the garage is actually cold under my bare feet and I find myself thinking about slippers and sweaters, despite the fact that it can't be cooler than 65 degrees. I grab a clean shirt, shake out its wrinkles and head back inside to finish getting ready, thinking "Fall is here...Fall is here!"

I decide to walk to school this fine, first Fall morning, instead of driving. It seems to be a popular choice among Tucsonans today. I imagine the first day of Fall in the desert must feel similar to the first day of spring warmth in places like Minnesota and upstate New York...people are so happy for a change, so delighted that the long wait is over, that even though it could snow the next day, folks still put on their shorts and flip-flops and bask in the newness of Not-Winter. Its like that in Tucson too. Today will probably still be hot. Highs are still in the 90s. And it could even get into the 100s, if Summer decides to put up a fight (it did one year; we had 100 degree heat into November), so instead of a sweater and socks, I've compromised with 3/4 length sleeves and sandals. And a jacket. "A jacket!" I think.

I'm not alone on my walk. My neighborhood is filled with dog-walkers and bike-riders and porch-sitters. Tucson is breathing a collective sigh of relief this morning and I celebrate the turning of the seasons with a trip to Raging Sage. That king of coffee shops has a small patio and it's full. There's a group of older folks who are there as often as I am, a couple who looks like they've just come from Yoga Oasis across the street, a solitary dude writing on a computer. Nobody wants to be inside on the first morning of Fall.

The barristas are ready to pour me an iced Gold Rush, because that's what I've been ordering for the last 6 sweltering months. But today I stop Kristen before she can reach for the plastic cup. "I'll have it hot this morning." I say. She smiles, understanding the joy in my voice. "Yeah, I wore a scarf today!" Such little things: hot tea, a scarf, long(ish) sleeves, a jacket. But for all of us Tusconans, the best part of the year has just arrived.

Best Things on the Internet: September 2013

This hilarious review of Patrick Rothfuss's book, A Wise Man's Fear: BEST REVIEW EVER. If you haven't read the first two books in Patrick Rothfuss's Kingkiller Chronicles, well, do that. Then read this. It is absolutely spot on.

This amazingly awesome MarioPaintComposer version of "Get Lucky": I didn't know people even stil had Mario Paint Composer! HOLY SHIT! SO COOL! I love this song. I love Mario. If you put them together, well, that's even better.

This Dutch reality show about farmers looking for love: caveat: I haven't watched the show. But I find the entire idea absolutely charming! Especially after watching an episode of the Bachelorette. How refreshing to hear about a reality show that is actually.....real! That last bit about the teachers, though, that's low, Jezebel.

Janelle Monae's New Album The Electric Lady: This thing is awesomely all over the place. For someone like me, who likes pretty much everything from classic jazz to electronica to rock, this album is a roller coaster of fun different styles. It doesn't really have a cohesive sound, but there's a futuristic sci-fi feel to everything. Dance Apocalypse sounds like something from the 80s, Look Into My Eyes reminds me of anime flicks like Neon Genesis Evangelion or even Blade Runner. At any rate, its amazing and if you've got an hour, you should listen to it. And then buy it.

This adorable video of Maru playing with a kitten: If you don't know who Maru is, well, you should. He's probably the most famous cat on the internet...or at least in Japan. If you're unfamiliar, I suggest you start here or here....or even here. Once you're familiar with Maru and his shennanigans, well, watch those other videos anyway. Then watch this one. The only thing cuter than Maru? Maru and a kitten.

These adorable cats in hats: They're cats. In hats. Tiny adorable construction paper hats. SO CUTE.

This heart-rending obituary Sarah Silverman wrote for her dog, Duck: Sarah, I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm crying for you and with you and I know Duck lived a long happy life full of love. But it doesn't make it easier to say good-bye.

This video of Max and Thomas recreating their most famous lindy routine: Remember this? If not, well, that's ok. You had to be a lindy hopper around 2003 to have seen it. It was a strange time too. Follows wore jeans and dresses, leads wore huge cargo pants, you either danced "savoy" or "California" style, and dressing vintage? What losers did that? But the lindy scene has gotten back to its roots in music and style through the miracle of the internet. Thomas and Max have become (were already, I guess) two of the most recognizable dancers in the lindy hop world. For two other great dancers' wedding (Congrats, Dax and Sarah!), they recreated that routine. I like this one even better!

