Lindy Exposed

Swing dancing, or really any social activity, is an exercise in projected self-confidence, social awareness, and a small degree of logistical competence.

This could easily turn into a long treatise about swing dancing, a rather odd passion that has since my first introduction to it as a Freshman in college played a tremendous, even defining role in my personal and social evolution, but rather than waxing apoetically about a hobby which fuses physicality, creativity, and socialization, I'd rather talk about those wonderous moments when the formulae breaks down.

Let's take last Thursday, for example.

Like most major metropolitan cities, New York has a vibrant swing scene.  There are a number of good venues offering swing dancing of one sort or another virtually every night of the week, and while some are more specialized than others in whatever niche dance they feel most attached to - blues, balboa, "jitterbug," etc. - the footwork and the demographics are the only differences.  They all still require social dancing (i.e. not with a formal/regular partner), a degree of training, and either a commitment to having a good time, or it's unfortunate substitute, the smug awareness of one's own stature/abilities and the desire to demonstrate them.

Me, I'm a Frammer.  It's probably a term I just coined this moment, but what it implies would be familiar to most New York dancers.  I attend Fram, or more formally, the "Frim Fram Jam," a weekly dance hosted by Yehoodi.com, which is both simultaneously a national (even international) Lindy Hop web-forum and also the closest approximation I can find for what in any other city would be the standard "(your city here) Swing Dance Society."  That is, they put on dances, host workshops, encourage new dancers and inform current dancers about other dance opportunities.  Though the name "NYSDS" is otherwise occupied, Yehoodi seems to more appropriate fulfill the convention, to my understanding.

As a "Frammer" I would be understood to be primarily a Lindy Hopper (someone who's main dance is the 8-count step/step/tripple-step pattern that evolved from the Charleston in the Savory ballroom and owes its modern lineage notably to Franky Manning), and other demographic information would suggest that I live in Manhattan or its close environs, that I am generally under 50, and that (to be blunt) I am white.

It also suggests that I am open to other dances (charleston, balboa, shag, etc.), that I enjoy dancing with a plethora of strangers, and perhaps that I don't mind extremely crowded dance floors.  It might even say something about my musical tastes, but Fram is just varied enough to preclude any certainties in that regard (unlike my former venue in Austin, the Fed, which carries 

very clear stylistic biases in its music - biases I happen to enjoy).

So there I am - a Frammer at Fram - in extremely tight quaters with about 150 strangers crammed into a rectangular dance studio on the corner of 31st and 8th Avenue just past midnight on a Thursday evening.  I've been making the rounds, saying hello and getting in dances with the minority of follows (girls) who I actually recognize, and trying not-too-hard to remember the names of new follows I met for the first time.

The evening is not over for Fram, but it is for me.  My general tiredness combined with the crowd, the heat, my next day's schedule and a string of music I found less-than-inspiring has moved me to quit the day a good 45 minutes before the venue shuts down.  

The process for leaving is as dogmatic as everything else thus far in the post.  I first change shirts - I sweat as much or more than any other dancer I know.  It's not that sexy, well-oiled look, it's more like desperately pasty with a touch of awkward.  In addition to the freeze-danger of stepping outside in such a state, there is also concern for my appearance (and odor) on the public transport back home.

Having revised my wardrobe to something less caustic, the next step is to change shoes - this 

time not for reasons of odor, but purpose.  My dance shoes are home-made, meaning they have soft leather glued to the bottom.  In order to keep this leather intact and slippery, it must be kept away from the grime and grit of the real world.  "Don't Walk Outside in Your Dance Shoes" is one of the fundamental rules of Lindy Hop, perhaps even on par with "The Follow is Always 

Right," and "BOUNCE!" (which in my opinion must be screamed, hence the caps).

The next steps include saying goodbye to any friends remaining, then bundling into the manifold layers required to survive the walk to the subway station, and finally exiting.

But wait - New Shirt, New Shoes - Sudden Disturbance.

Something isn't right.  

My pants, it occurs to me as I slip one arm into a front-zip sweater, are feeling a little loose.  I put in the other arm, and upon glancing down to start zipping up the sweater, face the black horror of my own open crotch looking back at me, unblinking like the eye of Sauron.

