La Nuit Blanche

I cannot stand being asked these two most hated questions of the entire universe:

“How are you?”
and
“How was your day?”

I never know what to say.  I mean, what can I say?

I just don’t usually prepare constant updated summaries of my feelings and thoughts and moods during the day, but just do and am. Those two questions force me to pause and think about how exactly my day went so far, the combination of how I was during the past several hours — those two seconds of pleasure I felt upon reading that poem, the happiness I felt upon discovering that the roll of pictures came out well, the frustration I felt upon my persistent lack of inspiration to dance, the anger I felt about my brother’s a-hole of a boss, the melancholy I felt upon listening to the falling autumn rain, the impatience that filled my mind as I made that sandwich — and put those colors of mood-paint into a jar and shake them up, determine the temperature and shade of Nothingness that comes out as a result, and report back to the person on the other end of the phone line.

So I usually just answer,

“Fine, and how are you?”
and
“It was nice, and your’s?”

Hoping that that part of the “conversation” is quickly over and done with.  And why must I do this?  Why must I interrupt the flow of my psyche to answer an inane daily question to which the daily answer is usually equally inane?  Why must I be asked these questions that are only asked because that is the only way some people know how to start a conversation?  Why must I be subjected to the mediocrity of people’s stupid conversational habits?  Which inevitably becomes,

“Fine, fine.”
and
“It was good.”

The whole thing bores me to such tears, it makes me want to throw up.  It really ruins my day.  Which is why I never pick up the phone in the first place.

If anyone really knows me at all, they would know that I hate this.  To those who claim to know me well and still persist on asking these questions out of habit at the beginning of every conversation, it is absolutely unforgiveable.  I don’t ask that everyone be clever or interesting or entertaining when they talk to me.  I’m just asking people not to put the burden of speaking on me, just because they have nothing else to say except ask stupid questions.  Or even better, just don’t call me at all.

It is even more dreadful when I am asked the most hated question of all,

“And what did you do today?”

To which I answer:

“Stuff.”

And then make up some excuse, and hang up the phone.  That last one is really too much for me to bear.

“Harem Pants”, from La Redoute

Ok. I must have been living under a rock this past season. It turns out that The Poopy Pant I mentioned in a previous post was an all-out crazed fashion fad this year.

Called “Harem Pants” or “Hammer Pants”, also known as “The Poopy Pant”, “The Diaper Pant”, and other interesting appellations, I present to you, all the variations I have seen off the catwalk, and on the floor of the milongas in Buenos Aires.

I just had to do this, if only to remember the stupefaction I felt upon seeing what I can only describe as a couple of Star Wars characters doing perfectly executed triple back sacadas at practica.

The horror….

La Redoute

H&M

Top Shop

Rick Owens

Unknown

The following examples are particularly interesting and incomprehensible, and yes, I did see tangueras sporting these.  I wonder…  Wouldn’t these bother the leader with the constant brushing against thick fabric?  Wouldn’t the follower feel like Barney the purple dinosaur during giros?

The Poopy Bell – Top Shop

The Poopy Bubble (on right)

The dinosaur in question:

And the following is not exactly a Poopy Pant, since the seat is fitted to where it should be, but are an interesting variation on the Tango Genie Pant, because it morphs into a triangle-shape during pivots and boleos:

The Flying Batwings

To each her own…

Ok, so back to the adorable non-poopy Tango Genie Pants, Elizabeth of Working Artist has skillfully made her own in 45 minutes, with a pair of knit pyjama bottoms from Target. Priced $14.

Bravo!

Parakultural, Salon Canning

I didn’t go out this past weekend to a favorite NYC monthly milonga because I am going through a period of mourning.

No, it’s not the dancing that I miss. Superior or not, different or no in Argentina, the dancing, I am convinced, is beautiful here in New York. I myself am a New Yorker, and the porteños seemed to love the way I dance…? Maybe it’s because here at home, I am lucky to be partnering with the most amazing dancers, maybe it’s because so many of my friends have been spending so much time in Buenos Aires that they brought much of it back with them, perhaps it’s because some of them were porteños in a past life, I don’t know. But no, it’s not the dancing iself that I miss.

What I do miss, are the places. I miss the high arched ceilngs, the truly café-like atmosphere, the airy brightness of the milongas, the wood panels, the French windows opening onto stone balconies, smoking rooms, the professional mozos dressed in black and white. I miss that there were more tables surrounding the dancefloor than the dancefloor itself. I miss the permanence of these places, as if they were built just for dancing tango.