This recreation of the Vesuvius eruption that destroyed Pompeii: cooooooooooooooool.

These gorgeous whimsical lovely paintings: These remind me of some of my favorite things from my childhood.  The Last Unicorn, Maxfield Parrish prints, the Wind in the Willows, foxes, cats, dragons, Russian laquer boxes and everything else I think is beautiful.

This Sunday Morning Breakfast Cereal comic: Teaching high school really makes you appreciate this one. Like, whoa.

This article on why deli meat has rainbows: I've always wondered about this!!!

Two-stepping at the Maverick: Some Observations

1. I had fun. I'll be honest, I don't know if I expected to have fun. I hoped I would, but here it is: Country music is not my favorite thing and I was taking along Tim, who feels the same way about country music as he does about car repairs. So my expectations weren't high. But when I walked into the Maverick and saw all those cowboy hats floating around on the dance floor, with bedazzled jeans flashing around them, I knew that even though this wasn't my scene, it certainly was someone's and those someones were having a great time. It was infectious. Watching people dance and enjoy it is almost as fun as doing it (almost). Add good friends and some Jameson and I can pretty much guarantee I'll have a good time. And I did!

2. Bands don't know how to play for dancers. At least this one didn't. It was a great band in most other respects. They were tight, they had lots of energy and I loved their set list. But a 3-minute guitar solo in the middle of "Mustang Sally" just isn't that great to dance to. And Mustang Sally? Great song, but not a good tempo for two-step (or any other dance, except for West Coast Swing, and can you imagine that? I can't). The DJed music that was playing when we got there was better suited for dancing and I wasn't surprised that when the band got back on the packed dance floor suddenly became a little more spacious. Just a little though. Its clear that the folks at the Maverick will dance to just about anything and have a good time doing it. Which is awesome.

3. Country dancing is a real live dance scene. As in, you just show up and you dance. I found this really refreshing in certain ways and sort of off-putting in others. There's no class to take* and that's kind of cool. Maybe a friend of yours teaches you a basic two-step (forward, forward, back). That's really all you need to get onto the floor. And that might not be all you see on the floor. There are a lot of people out there just moving with their partner and feeling good about it. There's a basic, but you don't need to know it. You just lead or follow and have a good time. Which is awesome. On the other hand, it seems a little harder scene to crack. Because there's not necessarily a common dance (although two-step is definitely king), that means that what you know becomes less important than who you know...and if you don't know many people, well, maybe you won't dance as much. I'm so used to the lindy scene, where if you're new, people will almost always ask you to dance. Also, since the Maverick is primarily a bar, there was a whole bar aspect to the dancing; people were there not just to dance, but also to drink, to socialize, to pick up dates. And that meant if you came attached to someone, you probably weren't going to get asked as often either. Of course, its hard to make generalizations based on one time dancing, so I'm more than happy to be proven wrong!

4. When I go out dancing, its usually to a swing dance. But if I go to a westie dance, I'm not going to drop some lindy and charleston on the floor. If I go to a ballroom, I will restrain my urge to swing at and demurely foxtrot (or sppppppiiiiiiinnnnn in a Viennese waltz! So fun!). But if I go to a country western bar, maybe, just maybe I should try to, you know, country dance. Or whatever else is going on. I certainly don't bring a partner, with whom I will dance exclusively, and then dance a fucking cha-cha-cha. But there was one such a couple last night. Now, I don't begrudge them their fun; after all, how often to you get to ballroom dance outside of a ballroom? But is the Maverick really the place? Also, there was a whole show-offy aspect to their dance that was really out of place. Everyone else was dancing just for the fun....it seemed like these two were dancing to show off. How do I presume to know that? Well, dancing cha-cha-cha to a blues dance doesn't make much sense, does it? I get the showing off thing, and if you hear music and you just want to dance and the only dance you can dance is cha-cha-cha, well, ok, but how about asking someone to teach you a two-step, if you're such hot shit? Ugh. Sorry. I know and love some ballroom dancers, but in this case, ew.

5. If I'm going to go dancing at the Maverick again, I seriously need to invest in some cowboy boots and some daisy dukes. A sparkly belt probably wouldn't hurt either.

6. Next time I go dancing at the Maverick, you should come too!

*well, the Maverick offers dance classes, but they're a series that you really invest in, rather than just showing up to a dance and learning from a lesson before it.