It is in instances such as this, when nothing is on the line but one's own ego, that certain thoughts drop from your cultivated modern intellect like wet dough on the kitchen floor.

"shit!"

Now what?  I'd like to say that I handled it smoothly.  That I kept zipping up my sweater with an air of relaxed confidence before calmly turning around to grab my backpack, and in the process bending over and deftly zipping up with my other hand.

I'd like to say that, but truthfully it took me 2 days just to think of that solution.  

No, at the time of the event, my overtaxed cranium regressed about as far as possible.  I didn't quite shout out, "Holy Cow, My fly's unzipped" before reaching down in a great show and zipping in such a hurry as to cause bodily harm.  It wasn't that bad, but if my girlfriend had walked past at the exact moment, I might well have slugged her over the head with a large club and dragged her home.  

What I'm saying is, it wasn't very good either.

Sweater abandoned in mid-zip, both eyebrows raised and my mouth suspiciously, though not subtley, ajar, I just stared downward as my fingers fiddled with the dark abyss that was gazing out from my jeans, searching for the mischevious metal tag that was hiding down in the deep recesses of my denim.  Once acquired, I practically ripped the zipper skywards, unconsciously lifting my body upwards in imitation of its progress, then sheepishly returning my not-quite-shaking hands to my sweater and their original purpose.

There I was, completely clothed for the first time all night, and in utter shock; a black hole of personal confidence, or to be even more melodramatic, "More naked metaphorically than I had ever been physically."

Emergency averted, my ego returned with a flood of useless but damning retrospection.  How long Had the barn door been open?  My 45 minute subway ride to the venue? Paying at the front door (the cashier is seated, thus at "zipper level")?  All those dances, meeting friends, strangers, and the majority of familiars floating between both definitions?  Sporting my moves on the floor, cavalierly asking people to dance, and treating the space between us (or lack thereof) as casually as ever?

How many people had noticed?  I conceded probably not a lot, both because of the extreme crowding and because, honestly, how often is a man's crotch inspected?  Still, the odds of it going entirely missed seemed low.  

And how creepy is it for a guy to ask you to dance with an open crotch?  That sounds Grade-A creeptastic to me.  But wouldn't someone say something, even to a stranger?  

"Ahem, is it a little breezy in here?"  

"Did you Ever see the Broadway musical X-Y-Z?"

"Hi, my name is Crotch- I mean Karen."

"Nice Pants."

"ZIPPER!"

Anything?

Apparently not.

I came home a humbled man.

And then I wrote about it.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

R.I.P. my Beloved Inanimate Object

Yesterday I suffered a tragic loss which not only affects me on an oddly emotional level, but even impacts, dramatically and detrimentally, my productivity.

I didn't have my iPod stolen or drop my iPhone in the toilet, largely because I don't own anything that slick or that expensive.

No, it was worse than that.

My $5 goodwill laptop mini-mouse just died.

and I'm useless without it.

The object in question was acquired some 4 years ago on a whim while I was in the checkout line at my favorite San Antonio thrift store.  I had an old Dell laptop that I bought used off a former boss, and while I didn't use it often (can't function w/o wall power, at the time didn't even have a functional wireless or ethernet card), I saw a beat-up-but-still-in-its-original-package GE GE HO-97988 peering back at me with a pair of abused yet friendly eyes (ok, buttons).  

"What the heck, it's just $5!"

I was pleasantly surprised when it actually turned on, the USB-supplied power lighting it up with a friendly blue glow as the red optical laser radiated through its semi-transparent casing.  The quick-wind cable was brilliant and smoothly-operating, and I quickly found that its unusual circular (rather than standard "mouse") design was exceedingly comfortable.  

Most mini-mice just take the original mouse shape (designed to fit your entire hand) and then shrink it.  What sense does that make?  Using a laptop doesn't make your hands magically smaller!  But my GE, with it's circular form, was wide enough to nestle comfortably between my fingers, with two raised and distinct buttons and a rubberized scroll wheel so that I could always click (or not click) distinctly and intentionally.

Within a few months, I had a new wireless card for the laptop and was hauling it with me regularly for work on the fly.  Aside from the obvious technical limitations, I was never much encouraged to pursue the laptop because I found the fingerpad to be such a cumbersome interface, especially for layout and graphic design (which I was doing a good bit of).  But not with my new mousey.

