I was out running around yesterday when I remembered that Jesse Sublett was doing a set at the Texas Book Festival. I stopped by and caught him reading from THE LAST DETECTIVE AT THE END OF THE WORLD (which I am totally loving, and which hearing Jesse read aloud is a treat no one should miss), then did a tour through the festival tents, which was an unexpected blast. I've never been to The Fest before, mainly because I couldn't figure out what would be entertaining about walking around looking at a bunch of books and their terminally surly authors, but I was pleasantly surprised.
On the way back out, I caught a snippet of music that made me turn around. It was Beto y los Fairlanes, whom I haven't heard in a coon's age, peeling the asphalt off the streets with a cumbia that'd turn a priest into Casanova. I stepped on over and did a little pole dancing (get your mind OUT of the gutter, I just mean that I was standing against a light pole), and remembered how much I love dancing. I mean physically love it -- something about moving my body rhythmically to music with a bunch of other people doing the same just feels so fucking good. Not in an exercise way, I mean at some primitive lizard-brain level. What is that?
I haven't danced in many years, and have in fact recently been nursing a simmering resentment at The Spouse for the fact, which isn't really fair. He Doesn't Dance, so when we got hitched, I stopped. It just felt disloyal to go out alone to a smoky bar late at night (which, in Austin, is where the good dance music usually happens). But ya know, that was my decision -- nobody held a gun to my head.
I think part of it is that when I used to go out to smoky bars late at night, it was usually in pursuit of some romantic quarry. What I'm forgetting, of course, is that I'm now an old fat broad with a bad leg, not the toothsome hottie I used to be. It's not like I'm in any danger of being hit on, and even if I were, that little piece of my heart is now property of the Nordic underworld god to whom I am happily shackled.
In short, I need to get the fuck over myself and let the dance animal within do her thing.
On the way back out, I caught a snippet of music that made me turn around. It was Beto y los Fairlanes, whom I haven't heard in a coon's age, peeling the asphalt off the streets with a cumbia that'd turn a priest into Casanova. I stepped on over and did a little pole dancing (get your mind OUT of the gutter, I just mean that I was standing against a light pole), and remembered how much I love dancing. I mean physically love it -- something about moving my body rhythmically to music with a bunch of other people doing the same just feels so fucking good. Not in an exercise way, I mean at some primitive lizard-brain level. What is that?
I haven't danced in many years, and have in fact recently been nursing a simmering resentment at The Spouse for the fact, which isn't really fair. He Doesn't Dance, so when we got hitched, I stopped. It just felt disloyal to go out alone to a smoky bar late at night (which, in Austin, is where the good dance music usually happens). But ya know, that was my decision -- nobody held a gun to my head.
I think part of it is that when I used to go out to smoky bars late at night, it was usually in pursuit of some romantic quarry. What I'm forgetting, of course, is that I'm now an old fat broad with a bad leg, not the toothsome hottie I used to be. It's not like I'm in any danger of being hit on, and even if I were, that little piece of my heart is now property of the Nordic underworld god to whom I am happily shackled.
In short, I need to get the fuck over myself and let the dance animal within do her thing.
Thanks for the plug, Minerva. It was great seeing you and congrats again for landing an agent. My last agent got burned out on the business. I think it must have added some gasoline to the fire.
ReplyDeleteSpeaking of Beto y Los Fairlanes, I bought my fabulous 1970 yellow Karmann Ghia convertible from their trombonist, Michael Mordecai, in 1984. He was off playing a gig on a cruise ship and left instructions with his room mate to sell it if he was late on his rent. So I got a sweet deal on a dream car.
Wow, my very first ever Austin boyfriend drove a yellow Ghia. I loved that car.
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