A Simple Recipe for Happiness

Ingredients:
Milk chocolate chips (or semi-sweet for those of you who like a darker flavor)
Butterscotch chips
A small bowl (or a big bowl. I'm not judging)
Pretzel sticks

1. Mix roughly half and half mix of butterscotch and chocolate chips in the small bowl.
2. Put in the microwave 15 seconds at a time, stirring with a pretzel stick between each microwaving, until chips are melted together.
3. Dip pretzel sticks into delicious chocolately butterscotchy goodness until you are sick.
4. Bask in resulting happiness.

Race and Lindy Hop? Some Incipient Thoughts

One of my favorite swing bloggers, Wandering&Pondering posted this video a couple of weeks ago, along with this status (it was on Facebook):

Andy Reid reminded me of this clip as an example of something that could only happen in New York City. Mama Lu Parks worked in the Savoy Ballroom before they tore it down in the 50's. She made it her mission in life to carry the torch of Lindy Hop during that "wandering the desert" era through the 60's, 70's and early 80's. Her protégés showed up at Yehoodi's 6th Anniversary in 2004 which was also the 100th Birthday of Count Basie, and threw down a performance for the ages. We were trying so hard hard to get that "old school" feel for so many years, and they just threw that out there like it was nothing.

Chances are if Wandering&Pondering posts it, its worth watching. I didn’t know who Mama Lu Parks was, but what the hey, JSalmonte posted it, so I watched it.

I immediately knew what he meant when he described the dancing with “that old school feel.” If you watch enough lindy hop, especially old clips of dancers from the 30s and 40s, you get a sense for how things have changed. Nobody dances quite like those old timers did. Even with all the old original music, all the vintage original clothing, in original ballrooms, something is still different about they way they dance. Of course it is. I liken it to watching Mad Men (which, I’ll admit, I don’t much), which has been praised to the skies for the accuracy of its sets, its costumes, its language, its culture. But nobody watching Mad Men would ever for a moment think it was actual footage from the 60s. There’s still a pretend quality to it, an awareness that no matter how technically perfect the performance, its still just that. Its not history, but the performance of history. I wonder about that sometimes; how we can’t really escape the time and place we’re formed in, no matter how we change the details. We are fundamentally creatures of our own time.

Which made me think about the epoch in which swing was “original.” It was the 30s and 40s, before the Civil Rights movement and integration and all that jazz, and while I’m no expert on race relations, its clear from the footage that survives that there were two very distinct cultures of lindy hop in the 30s and 40s: one white and one black.

(skip to about 1:45 to see the lindy hopping and try to ignore the awful sambo stuff)

They almost don’t look like the same dance, right?

But lindy hop started in Harlem in the 30s, when Harlem was a black community (I think it still is, right?). Then it swept through the nation as a national dance craze. So those white dancers dancing, while they’re original dancers in the grand scope of history, wouldn’t be considered originators of the dance. Like blues and jazz, what was originally a black form of expression was absorbed into the greater (mostly white?) culture of the U.S. And I think its probably fair to say that while lindy hop got absorbed into greater U.S. culture, its black dancers and its white dancers were probably not very integrated. (There were a few exceptions; the Cotton Club The Savoy Ballroom, where Fankie Manning threw the first aerial, was definitely integrated[The Cotton Club, I have been informed, was definitely not.]). So two groups of dancers, one black, one white.

I don’t really know what I can say about that, except as I was watching, I couldn’t help but notice that most of the performers were black, while most of the audience was white.

Its fair to say that today, lindy hop is a predominantly white dance. While there are a few notable exceptions (Steven Mitchell, Ryan Francois, you are amazing), mostly they’re white, affluent kids. If they’re not white, they’re Asian. And they probably learned how to dance at college. For some reason, lots of the guys are engineers of some sort (I’ve never been able to figure that out). So what was once a dance of Harlem is being kept alive by a bunch of nerdy rich kids who like to dress up in vintage clothing. What was once a national phenomenon, danced all over the U.S. (granted, not together, but still pretty ubiquitous), is now a sub-culture of partner dancing danced by a privileged few, who are mostly white, middle to upper class, college educated and (usually) pretty nerdy.