I could sit anywhere (within 6 ft. of a power plug), put the laptop on - say it - my lap, and roll mousey giddily along my jeans, the couch seat, notebooks, whatever.  It worked everywhere, and it singularly transformed my ability to work anywhere.

For the past 4 years I've remained Primarily a desktop guy.  But the laptop gave me a degree of freedom not unlike getting my first car, and while it came with analogous mechanical difficulties, that didn't dissuade me from taking advantage of those freedoms.

Now in New York, my desktop is still the center of my infoverse, but Home is not where the work gets done.  I have to be mobile, working long hours in classes and library back rooms.  I've come to depend on my junkly little laptop, and it's answered the challenge mightily in the twilight of its youth.

But yesterday my little mousey finally gave out.  I can still plug it in, and it sputters and wheezes, trying to hang in there for me, but it's time has simply passed.  The lights flicker and fade, only to re-ignite in desperate, but ultimately futile gasps at life.  Frankly, it's heart-wrenching to watch.

Still, the loss of a $5 computer accessory should not affect a human being all that much, but yet it has.  I can't work for more than 30 minutes at a stretch on my laptop before my hands and elbows cramp up, and my workload suffers as a result.

the solution is simple - get a new mini-mouse.  Hell, if it's that big a deal, get a couple just in case, right?

But my beloved GE HO-97988 has been out of production since 2003, and there's nothing like it on the market.  

  

Sure, 6 years later probably everything out there has better quality, longevity, response time (measured in nanoseconds, by the way), perhaps even ergonomics.  They certainly can be more colorful, but where's the character?  

We all have our quirks when it comes to the supposedly inanimate tools with which we interact and come to rely upon in our lives.  I'd like to simply blame Disney for making us think that every household appliance has a personality, but perhaps it would be more fair to admit that we as people are the ones making the effort to personify everything, from the sweaters we make our dogs wear to the adorable collections of cat-clocks, etc.  It is an odd characteristic of humanity, which when considered objectively even becomes rather creepy.  Who doesn't have a favorite pair of stinky old shoes, for example?  how weird is that!

So tomorrow I'm getting a new mini-mouse, tomorrow I get back to work.

Today I mourn.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Our First Sci-Fi President (sorry Arnold)

One of the seminal themes in the recent sci-fi remake of the classic Battlestar Galactica is the religious incantation, "Everything that has happened before will happen again."   In a twist that was anything but accidental, when the 1978-1980 series was revived in 2004, it chose to be ambiguous about its relation to the original.  Was it a sequel?  A remake?  They chose the term "re-imagining," allowing them the flexibility to suggest that both timelines could co-exist, somehow different cycles of eachother.Another relevant quote to the topic of hand is the fabricated admonition, again of religious origin in the show's canon: "So say we all."

As an avid fan of the new Battlestar Galactica (and let's be honest, a decent fan of the much lamer 1970s version), I could go 

on tirelessly about how brilliantly this is all constructed, abstracted, and generally used to create a wonderfully realistic and emmersive experience for the audience.

But rather, I'll fall back on the true nature of all good sci-fi, pointing a mirror at the events and concepts of our own time through the conceit of supposedly foreign, or in this case, alien, facades.

January 20th marked the 44th time in our nation's history that we have peacefully transferred power to a new president. That's the soundbyte anyway. In actuality, power shifts were not always so deliberate or innocent, as the several assassinations in our county's history illustrate.

Regardless, with the possible exception of the judicial hocus-pocus of 2000, there is no precedent for a change of power by coercion, military force, or outright coup. That's impressive, but when we celerbrate "consistency," all we're really doing is acknowledging that we've resisted the potential of dramatic change, even when necessary, and simultaneously affirming that this static approach to domestic and international policies is a good thing. That whatever we've done before, we will and should do again.

Indeed, with only rare exceptions, so say we all.

