(no subject)
Why dont we begin with this loud firm fact; I hate the beach boys. Now, last Saturday I went to see the Joffrey ballet, for as kids covet artifical flavoring and frat boys love gay porn, i love the ballet. Having missed the Eifman ballet of Russia performing Anna Karinana; two monumentally sublime, feats (feets) of skill bestowed upon us from that large cold mass to our west; due to work, that black whole of stolen and forgotten time; I jumped at the chance of seeing those stallion legged leaping, eyes weeping, muscles seeping, dancers from chicago. Now the ballet was performing at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, across the street from the Walt Disney Hall that Frank Gehry so kindly vomited onto the streets of Los angeles, blending in so well with the already so shiny and advertised out decoupage of the city. One must park underground then take a series of escalators up to the entrance of the music hall, and this trek birthed me from the car fumed labrinth of hell out into another fucking world. Outside of the Dorothy’s so called Pavilion was her Oz! Abundant and quivering with people, I could make out five verandas with remarkable events taking place inside; each tent contained a teacher and about 10 students and countless numbers of spectators, each participating in the demonstration and cultivation of a different specialty of dance. Before I realized how exactly what I was witnessing was part of reality, I walked right in front of one of these dance tents upon descending off of the escalator. Coming straight at me, in a single file line were women, from ages 10 to 60, stepping slowly and slyly like minks, dramatically swaying their hips and coyly half smiling as if luring one into a den of inevitable unbearable sex; at least trying to anyway. I just did not know what to think. The woman leading the pack and looking straight into my eyes was about 50 and very nicely dressed, maybe even like my mother, and she was so earnest and happy about the movements she was making. I heard the din of many waves of opposing types of music clashing together and looked around myself. There were people line dancing, swirling with partners in a faux ballroom, learning to back that ass up; and all SO happy, like the rapture had happened and we here were the happy people left to dance and be cheesy nerds all together, alone and in sync together. If you are a person that knows me well, you know at least a bit about my obsession with dance, not so much the act of flailing about myself; but the idea of it and all that it encompasses. Here I was, standing in the middle of my brain, watching every type of person I could image, old, fat, normal, rich; dance together in complete bliss, dancing every type of dance with spectators watching them with no irony, only cameras and smiles; me about to step through this crowd into the realm of the professionals, as the true connoisseur that I am. On my way to buy the tickets, nearly bumping into everything and person in my path due to my over-stimulated wide open eyes and pure happy Nicole grin, I see a news reporter with a camera man. Now the camera man is completely angelic looking and beautiful, let alone holding a nice big movie camera which is not in my long list of turn offs; And I stare at him like I’ve never stared at another person, and I realize he is looking at me too, but I dont look away because the circus that I’ve found myself in the middle of has seemed to stop jumping on its giant trapeze when I saw his brown curls and caravaggio chiaroscuro skin (and movie camera). I only bring this up to illustrate the state of mind i was all at once thrust into upon my arrival at the pavilion, all of my unthinkable fantasies rushing together at once. Then a very old lady between me and the boxoffice croaks in a very thick french frog legs accent, “Student rush is over honey! OH, I have that same sveater in brown dear”. HA!, i snap out of it and buy the damn tickets and head inside for an early appetizer of preshow ballet talks with some ballet company cronies. When I sit (next to a very old asian man with a captain hook chin framing white beard/side burns combo and eye patch, there are so many old people at the ballet) I realize the cronies are talking about the music Twyla Tharp picked for the peice they are dancing this afternoon......the Beach Boys. There are phenomenon such as these, when the whole right thinking world seems to be against me; I can’t recall from whence my bubbling distaste was born, but only that from an early age, (a time when other much less socially acceptable interests peppered my experiences), it was a pure and definite aversion. I recently gazed with both eyes and mouth agape, at my mother changing stations in the car the second she heard the first ooo wah’s of the boys on the radio, with precise haste and the specific screwy upper lip of a person recently having stepped in knee high dog shit! “What you dont like the beach boys?”.... “NO!”she yells, “Since they came out they’ve reminded me of white boys and silly little white girls hanging on thier boyfriends! Your father loves them, thats always bothered me about him, or maybe its a part of him that they remind me of that I can’t tolerate.” AAHHAHAHAHA, YES! Recently at work, around the end of the day my boss puts on a mix cd of pure beach boys. With most films and anecdotes he brings up with a glow of expected unison and understanding of his impeccable taste in all that is interesting and worthwhile, I can at-least fiend some sort of recognition of whatever the hell it is he’s talking about; but when that CD comes on, I just have to turn my back and walk away. And with this he is SO earnest, he is a surfer and so preppy and so white and it stings me so bad like this beach boy is throwing jelly fishes at my face. For some reason the man talking about the ballet keeps looking at me right in the eye, the crowd is gargantuan, and hes looking at me, and I can’t bare it, its as if he knows, he can see my disappointment. This information that I have recieved is far too disheartening for me to continue to listen to any sort of a lecture, so I shift my attention to the spectacle of people dressed in nice clothing. A woman in a mint green I can tell she has picked out of pure admiration of the color, and see how extraordinary it is to see so many dressed up old people. They cannot dress to be hip or sexy, its small embellishes carefully chosen; glittery beads on a pockets, red blue and orange stripes, necklaces of shiny colorful beads; a fashion show precious pretty things with no purpose but to be pretty on their own and not for some sweaty squirming body. And the ballet begins and its a fucking nightmare of ooo wah’s... I want to vomit on the row in front of me when I hear the introduction to “god only knows”, my eyes are watering during “Wouldn’t it be nice”. The woman next to me is bobbing her head to the music framing the right side of my vision with blonde hair, I want to leave... then something happens, songs start to play that I don’t recognize (though no doubt beach boys esque), and I can pay attention to looking at the dancers bodies because the cause and effect of hearing those songs that I know has subsided. The dancing is REALLY incredible; the most amazing skillful, years of training like a damn dog dancing ever, to the dogs breath worst music; and “Got to know the woman” is being danced by a woman lit in red and i realize its like a lynch film in real life eye popping 3D, and I’m completely entranced. The mix of everything I hate about the beach boys, the sincere americana sentiment mixed with the thing i love the most (pure 100% good ballet) is blowing my mind with its contradictions and collisions. I remembered the croaking french woman outside reminding me of student rushes and the fact that i can come to pavilion every weekend for the rest of my life (as long as I still look like the faded picture on my school id) and see whatever the hell is playing that week. Ah a life full of quality, the opportunity to watch labor and skill and its height of elegance, fat woman screaming birdlike arias out of their guts, dancers the physical manifestation of this; and then the audience applauds at some spin the girl on stage busts out. Jesus Christ, what is this a football game?... the olympics?? Oh, and now some guy leaped really high... more applause?! I want to go back outside where the cheesiness is part of the essence of the grandness. Quality, an elusive bedfellow.... and i still hate the beach boys.