That’s maybe putting it a little harshly. I’m not personally rich and I don’t particularly like to dress up in vintage, but the rest is pretty true. I learned to dance in college. I don’t know what drew me to lindy in the first place; there was the famous Gap commercial, of course, but I don’t remember that playing a huge role in my attraction to swing dancing. I do remember watching old movies with my mom and loving the world I saw there. Men in suits and ties, wearing fedoras; women in jaunty hats and wearing gloves and well-tailored dresses. I loved it. And I loved the music that went along with it. Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong. I know when I heard them sing and play, I wanted, maybe even needed to move. So I found a lesson and started. But there’s no doubt that in terms of race and socio-economics, I was the norm.

I’ve been trying to think about why that might be and what it might mean, especially in the aftermath of Miley Cyrus’s racially and sexually charged VMA performance. I wonder about nostalgia and what it is that actually makes me want to lindy hop. And I wonder if I, as a white woman dancing what was in its inception at least a black dance, share anything with Miley. My intent is obviously different; I lindy because it feels good to do it, because I love camaraderie and the openness of the people who do it, because the music is so joyful that I have to do it. But I wonder, especially now, if I should be a little uncomfortable with what I’m a part of, if I can even have anything meaningful to say about it.

I’ve found writing this to be incredibly difficult because of my unease with the whole subject and because I love dancing so much. I’m still not sure if anything I’ve said makes sense or if its even worth saying, since most of my experience with these issues is incidental and not well researched at all. Maybe once I've put in more time and effort, they'll be more articulate. In the meantime, wanna dance?

Ode to Osprey Coozie

O Osprey coozie,

 how cozy, how woozy

I feel as I drink my beer you keep cool.

You're purple and foamy,

and my beer, not so loamy,

is perfectly tempertured in your embrace.

In the palm of my hand,

it is dry as warm sand,

how refreshingly arid you keep me!

And no coaster is needed,

for your protection is ceded,

and my wooden end tables are clean.

For, Osprey coozie,

how picky, how choosey

was I as I set down my drink!

But you and your hugs

make me melt onto rugs,

but perhaps that's only the beer.

Adventures in Fever Dreams

Its 12:20pm on Labor Day. I should be enjoying my day off, but instead I'm miserable on the couch. Tim has just left for a half day of work, so I'm on my own. A movie, I think.  But getting up to decide what to watch is too much trouble, so I reach for my kindle instead.

Soon the words on the page become blurry and the next think I know I'm on a dancefloor. I've never been to this particular one before, but I know it must be in LA. There's a huge lindy hop thing there this weekend. Surely I'm at Camp Hollywood. Before I can get my bearings, I see a familiar face: Ian from work. Ian doesn't dance, I think, Ian has a phd in philosophy. But then he sees me, grabs my hand and we are grooving. He's like the goddamn Skye Humphries of dreamland, creative and smooth and really really good. I'm about to comment on just how good he is when he drops my hand and walks away. Just walks away without a word. The song hasn't ended, no other shadowy couple has left the floor. Just him.

And I wake up. My body aches. My mouth is dry (no doubt I have been mouth breathing) and I'm hungry. I manage to rustle up some leftovers while I check facebook. Howard and Gayl are at Camp Hollywood. They've made it into the Amateur Balboa finals and I couldn't be more proud, or rather I could be, if my head would stop hurting. I turn off the computer and lay down again.

And find myself in a huge conference room. A dance floor is set up, but nobody is dancing. I know that I'm back in LA, back at Camp Hollywood, but where is everybody? I leave the conference room to find the dancers I know must be here somewhere, but I only find more empty conference rooms. Finally, I hear music coming from somewhere. I follow it into yet another conference room, this one not empty, but instead of lots of dancing couples I see only one solitary person on stage. The rest of the room is full of empty tables and chairs. The person on stage looks like Jeanelle Monae, but she's white, so I know it can't be her. Its Debra. And she's killing it. I watch her finish her solo charleston act and shoot her a thumbs up. She sees me and smiles. I leave.

And now I'm on the beach. I see lights ahead and hear music, but Morgan appears along with Cat. "The dancing is over there, Lauren. Over that dune." he says, pointing in opposite direction. "Yeah, everybody is over there." Cat chimes in. I eye them suspiciously and follow my gut. I go toward the music, rather than the dunes. They follow.

I finally find everyone sitting on bleachers set up in the sand around a huge campfire. On one side is another dance floor, but again, nobody is dancing. I see Howard, who is always game to dance, and even he shakes his head no. I put my hands out to warm them on the fire, feeling disappointed.

And wake up. I'm sweating. My fever has finally broken. I guess its time to go dancing.