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Jul. 22nd, 2006 11:28 pmSo there's this thing at Lincoln Centre called A Midsummer Night's Swing. As the name might suggest, the premise it that one comes to the Lincoln Centre square and pays money for a ticket, and swing dances. The event starts at 6:30 with something that they call a lesson but really couldn't be farther from, and a demonstration which incorporates none of the moves 'taught' in the 'lesson'. You deal with the 'lesson' for an hour, and then you dance from 7:30 to 10.
Of course, this is all what's supposed to happen.
Naturally if you're me, you get there at 6:00 to buy your ticket, and you do. Then you wait a half an hour to get in, at which point they tell you that, no, you've got a ticket to the Mostly Motzart event that they do. Upon looking at the ticket you realize that, hey, they're right, and you go back into Avery Fischer Hall to tell the lady that, despite paying $15 for the Midsummer Swing ticket, she's given you a Mostly Motzart ticket that's at least thrice the value of $15. So, naturally, she has to ask you if you're sure that you got the ticket from her (as opposed to, say, picking up off the ground?) and whether or not you have your ticket (well, no, because I just gave you the ticket you gave me to exchange it for the right one lady). After finally getting the right ticket - and checking it before leaving - you get on a LONG FUCKOFF line that hadn't been there at 6:30, find the friend you came with, and get ready for the lesson. Except the lesson is only a "lesson", where this lady who can dance "teaches" you some basic Lindy Hop steps that you can't even see her demonstrate. This is all while you're trapped in a crowd packed onto a tiny dancefloor and the people around you keep kicking you and stepping on your heels. Not toes, heels. Then, as the lesson finishes, it starts to rain and, because you're outside, you're told to leave and wait off the dancefloor for the rain to stop. If the rain doesn't stop, they tell you, by 8:30, the event will be cancelled and you'll get a refund.
So you go and eat dinner at Ollie's.
At 8:30 the skys are clear and the dance is on in full swing (pun fully intended). You head on in and what happens? You stand to the side and wait for someone to ask you to dance. You dance with your friends and a guy who is a friend of your friend's friend out of desperation - this friend of your friend's friend cannot dance and your friend and you are both followers so neither of you can lead the other with any degree of finess (though you pulled off a fair resemblence of a dance, so you're pretty proud of yourself). Then you wait. And wait. And wait a little more, for someone, anyone to ask you to dance.
Who does? A guy who's old enough to be your grandfather. Then a guy who's not only old enough to be your grandfather, but has his nails sharpened into claws and a soaking wet t-shirt that he keeps pulling you against. Then a guy who's shorter than you are, and so keeps hitting you. In between you return to your friend's friend's friend out of desperation, and in between those dances you stand there with your friend and wait for that one guy who's in your age-range and decent looking to ask you. This never happens. Finally you get asked my a small Asian man who can dance, but because you've been waiting for so long and because there are too many fucking people who keep stepping on you and because you don't know everything he wants you to do the whole thing is awkward.
Finally you get to leave, and as you do, some guy comes up behind you and says "Next time Peachy Keen, next time" (which is what your shirt says in tiny, cursive letters, so this guy must have been standing thiiiiiiiis close to be able to read it and you never noticed). Then you realise you must emit pheromones that attract old and/or fuckingcreepy people, and that there's a sign on your back that says "Good Looking Men Must Not Dance With Bearer of This Sign". And the really horrible part is that it's super-glued there.
Of course, this is all what's supposed to happen.
Naturally if you're me, you get there at 6:00 to buy your ticket, and you do. Then you wait a half an hour to get in, at which point they tell you that, no, you've got a ticket to the Mostly Motzart event that they do. Upon looking at the ticket you realize that, hey, they're right, and you go back into Avery Fischer Hall to tell the lady that, despite paying $15 for the Midsummer Swing ticket, she's given you a Mostly Motzart ticket that's at least thrice the value of $15. So, naturally, she has to ask you if you're sure that you got the ticket from her (as opposed to, say, picking up off the ground?) and whether or not you have your ticket (well, no, because I just gave you the ticket you gave me to exchange it for the right one lady). After finally getting the right ticket - and checking it before leaving - you get on a LONG FUCKOFF line that hadn't been there at 6:30, find the friend you came with, and get ready for the lesson. Except the lesson is only a "lesson", where this lady who can dance "teaches" you some basic Lindy Hop steps that you can't even see her demonstrate. This is all while you're trapped in a crowd packed onto a tiny dancefloor and the people around you keep kicking you and stepping on your heels. Not toes, heels. Then, as the lesson finishes, it starts to rain and, because you're outside, you're told to leave and wait off the dancefloor for the rain to stop. If the rain doesn't stop, they tell you, by 8:30, the event will be cancelled and you'll get a refund.
So you go and eat dinner at Ollie's.
At 8:30 the skys are clear and the dance is on in full swing (pun fully intended). You head on in and what happens? You stand to the side and wait for someone to ask you to dance. You dance with your friends and a guy who is a friend of your friend's friend out of desperation - this friend of your friend's friend cannot dance and your friend and you are both followers so neither of you can lead the other with any degree of finess (though you pulled off a fair resemblence of a dance, so you're pretty proud of yourself). Then you wait. And wait. And wait a little more, for someone, anyone to ask you to dance.
Who does? A guy who's old enough to be your grandfather. Then a guy who's not only old enough to be your grandfather, but has his nails sharpened into claws and a soaking wet t-shirt that he keeps pulling you against. Then a guy who's shorter than you are, and so keeps hitting you. In between you return to your friend's friend's friend out of desperation, and in between those dances you stand there with your friend and wait for that one guy who's in your age-range and decent looking to ask you. This never happens. Finally you get asked my a small Asian man who can dance, but because you've been waiting for so long and because there are too many fucking people who keep stepping on you and because you don't know everything he wants you to do the whole thing is awkward.
Finally you get to leave, and as you do, some guy comes up behind you and says "Next time Peachy Keen, next time" (which is what your shirt says in tiny, cursive letters, so this guy must have been standing thiiiiiiiis close to be able to read it and you never noticed). Then you realise you must emit pheromones that attract old and/or fuckingcreepy people, and that there's a sign on your back that says "Good Looking Men Must Not Dance With Bearer of This Sign". And the really horrible part is that it's super-glued there.
