I get asked a lot how long I've been dancing for, and what got me into it in the first place, and whilst I'm not sure how long I've been teaching for let alone dancing, I know exactly what started the ball rolling.
For a few years I was a shift worker at the local chocolate factory, It meant plenty of coins, but a pretty hard to juggle social planner, when I was awake, everyone was asleep, when everyone else wanted to party, I was at work. It got harder and harder to stay in contact with my collage mates, and for a while there I just gave up.
Enough was enough I said out loud one sat night - to no one but me and some "from the vault" 80's RAGE hit tune. I put on my jeans and singlet and decided, I was going out.
Twice I stopped to turn back, I was scared about going into town by myself, about not knowing anyone, about having to walk into the pub by myself. I made myself sick with nerves but suddenly I was there.. the Salamanca strip.
Pretty soon I either met new friends or stopped caring, no one knows you're dancing by yourself to an 80s cover band till the band is over and you have to buy yourself a lemonade and contemplate your next move.
My next major mile stone, would be to leave the comfort of the pub I had started to claim as my own, and take it up a notch to TackyLand.
I would walk past the line up every Friday and Saturday night, wanting to cut foot loose but too nervous to go in by myself - Plus the bouncers were a deathly duo, of a battle dwarf and a man who could stop you dead with one flash of his fantastic mustache!
Not usually a fan of the stash, I could not help but be in awe of this one, night after night it would haunt my dreams, I had to tell the face that owned this stash how I felt.
It was a busy Saturday night, even if I had gotten the courage up to actually line up to maybe get into this club, the chances of getting in within an hr were pretty slim. My awkward and unfaltering stare caught the bouncers attention, bold as I could be in my Jeans (with long socks underneath so I could tuck my id and phone into them so they would not bulk out my back pockets) and singlet, I walked up to the bouncer and I said to him "I just have to tell you, that is the most Porno mustache I have ever seen in my life".
That night was my first night up at Tackyland, turns out the bouncer in question, Mr T (Trev), did not mind a little bit of flattery, and so he encouraged me to walk on in, compliments of the house that night. I danced till my feet bled and then I danced some more, all the 80's hits I wanted, in one night. It was magical. All of my hard work paid off - being brave gets you good music!
Eventually we got to chatting on the quiet nights. Trev and I because good friends, I would smuggle him chocolate from work or the occasional home made baked cheese cake, and he would make sure I was looked after. He would check on me during the night if I was out solo, and split a cab with me if I danced all the way though ugly hour. It turns out that going out solo, had actually given me the opportunity to make a really good friend.
So how did I start dancing?? hmmm so far its a long post, read this one again, remember the names and places, and I will give you part two of Meet You at Around Midnight @ Syrups next time!!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
womens weekly cooking from the 70's
Such a fine line, trying to decide - do we get it right and feel proud - or do we get it nearly right and have more fun? Sometimes we think we have it right, have a stack of fun, but then realize we have been doing it wrong all along.
For me dancing is like eating. Its like eating your mums chow mein, and then growing up and going to a real Asian restaurant and realizing that chow mein is indeed not fried mince with two minute noodles and tomato sauce, which is actually more delish than what it sounds but still no where near the real deal. This simple dish is actually a master full dish full of delicate flavours, subtle nuances and depending on where you go, a real feeling of authenticity.
Dancing is the same, for years and years you can get away with thinking that you're dancing chow mein when really you're just dancing fried mince, and although, you will always love that home made recipe, there is a whole new world out there, god forbid some Peking duck, some udon noodle, something that you cant even pronounce on the menu but looks like its good when its served up at the next table.
The thing is though, when you go home and your mum cooks you your "favourite" chow mein, you cant exactly say to her, "mum, you've been doing it wrong for years, this is some on the cheep recipe Womans Weekly released in 1973 to be all exotic", you just gotta love your mum, pile on the soy sauce and tell her that you loved it and would love it again next Sunday.
When you have traveled the world, eating out at restaurants highlighted in swing dancings "gourmet traveller" and you have sucked the bones clean of many a miscellaneous animal, remember, someone out there is still living at home with their mums, still eating fried mince and calling it chow mein, offer them some soy sauce, but don't be too keen to tell them how badly the have it wrong, sometimes, we all just wanna enjoy the simple things in life.
I guess what im really trying to say is, be kind to your fellow dancers, no one needs to be told their mums chow mien is rubbish, and no one needs to be told their dancing is not quite right, takes us all time to figure that out ourselves - you need to keep in mind, your chow mein, might not be the same as mine, or his, or hers, or thiers, does not make it not as good, just makes it a provincial recipy of yours!
For me dancing is like eating. Its like eating your mums chow mein, and then growing up and going to a real Asian restaurant and realizing that chow mein is indeed not fried mince with two minute noodles and tomato sauce, which is actually more delish than what it sounds but still no where near the real deal. This simple dish is actually a master full dish full of delicate flavours, subtle nuances and depending on where you go, a real feeling of authenticity.
Dancing is the same, for years and years you can get away with thinking that you're dancing chow mein when really you're just dancing fried mince, and although, you will always love that home made recipe, there is a whole new world out there, god forbid some Peking duck, some udon noodle, something that you cant even pronounce on the menu but looks like its good when its served up at the next table.
The thing is though, when you go home and your mum cooks you your "favourite" chow mein, you cant exactly say to her, "mum, you've been doing it wrong for years, this is some on the cheep recipe Womans Weekly released in 1973 to be all exotic", you just gotta love your mum, pile on the soy sauce and tell her that you loved it and would love it again next Sunday.
When you have traveled the world, eating out at restaurants highlighted in swing dancings "gourmet traveller" and you have sucked the bones clean of many a miscellaneous animal, remember, someone out there is still living at home with their mums, still eating fried mince and calling it chow mein, offer them some soy sauce, but don't be too keen to tell them how badly the have it wrong, sometimes, we all just wanna enjoy the simple things in life.
I guess what im really trying to say is, be kind to your fellow dancers, no one needs to be told their mums chow mien is rubbish, and no one needs to be told their dancing is not quite right, takes us all time to figure that out ourselves - you need to keep in mind, your chow mein, might not be the same as mine, or his, or hers, or thiers, does not make it not as good, just makes it a provincial recipy of yours!
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