Me, on Halloween at Teatro Zinzombie.
Ahhh, the enchanting and naughty Linda Darnell.
I hope your year is full of White Russians and lots of laughs.
And more fun with me.
And Jesus.
Rolling on Shabbos or not...
you make life fun!
I really don't think I can get on the bus like this.
Last night was the night I finally learned once and for all that if I can't dance tango, then I won't dance at all.
No polkas, schottisches, mazurkas, Les Lanciers, or even the Congress of Vienna Waltz, which I finally figured out how to do. (I do like that one.)
I had planned for weeks to go to a period ball, Les Mardi Gras de Vampires, a Mardi Gras Ball in true 19th-century ante-bellum New Orleans style. Sounds like fun, huh? Something different.
I have never gotten over the Halloween dressing up thing, so the thought of getting all dolled up like a late Victorian/Belle Epoque-era Mardi Gras temptress and dancing sounded like something really interesting and fun. And some friends I haven't seen since before the Dickens' Faire were going to be there. (I even thought that handsome Mr. Crummles might be there. He was.)
I pulled together a fabulous outfit: part of my Halloween get-up (black and red taffeta can-can skirt, and velvet Harlequin mask with a flowery plume of colored feathers, both items purchased in Venice and cost me a small fortune), a jewel-encrusted choker I found on Haight Street with Ms. Wellspring, black elbow-length satin gloves trimmed with black feathers, a black corset (!), fishnets and my black and red Darcos t-strap shoes that I got in Buenos Aires. And my best Shus.
And Kat had done my hair today in the most perfect Louise Brooks yet. Shiny, straight, flawless. I'm telling you, I really pulled out all the stops for this ball.
***
I don't want to sound mean, and I know this is probably going to come out the wrong way. I don't know how else to describe it: If you ever wondered what happened to all of the drama geeks that went to your high school, this is the kind of dance where they go now. Listen, I don't mean it in a bad way. They are just the polar opposite of tango people. It was like if I went to a dance with all of the people I used to play Dungeons & Dragons with in junior high school. See, I was a geek too. I admit it.
Does this make any sense? Let's just say they are not tango people.
First I took the class. That wasn't too bad, actually. I did learn to waltz, but when they started trying to teach tango, my heart started to break quietly. I so desperately wanted to hijack the class and take it over but I didn't. I was very restrained and obedient, and learned their "tango." God.
The dance itself was pretty much like the worst dance class you ever took, but multiplied by oh, like 1,000. I hadn't the heart to turn down the one tango they played, but I should have. What's missing? The passion, the intensity, the connection. Dressing up is a very poor substitute for tango bliss.
I left as soon as I could. In my haste to make my exit, I left my second new umbrella that I bought this week in the lobby. I have spent $90 dollars on umbrellas this week. I keep leaving them places I won't return to.
***
My feet are throbbing as I write this. I sweated off all my perfect maquillage and my newly cut bangs are all damp. I just took two Aleve and now I am waiting for them to kick in.
Why?
Because the Late Night Milonga at the Metronome saved me. I couldn't go straight home after that ball. It's worse to have a bad dance than not to dance at all.
Thank you, Late Night Metronome wonderful leaders who danced with me tonight, me in my wacky outfit. I loved each and every one of you tonight. You gave me my passion back. You cured me.
PS. But...if someone wants to organize a fancy Mardi Gras dress-up milonga, I'm all for it.
This weekend I went to the Art Deco Society's Annual Gatsby Summer Afternoon. I was invited to go months and months ago by some friends, and as the date approached, I started thinking of all of the other things I could/should be doing (like dancing, grocery shopping, etc.) because I was kind of afraid that I was going to be stuck with a bunch of odd characters, like the kinds of people who re-enact Civil War battles or go to Renaissance Faires and adopt really bad Elizabethan accents.
So I was kind of expecting to be hanging about with some wannabe drunken Zeldas in their rented flapper outfits, but I was pleasantly surprised. In fact, I was super pleasantly surprised. I had an absolute ball.
For starters, these Art Deco people are serious. They were into not just the clothes, but the history, the slang, the dancing, the whole period. There was not a rented costume in sight. (I have to admit that my outfit was stellar and I fit right in...I'll post pics if they do me justice. Otherwise you will have to imagine that I looked fab.) The most amazing hats, parasols, lace, shoes...and that was just the men. (No, I'm kidding!) But everyone put such care into how they dressed, including their hair, makeup and accessories. They looked good. It was like being an extra on a film set.
All of the picnics had vintage linens, china, glass and silver. No paper plates. No styrofoam cups. Cell phones were not allowed, if you can believe that one. People picnicked around their vintage cars. There was a Charleston contest. The Royal Society Jazz Orchestra played, and the singers and emcee sounded just like they stepped out of 1925. The Deco Belles, the bathing beauties, paraded with their gartered stockings and one-piece swim suits in vivid colors. Charles Lindbergh could have shown up and he'd have felt right at home.
It's midnight, I can't sleep, and for some reason, I feel compelled to buy a hat.
Caterpillar: Who are YOU?
Alice: This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. I -- I hardly know, sir, just at present -- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.
Help me choose which hat to buy so I can go back to sleep, or go down the rabbit hole.
Come on, I know you have a tango closet too.
