I saw the sign, Learn To Dance Tonight, lit up in neon after my friend and I made a Target run for such glamorous products as toilet paper and light bulbs. After he debated such mind-blowing questions like if the double roll really was a double roll because it sure the hell didn't seem like a double roll when you put it on the dispenser and went just as fast as the single roll, and I decided that 70 watts was just way too much light for my one lightbulb in my living room, the afternoon slipped into a dreary hour and I saw the sign positioned by a liquor store, bridal shoe store, bridal veil store, and tanning salon. The sign never fails to produce a depressing fleeting sense of romance -- I credit this with the night part of it. You don't learn to dance in the morning or the afternoon according to the sign, you learn at night, presumbably tonight if you're one of those up for anything crazy impetous types that can hope from the tanning booth, shop around for a bridal veil, and come out swinging.
The possibilities of the night are endless. We can slip out of ourselves and become anyone. I'm not a person who can dance at all. Once at a vegetarian brunch given as a raffle prize that I attended at the behest of a dear friend, the woman hosting the lunch asked if I was a dancer since I had that look. I assume the look she meant was near starvation and our other friend started to laugh and said, "A disco dancer maybe." I shot him a look since I'd planned on telling an elaborate story about dancing for Balanchine and so on. Or at least mentioned that I'd taken dance lessons. That they were many years ago and for gymnastics, well, I could stretch the truth. But no, I had to eat my organic split pea soup in silence. If the brunch had been at night, I'm convinced I could have had my say, could have gotten up and done a little twirl or something. I'd been entertaining adults at the dinner table for years. As a reward, I got to blow out the candle after parties and make a wish before clearing it. I'd always wish for the same thing, that I could be someone else, somebody beautiful and entertaining. Because it was night and anything could happen.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"I want to be able to look down and see things, even if we're just going through the clouds." Jake Halpern
Cocktail Hour
Drinking nonfiction suggestion: Beauty Junkies Alex Kucynski
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Friday, dear friends! Thanks for all the support this week!
34 comments:
Come on you're too modest. I know you can do a really mean "Vulture" dance after one or two Moets. Let yourself go. Be a go-go dancer.
Do the frug. Do the watusi. Do the shing-a-ling. Shake your money makers!
I danced the tango with Mr. Baldwin's ex-wife in "Never Say Never Again." It was splendid.
I had a dance club that Tony Soprano was making into a kind of third office, but then I was killed for ratting to the FBI, like I said before. Thanks for your support, Michelle.
My eye doctor described dancing as a "pagan fertility ritual." But I've been a little suspect of him , and I'm not the only one. His ex divoced him after she found out he paid 50 grand for an Egyptian mummy. Christ, you can't even dance with a mummy! If you know what I mean.
I saw a person holding a sign that said "THE END IS NEAR," but it was advertising for tax-related services. At first thought I was excited, because if it had been one of those crazy preaching people, it would have been interesting to hear. But I was disappointed.
The closest I get to dancing is swaying back and forth after too many beers. I like the comments about night as a magical time.
The children of the night.
Take a bite out of crime!
We can go right now.
Shut the f--- up.
I'm coming to get cha!
Can't we all just get along?
Ah, if I had only lived to see chaos theory!
I know what you mean, brother.
They shoot horses, don't they?
My racehorse had to be shot after a suspicious fire, and I killed Ralphie for it, too. Thanks for your support, Michelle. As you know, the third episode of the final season of the Sopranos is this coming Sunday. Thanks again.--Tony
I wish that I was a loser like the troll that constantly comments on here. I'd sit on my ass thinking of not-so-witty comments all day and gleefully wait for Michelle's rebuttal.
.... and wait...
... and wait...
Tant pis pour vous, cheri.
I know zees perzon.
Shake your money makers!
I'm drunk right now, if you know what I mean.
I'll drink vodka with you, Michelle.
I would too, but I'm dead.
Just sit tight, Michelle. I'll dance for you.
My wife danced for me, if you know what I mean.
So did mine. Remember that time we had a bar fight, Kirk? You knocked me on my ass and that pint of cherry vodka I had in my back pocket burst and I had to get stitches in my ass! What a season!
Your writing is so graceful. The way you lead the reader, it Is like dancing.
If you want to lead, that's ok with me.
I tend to lead.
what's up, m! I guess there's a troll here! I see it's excrement everywhere and it left all wrapped up in neatly labeled little diapers.
Not that I should talk. Today I am the supreme allied commander of all pachyderm forces, near eastern theater.
Hitler sucks Jumbo's balls.
Gracefulness and beauty radiate from the spirit through the soul to the face, whether day or night Michelle you radiate it in the kindness & melancholy that comes to your audience through your writing. This (the writing) is where you dance, some days a ballet and others a tango.
My old lady works as a "receptionist" at a dance studio and from the stories I hear it's lonely people, mostly way past fifty who are willing to max out their credit cards to have somewhere to go and some people to be with. They dance in the dark of the evening but they have no beauty in it just the right moves. which they pay a high dollar amount to get.
You on the other hand have paid your dues to learn the gracefulness
of the dance and the beauty of it I believe is something you were born with and it has matured.
Now as for your physical appearance... even the (_*_}'s that make their crude comments and can focus on nothing else can see it, so think of it this way if even the half blind can see your beauty; what do them with full sight see...
And the old lady and I still wonder about those supposed double rolls of toilet paper...we believe they mean double price not amount of paper.
Wulla... Hello there, m.
Just got in from work and a three shot jaeger toast to the weekend at the bar right next to the pizza joint. Very convenient location to get lost at night after driving untold miles, eastside style. But not for too long tonight.
No dancing was going on there when the door slammed behind me. I love to and do so whenever someone pretty, cool or drunk says yes to me. But not tonight. Just alcohol, smoke, and a bunch of drunk guys digging for their last change, deciding between a jug of milk, a bar of speedstick, condoms, or just one more boomba. Rent was always a question. They'd yell their decision to the bartender, the lone woman, matriarch of the oblivious zealots--and the only one who knew the score, though she never said what it is. She served drinks, smiled and looked down, below the bar at her .32 pistol. Armed with boombas and bottles, the patron's eyes all read dancers wanted, and to the tv screen they'd look for some entertainment, wishing they had something to do, somewhere else to be. Last call was an hour away, but walking out left no wake. The glare from the open sign could be seen for half a mile in my rearview, even if I couldn't read it anymore. All I knew was what I thought it said.
Wulla... you see the Colonel lately, m? He owes me a bag of cheeseburgers and some red quaaludes, not those candy ass green ones. I give those to mama. TCB with a flash.
Thanks for dancin' with the King Baby! Ciao.
Dance like the stars! Learn to Dance at home, here
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