Chicks and Salsa

If you know me, you know how much I hate dancing, or, let me refine that statement, how much I hate dancing unless I am so unbelievably inebriated that I totally think its okay to grind all up on some random sweaty bald dude in a wife beater at some skanky nightclub in Daytona Beach where bikini-clad girls peddle shooters in test tubes and oh my god that so never happened I swear. So I was more than surprised with myself when I readily agreed to go salsa dancing Sunday night. I can only imagine that it was Nate and the lovely Lauren's insistence that it really is great, combined with a hot date and my guilt over having a boyfriend that really does want to dance that clouded my judgment.

By the time we got to the salsa lesson I'd been drinking for something like six hours over the course of our pre-Wilco-concert-I-wasn't-attending BBQ. As much as you think rule number one for klutzy goons attempting to dance should be 'Drink Lots,' it isn't. Drink a fair amount, maybe.

But at the beginning things were okay. We're there, we're learning the basic step, and I am, for the most part, not falling over myself or moving too clumsily. In fact, I'm truly enjoying myself, thinking, 'hey, I could get in to this...I could be a salsa dancer,' or maybe, more honestly, 'I could possibly way down the line represent myself as someonewho has some basic grasp on how to salsa.'

But then we got to the turning part. I was more than proud of myself the first time I somehow got roped in to being the instructor's example partner and didn't wind up looking like an ass, but the second time? with the turning? No such luck. Lo, how I could not do it. Over and over again I could not do it and I felt like an idiot because it was just me that was messing us up and why can't I count right or turn right and why.am.I.still.getting.this.wrong.argh.

I should've seen this coming many miles away. We Lees, as a family, not so much with the coordination--at least the immediate family. Yeah Mom and Dad play instruments, and we all work out--we can pull and push on things without much trouble I suppose--but there are no athletes amongst us. Both my brother and I (I hope you agree Tom) were kinda pathetic at sports. I played right field softball and blamed every fly I missed on a lack of depth perception. I know neither one of us scored a goal in soccer. Ever. And its not like we were goalies or anything. When all the middle school girlies were getting excited over dance team and cheerleading tryouts in sixth grade I knew it was useless. Yes, there was the shortage of inherent girly, but moreso was the fact that over and over I tried the clap-stomp-clap-clap-stomp-turn-stomp-whatever of the 'be aggressive, b-e aggressive' cheer and not once did I come close to clapping and stomping on the right beat, or offbeat, or whateverthefuckfuckthiscrapgah!

When the lesson ended and the music started up, that's when the real salsa dancers took to the floor. And the thing with salsa is that its just super sexy. It wasn't just the reality of the paunchy 30-something who probably lives with his mom and works as a skeezy IT guy by day but is here now dancing with some hot young thing, but also that I almost found this goober enticing. Almost.

Its not just beer helping ugly people have sex anymore. Without fail every time I have watched experienced salsa dancers I have been drawn to someone I would have never normally found attractive, because really, in the end, its kinda like watching someone advertise that they're amazing in bed.

The longer we watched, the more pathetic I felt. As the minutes passed the more convinced I was that I am just some woefully uncoordinated monster oaf walking around in my day to day life and that I should just be thankful that a)people talk to me and b)people don't just burst out laughing at the sight of my attempts to navigate the world in general.

All this because I can't salsa dance.

And I'll give it another go. I enjoyed it more than I anticipated and I expect it can only get better. Maybe I can make this some new goal to aspire to. Its certainly easier than saying I'm going to run a marathon or learn a foreign language, plus there's a cute boy involved and unlike marathoning you can justify drinking, at least a little, while you practice. And just maybe, in some lame still-can't-get-over-middle-school-trauma sort of way, the girly in me is hoping to make up for the fact I never could be a cheerleader.

Overload

I know, I know--I've been much too squee! lately for both my personality and my recent state of dump-ed-ness, but it occurred to me while driving just now that this kind of weather really feels like the world giving you a hug.

Just Now

Four guys walk in to the Ballroom...

"Hi, we're Goatwhore."

Awesome.

"Give me your eyes, I need sunshine"

Admittedly, I was very slow on the uptake with Wolf Parade. I'd heard numerous glowing reviews of the record but was convinced the Modest Mouse ties would mean I wouldn't truly adore it. Just recently I've felt like everyone is conspiring to get me to love the album. I've had my own copy since Monday and have listened to nothing else since.

First it was 'Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts' that had me hooked. Like many I tend to fixate on a poppy cut early on in getting to know a record. I'm not sure how much Dooce's entry about 'I'll Believe in Anything' effected my listening habits, but its morphed in to the song I've repeated in my car, on my ipod, and at home what must be eleventy-hundred times at this point. I love the way it sounds, but while it took me a few listens to sort out his lyrics, now that's what's really doing it for me.

And somehow it does go perfectly with the unbelievably beautiful days we've been having of late. The weather makes it so much easier to get up in the morning and enjoy the day--knowing you get to look forward to the sun beating down on you but that it'll still being cool enough to please everyone. And having a brand new mantra to sing over and over in my head helps too: We've both been very brave, Walk around with both legs, Fight the scary day, We both pull the tricks out of our sleeves, but I'll believe in anything, and you'll believe in anything.

Email of the Day

From: ska_is_lovely@xxx.com
To: info@satelliteballroom.com

Im angry!

Dear whoever you are. i would like to inform you on my anger. it really pisses me off that i cant go to the Art Brut show. i have clue when they are coming to maryland, which is where i live, and Virigina is the closest place. there is no way on earth that i can go to damn new york on a tuesday night! nothing is going my way today so please let us in. my friends mom will be there so dont fret. we just really love art brut and need to see them.

thank you for your time,
sophie

ps. we wont tell anyone that you let us in. it'll be our little secret.



Re: Im angry!

Dear Sophie--
Sorry to hear you won't be able to make it to the Art Brut show, I've heard they're great too. I'm assuming its a matter of your being underage, although you didn't actually mention that in your email. Unfortunately, we don't generally make allowances for underage patrons. I say generally because its not unheard of, but I would suggest next time you not address your email to "whoever you are" and follow that up by informing me of your anger--its going to get you much better results. Kindness is a virtue, and we love it here at the Ballroom! Take care
Beth

Under Pressure

We're gonna be rich.
Real blogging to return...eventually? Blame my recent lack of computer and an overabundance of un-blogables.