The fashion focus

I went to a dance the other day.

I don't have internet at the flat these days, so to get my fix I must needs withdraw to the more conditioned air of Stanford's Green, which, I may add, is all right by me as the temperatures continue to flirt shamelessly with a century. I was, therefore, sitting at my terminal casting about the seas of the IM buddy list for some sage advice regarding what literary works I should pursue next, having just come off a rather protracted Wodehouse binge and feeling the need for some meat and potatoes, or perhaps even nails and glass shards like back in high school, when Tina sprung the suggestion of my heading over to Roble for a spot of spectatorial Swing Time, Dance Libre, and the rest of the mainline troupes as a part of the Waltz Week, or whatever that seven day choreographical orgy was clept, festivities.

I may state without blush before my intimate public that I was perhaps a trifle hesitant. A proximity to dancing for me combines seamlessly the rather distinct offenses of giving in to peer pressure (peer pressure is for me what the German army is to Indiana Jones or what Stormtroopers are to Luke Skywalker - an adversary with a strongly inverted proportion of apparent force to actual effectiveness) with treading on holy ground. I have mentioned the Dancing Set before in these pages, and the peculiar effect of their singular wonderfulness still lingers.

But maybe it was that residual wonder, combined with my recent philosophic shift more towards the by golly why not school of thought, combined with the fact that it would possibly be Tina's last public Dance Libric exhibition, combined with the fact that I didn't have anything better to do that convinced me to go. Maybe.

I had promised my mom that I would call later that night, so I had to slip out at the half, but what I did see was quite interesting. There were some dances, yes. I think that Tina might have even been in a couple of them. It was rather difficult to make out the specifics, for it was mostly Richard Powers' most excellent vest that I found myself eyeing for the duration of the hour. Lands, what a wonderful outfit! Slightly baggy white shirt, slacks of unknown pedigree, and a beautiful grey vest to top it off - natty forty ways from the jack.

It was not soon after I had made the inevitable decision to purchase up the region's thrift stores' entire supply of natty vests for my own personal use that I went over to the Jeff / Eric / Gavan residence for a spot of Catan and general hobnobbery. Eric, I suppose, had never seen my pocket watch before, and he commented that the combination of pocket watch with paper clip chain (the original done broke a time ago and I figured that this, if ever there was one, was not a time for duct tape, though I may have been mistaken) was perfectly suited to me, combining, as it did, "classy" with "ghetto".

And I thought to myself, h'm, I don't know if I've ever thought of myself particularly in the twin classy/ghetto light before. I suppose I would be the last person to apply either adjective to myself. This thought was followed soon after with who am I kidding - it was not two days hence I decided I was born to discover and purchase three to five dollar vests at Value Village for the purpose of berobing myself in their ghetto classiness whenever possible.

In conclusion, if you are perusing your local thrift rack and you just happen to spot a tweedy vest-like specimen peeking out from between the short-armed jackets and asymmetric sports coats just you be thinking of me.


CGR - 9.0; working and not being at school is doing good things for my mental outlook, if not my physical being.

Music o' the moment - The Appleseed Cast's Peregrine album. Very good rock music, not quite out there but not quite mainstream either. I don't know quite what to say about this album that might make you want to rush out and buy it - it's quite soundy, it's creative, yet it's completely listenable, even ambient if need be and to someone who is not opposed to just a bit of noise leaking through the outer senses.