I miss the mood of the milongas. How they felt like they had been there forever. How the old places carried the weight of decades and decades of memories, how it seeps into your being and permeates the way you move, how the new places were feverishly vampiric with new young blood pumped into fresh new veins, adding an asbolutely modern aesthetic to this old dance.

I miss the hosts and hostesses who greeted me with open arms and warm hugs and kisses on the cheek, who remembered my name since the second time they saw me, who treated me like a darling of their milongas.

I miss the men who were dressed in impeccable suits, and beautiful hair, the really old milongueros, and the teenagers, alike. I miss how they smelled of citrus and cologne, as if they had prepared themselves earlier in the evening, just for me. I miss how they gazed at me, intently, from across the room, and respected the distance between us when I turned my eyes away. I miss how they would walk me back to my table after each tanda. I miss their ludicrously funny palabras.

And I miss, terribly miss, my new friends. I met a group of beautiful English girls during the last two weeks of my stay. Every night, we shared tables together, walked to and from the milongas through the streets of Palermo, Villa Urquiza, Constitution, Retiro, met for coffee in the afternoons, went to birthday dinners and the theatre, bought gifts for each other, took pictures of each other, took care of each other. We would nickname the milongueros with the names of movie stars, talk of love, of fear, of desire, of ambition, of art, of cities, laugh-lines deepening with the smoldering glow in our eyes. I miss Tina, her velvety eyes and silly laugh. I miss Sally, her sparkling wit and warm hugs.

I was blessed, particularly so, I think, in comparison to other turistas on their first visit to Buenos Aires. I was spoiled with everything I could wish for.

And now it’s just not the same…….

Do not get a permanent at a certain peluquería on a certain street in a certain barrio in Buenos Aires.

Because you will look like this.

Friend of a Friend:  Nuit, can I take some pictures with your camera?

Nuit:  No.

FoaF:  Why not?

Nuit: I don’t usually let people touch my camera. Also, I’m trying to take some pictures right now.

FoaF: What about when you’re dancing?

Nuit:  Sorry, but it’s not a toy. No.

FoaF:  Sheesh, I only wanted to play with it for a few seconds….

It later turned out that yes, the FoaF had actually took it out of my bag and fiddled with it while I went off to dance.

When I came home, I found there were greasy medialuna smudges on the lens (which had got onto all of my pictures), and I realized why my memory card had maxed out prematurely in discordance with the shot list in my head (there were horrible photos of the FoaF’s friends smiling into the camera, beer bottles swaying, tongues sticking out).

Look, if you want to play with a camera for a few seconds, there are dozens of camera stores in every major city that have model displays that you are free to touch and tamper with to your heart’s desire.  You may not be able to take it into a cool venue such as Villa Malcom at 1 in the morning, but that’s life.

Some perspective, please:

1.  A professional digital SLR may seem like a toy to you, since everyone and their grandmother has one.

2.  However, it ceases to be a toy when you actually come to own one yourself, when you had squeezed the last remaining cents out of your bank account to procure one, when you know the value of the lens attached to it, when you know the mirror lock-up is sticky and is in need of replacement, and you are the only one who knows how to not get it stuck in the first place.

3.  It also ceases to be a toy when your livelihood depends on it.

4.  Unless you are also a photographer, a lover, has the same birthday, or is someone related by blood, asking to “play with” a photographer’s camera is like asking to touch her vagina. Imagine that you are a banker, and someone asks to see your bank account. Imagine you are a swimmer, and someone asks to put a plastic wrap around your head and hold your breath. Imagine you are a pianist, and someone asks to drop an elephant onto your piano keys, so they can “test it out”. See what I mean?

5.  If anything goes wrong, such as a broken lens, or an erased memory card, you have just done something to the equivalent of cracking my skull open, and poisoning my spirit.

Which is almost as bad as waking up in the morning and realising you are no longer in Buenos Aires.

Hello, my lovelies.

I’m back.

… en buenos aires, nada mas.

i am listening to d’arienzo’s “adios corazon” and already my heart is breaking.

Right now, I am packing my things into boxes. I’m moving to another apartment in another neighborhood in a few days, yipee! Into a sleek new modern building, where there is always hot water, and 24 hours of heat during the winter, and an elevator, and sound-proofing between floors, and light fixtures that won’t come toppling down over my head, and a refridgerator with a door that doesn’t fall off its hinges, and a kitchen sink where the knobs aren’t set backwards, and a bathroom where the ceiling won’t cave in…

Oh yes. I haven’t told you about my bathroom adventure a few weeks ago. There was a leak in the ceiling, the evil landlady refused to fix it, I called the city to report it, the landlady ignored it, and a couple days before the city officials were due to come for an inspection, the ceiling smashed onto the floor.