To be clear: I'm no fan of George W. Bush. In fact, with possible competition from Taft, Hoover, and Nixon, I believe him to be among the worst presidents in our nation's history. Not only did he lead poorly and make bad choices, his decisions were based upon concepts I fundamentally reject as being not only ill-informed, but unethical, immoral, unjust, and illegal. And these are not my opinions, though I express them as such, they are facts. This president broke not only international law, but those of his own constitution, then used Nixon's infamous, "it's not illegal if the president does it" excuse which smacks of all the totalitarianism 

from which our forefathers theoretically rejected in the Old World, and our government ostensibly combats in the modern 

Third world.
Having said that, and feeling in my heart the undeniable optimism and hope which all Americans place in the person of Barak Obama, I am finding it very, very difficult to let go of my cynicism. I like 

what he has to say, and as I've been commenting to many of my friends as of late, I think it's fair to say that we'd all like to live in the America that he describes; but is that really the America we're going to get? After congressional compromises, pork-barrel spending, and back-room deals?  I mean, he is just the President.  If the office were represented by a shoe, no matter how battered or slick it was, and admitting that some shoes are better for some jobs than others (see Maxwell Smart's shoe phone, for example), we still wouldn't expect a shoe to cure cancer.  right?

I watched the inauguration at a local pub, having decided that Columbia's campus JumboTron wasn't intimate enough for this profound m

oment.  By 10 am on a Tuesday the place was packed. People watched every second of CNN coverage, trying as they might to savor the moment despite the insipid punditry. (later inthe afternoon I caught some of Fox's coverage, and that was an instant begin

ner's lesson in identifying bias).  When the big moment came, I think everyone found meaning and a serious emotional connection. I don't know when that happened last in America, maybe 2001, but to be honest I can't compare moments of retrospect horror with those of anticipatory optimism.

So we're all excited, and I have no reference for it within the scope of my lifetime. But when facts hit paper, it becomes more difficult to sort out what exactly is so different this time around. I 

hope the mistakes of the past 8 years are rectified, that law and ethics can define US actions, not "again," but perhaps for one of the first times. As many savvy historians will point out, while the Bush regime was more blatant about their crimes and the motivations behind them, most if not all previous administrations enacted policies which in retrospect seem equally, if not more, objectionable. Torture, state-sponsored assassinations, funding of terrorists, condoning genocide, and anti-democratic coups are all verifiable legacies of the United States, confirmed in our own government documents, from just the past 50 years.

In this way, a more honest appraisal of the Bush legacy is not that he did terrible things, but that he didn't hide them or why he was doing them. If the only criteria we hold the new administration to is the obligation to help us feel less guilty about the actions of the USA, both domestically and internationally, then I fear we're setting the bar too low.

Then again, is it too much to expect an elected official, who can only come to office through the use of connections, lobbyists, broken promises, etc. to substantially deviate from virtually every precedent? Aren't we asking too much if we want one man to not only fix 8 years of proactive decline, but also resolve 2 major foreign conflicts and a financial meltdown all without violating our supposed values and principles?

When the speeches were finished, there wasn't a dry eye in the pub, and I'll bet it was a similar situation at many other locales across the nation (not sure about Oklahoma - someone want to chime in?). And I get caught up in it, and I do want to hope, but every time I start to get optimistic, I see the curve of history on the horizon, and wonder what new absurdity we're returning to this time around?

I can go on and on and on, but truthfully I have no idea what it means that Barak Hussein Obama is the President.  Our President.  In America.  It sounds like a plot straight out of Sliders, but no Jerry O'Connell in sight (wait, wasn't he at one of the Balls?).  

I'm in total limbo, with nothing to grasp onto intellectually except my exceedingly limited experience, and what little of that I have demands a staunchly pragmatic skepticism.

It's not much fun to want to hope, and yet have your brain constantly telling you what a bad idea it is to expect much.  

If you'll pardon just one more bad sci-fi reference, I think David Duchovny put it best almost a decade ago.  It's not that I feel certain of Barak Obama's intentions or abilities to deliver on his promises, nor do I immediately deny them.  I don't believe in Barak Obama, but I very much Want to Believe.

Do or Do not?

Engage.

Frak.

Weber

::super(lame) Texpatriot

Violent Snowflake Destruction

-more than the best Indie band name ever.