My Lover and I were cuddling on the loveseat, picnicking on a feast of wine, olives, cheeses, Greek dolmas, pickled onions, marinated sun-dried tomatoes, strawberries dusted with sugar, dulce de leche icecream, and sweet bread dipped in the most delicious olive oil, not paying much attention to the movie for watching each other play and eat. We were celebrating the sixth month anniversary of the day we met… And then plop! and crash!. It was a wet, gooey, dusty affair.

I thought of suing the witch this time at last, and then setting her hair on fire. I did that. Several times! In my sweetest daydreams.

This beautiful historic mansion was lovely for a while, but I’ve learned my lesson. Convenience over beauty, when it comes to living quarters, is, regrettably, essential for any human being. I am done with this madhouse. Lars von Trier could have filmed his “Element of Crime” right in my living room. And “The Kingdom” in the lobby and stairwells. I swear this building is haunted…

I’ll be packing my tango shoes into a separate valise, and carrying them with me in the cab ride to the new apartment. Just in case my gorgeous babies get damaged, you know. You never know.

If you happen to be dancing in a milonga, and happen to be a member of the couple behind me, and happen to feel my left arm accidentally brushing against your fingertips, because your Captain Hook happened to be walking backwards in the line of dance towards my Lover, and happened to get too close to us, by all means, curl your knarly fingers into crooked hooks, press your nails inwards deep into my skin, and be sure to s-c-r-a-t-c-h my forearm from wrist to elbow, as hard as you possibly can.

And then, if you please, stare at me through the narrowed slits of your eyes, and shoot me a psychotically malicious smile, so that I would be sure to know that you very much enjoyed the experience of letting my blood, and simultaneously (hopefully) branding my beautiful skin for life.

I must inform you, however, that as delicious as I may look on the outside, I assure you that I make for a lamentable boudin amarilla. I believe your friends, the Mosquitoes, may have advised you otherwise. But do not believe them.

It is a well-known fact that members of the canine species, particularly its female members such as yourself, are prone to putting themselves in embarrassing situations, for example, eating your own shit, or attempting idiotic culinary endeavors, such as the case in point.

So here is a word of advice:

Next time, the only thing on the Menu that will be garnished with blood, will be my famous Knuckle Sandwich Made Just For You.

Your’s truly,
Nuit.

A scary post, from a favorite blog:

Who put the ‘Gau’ in Gaucho? A (Forged) Map of Nazi South America
-by Strange Maps

[Due to the sensitive nature of this topic, a disclaimer is in order (my first on this blog): the main character involved has been disguised by the imaginary name of X, no pronouns will be used to refer to this person's gender, and I will not answer any questions asked me, here in the blogosphere, or in my real life (hello, Friends!), as to this person's identity.]

It is a touchy subject… But I feel I must address it.

Yes, it’s true. There is malice in our dear Tangoland.

There are many instances of back-stabbing, name-calling, betrayal, ignorance, trickery, knife-thrusting, grumpy grump, stubborness, lying, and overall general drama in our beloved realm. And all this has been foreseeable, though regrettable, and in perfect accordance with the natural Order of the Universe. Afterall, our Tangoland is a part of the Real World, too.

But it hurts very much when a friend has gone over to the Dark Side, and this friend doesn’t even realize it.

I have such a friend, or, someone who used to be a friend, named X, who in the beginning of our story, seemed to be a vastly different person from the one revealed to me over time.

X has become a tiresome person. There are two things that make X tiresome… First, a persistent prejudice against certain members of our community, and second, the ignorance of racism. In the first offense, X is only harming X. And in the second offense, X is harming others.

This person X is quick to put certain members of the community into little categories all made up in X’s mind, and labelling one particular category with snide, unflattering appellations such as “The Group”, and “The Stuck-Ups”.

It is hurtful, since these kind, sweet people are fast becoming my friends.

These are the people who danced with me when no one else would. These are the people who watched me spin myself into a cocoon, and are continually delighting in my budding (albeit wrinkly) wings. These are the people who encourage me to continue, and take care of me when I am sitting alone at milongas or festivals. And who protect me from unwelcome advances. These are people who will dance with beginners and encourage them to keep coming back. And X refers to these people as “The Stuck-Ups”. Which is simply not the case, in my experience. The injustice of it makes me angry, especially when said to my face.

Don’t get me wrong — I, myself, have been terrorized by tan-egos and tan-egoistas, and horrible tangorillas, and individuals who are just so incredibly, consistently stuck up, that it is a torture to even have their glance turn in my direction. I still avoid these people. I run across one or two new ones, occasionally. Sadly, little does X know that X has become one of the people X claims to despise, and doubly sadly, I now find X just as horrible a tangorilla as this one, or this one, in male, or female form.

Another personality quirk that X has, is to dismiss the non-Argentine teachers, dancers, and milonga hosts in our community as unworthy of attention or praise. “I will stick to my Argentine teachers, if you please,” X says. Upon watching performances by revered non-Argentines, X exclaims, “What a crock of mierda. These Americans/Europeans have no idea what tango is about.” (Actually, the Argentines say “carajo”, not “mierda”, to refer to crap). And undoubedly, X, who also happens to be non-Argentine, feels that X is an expert in “what tango is all about.”

I don’t mean to sound so politically correct. I’m not trying to, honestly. But it is just common sense that just because a teacher/dancer is Argentine, doesn’t mean he is a great teacher/dancer. Conversely, just because a teacher/dancer is not Argentine, doesn’t mean he is not a great teacher/dancer. Just because the Chinese didn’t invent Western classical music, doesn’t mean Yo Yo Ma isn’t a great cellist. Just because DJ Krush is Japanese and hardly speaks English, doesn’t mean that he isn’t one of the greatest composers of hip hop the world has ever seen. Just because photography was invented by the French, doesn’t mean that Garry Winogrand isn’t a great photographer.

X works in the (insert any craft here) industry. I just want to scream at X: “Well, (insert any country here) didn’t invent the (insert any craft here) — what makes you think a (insert person of X’s nationality here) such as yourself can excel at it?”

Where is this blind racism coming from?

Let me be frank: I am fully aware of tangueros and tangueras who dance only for a couple of years, and then (to our chagrin) decide they are ready to teach and perform. But a clueless tango grasshopper is clueless no matter what nationality. And these non-Argentine teachers and dancers that X scoffs at, and passionately tells people to avoid, spend half their lives travelling away from home, to be immersed in Argentine culture. They learn the language. They study the dance, and the music. They may dance a different sort of tango that may not be agreeable to some, but it is not difficult to recognize excellence, genius, and emotion, when one is face-to-face with it, in a class, or a milonga. To dismiss artists such as Jennifer Bratt and Ney Melo, or Korey and Mila, just because they are non-Argentines — now, that is a crock of carajo.

This racism of X extends to the milongas and practicas hosted by non-Argentines in our community. I am sure the Argentine hosts and hostesses around the city appreciate X’s patronage, and undying loyalty to the people of Argentina. But it is unnerving to find that X loudly, and verbally discredits and disrepects the events held by others. And yet I see X often frequenting the milongas and practicas maintained and DJed, with painstaking effort, by these same non-Argentines who X despises.

Let me tell you about New York City: Unlike Buenos Aires, Dancing is not a natural state of being over here. I am living in continual fear that there will be no place to tango in my homwtown… That the gestapo city government will shut down these spaces… The city has already restricted the cabaret license into a choke-hold. For example, street photography is dying because the city regulates the use of tripods on the street, and photographers need a permit to photograph in many places where there is open sky — basically almost everywhere. What makes us think that the milongas are safe?

And does X even realise the difficulty of securing places for social dancing in a paranoid city such as this one, where the only way to even step on the beat in the street is to hold a massive peaceful demonstration so huge, that the police will give up and stand by watching?

These non-Argentines are the people who bring us some of the most beloved milongas this city has to offer. Sure, they may not be Argentine… Some may not even be incredible dancers – although some are. Some don’t even teach, some do, and are some of the most revered in the country. And they are responsible for the great effort it takes to keep tango alive in this city — not the revered Argentines who live in Buenos Aires, as much as we love them for their magic, and definitely not people like X who continually complain about the deplorable situation of the “Americans destroying Argentina’s tango.” Perhaps some are, but I know many are not. I’m just thankful there are places to dance, and that is more than one should expect from people who are doing all the work for us, so that people like X can go out and criticize what they’re doing. Sure, they are making some money by doing this, but I don’t know of a single milonga host who makes a living out of hosting milongas.

It’s as if a friend had died, or had moved to another country. No, worse — as if the person I had enoyed talking to and sharing some precious moments with, has never even existed — that the whole friendship was a figment of my imagination.

There is a saying in Argentina, I have learned recently — it is also in a tango called “Niño Bien”:

“Estás mostrando la hilacha.”

Which bascially means: “You are showing your true colors.”

It is heartbreaking when I discover that most everything I knew about a person was a lie, that someone I had once considered a dear friend, I had never known at all. I guess none of this is very new… Friends drift apart all the time, and the people who we think we know show their true characters with time.

But it’s still sickening, nontheless.