Have you ever watched snow fall?  True, it's about as interesting as watching ice freeze, or the Mets, ever, but with the first serious snowstorm of 2009 driving me into self-imposed apartment sequesterment (?), you've got to pass the time somehow.  What I noticed is this:  The big, fluffy snowflakes drift and dance through the airwaves like crystaline feathers.  They see

m bouyant, soft, delicate, pretty, and a whole host of other (largely feminine and attractive) adjectives.  In my mind and my recollection, they met their inevitable end with dignity, coming to rest gently on the ground where they either joined their brethren in the growing layer of innocent white, or landed like a butterfly and melted into the concrete like chocolate on my tongue.

But No!  Upon closer consideration, and in full expectation of the utopian demise described above, when large slow-falling snowflakes intersect cold wet concrete, the result is a violent, powerful, explosion.  Crystaline shards bolt away from the decapitated core, escaping the ravages of destruction for nanoseconds before succumbing to a same crude end.  I know energy must be conserved, but that means the delicate little snowflake had, hidden within its precise bonds and lattice work, a vulgar wealth of energy.  The only further analogy I can think of 

that's currently attracting widespread  media coverage is that of a cuddly Giant Panda suddenly going berserk and trying to gnaw off a man's legs.

So where's this heading?  Beautiful things can be destructive?  It's only in the eye of the beholder?  Don't get drunk and try to hug a Panda?

Well, sure, but more than that.  Things often aren't in reality as we perceive them to be, or certainly not in their entirity.  We can understand visually the difference between a 2 and a 3 dimensional object, so let's relate that to time (the 4th dimension).  If what we see and experience in our lives were a 2 dimensional object; the thing as it is at that moment, then it's additional dimension - time and the fullness of what it has, could and will become, is not available to us.  If that's too odd, just use an iceberg metaphore, it seems topically appropriate.

The point is, we make assumptions, and sure, they could be wrong.  But more than that, I'm suggesting we make most of the decisions in our lives based on these assumptions and perceptions which not only May be inaccurate, but in point of fact Must be inaccurate because we're dealing with objects, people, and concepts for which we do not have the '3rd / 4th' dimensional vision to comprehend.

A snowflake is not going to kill you, no matter how hard it hits your head.  Unless 2 weeks ago its proto-formation Cumulonimbus cloud drifted over a toxic chemical plant and it picked up a dose of acid with a similar freezing point.

Now who's being ridiculous?

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Merry (secular) Christmas

I think we need to recognize that in America there is a SOCIAL and a RELIGIOUS definition for certain institutions, and that the two have not been historically, nor should they be continuously, directly related.  Christmas is a good example.  Religiously, it's about Mary, the baby J, Magi, stars, salvation, etc.  But in today's America, Christmas is more about personal consumerism, family, economic booms, job vacation, and college football.  I probably missed a few other major definitions, but the point is that the Religious Christmas has nothing to do with any of this, but we cannot discuss Christmas in America today without giving these equal, perhaps even greater consideration than the religious element that "started it all."

I'm not joining in on the Christ- vs X-mas debate.  That's just semantics.  I'm talking about the underlying beef, which is that atheists celebrate Christmas and Christians become hyper-materialistic.  'Tis the season?  

Obviously, the way I'm framing this discussion I want to talk about other issues under the same umbrella, primary among them the question of "gay marriage," or as I like to call it, "marriage."

I could rant for days about the absurdity of even having a debate here, but what's germain to this subject is that, like Christmas, marriage has a Social (and in the US, legal)  definition which is not identical or exclusive to its Religious definition.  Again, atheists get married, often even in churches.  Isn't it a bigger problem for a Pastor to knowingly united 2 people whom he knows don't really believe in God than to unite to other people (who happen to look the same naked) who Do believe in God, Christ, and all that?  I mean, if they believe, and belief in modern America is between a believer and his Lord, then shouldn't the Pastor just do the deed and get out of the way?  If lightning's going to strike (immediately or in the afterlife), it won't hit him unless he's standing between the two, right?

Again, the point is not the argument, but the realization that the existence of an argument is predicated by the incorrect assumption that 'Marriage' can have only one definition, only one use, and only one social-legal-religious construction.  

Just to reiterate using simple iconographies.

Santa = Social Construction

Christ = Religious Construction

Or better, offensive amateur web video.

That's why we don't need to lie to our children about how Santa was one of the original 3 Wise Men.

Weber the Grinch

::(lame) Texpatriot