Vargo, Art, and Polka Fest
I used to know this girl named Vargo in college. She was a friend of a friend and the thing I remember most about her is that she was awkwardly tall and goofy for a sorority girl. Also, her name was Vargo.
That name makes me giggle because it sounds like verga, the Spanish word for dick.
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I've just spent the last two hours looking at posters online. Good times. Matt and I have been in major spring cleaning mode, which also kind of spills into spring upgrades mode. A couple of weeks ago, we spent an entire day making use of the movie posters I bring home from work and mounting them on poster board. I can now look at a deliciously evil Johnny Depp as Sweeney Todd (or Sweeney Tizzod, as the interns used to say) all day if I want to. And I do.
I didn't buy any posters because I get kind of funny about buying things online. It's like "really? I can buy this? And that?" It's like a world in which money doesn't exist -- you just punch numbers into your compu and that's it. All of a sudden you've got Matisse's Fleur in your possession, when you could've easily traced it yourself. Fo' free, too.
All this art stuff reminds me of when I used to draw and paint. What the hell happened to that? I guess it got hard. But I used to really enjoy sketching and playing with my watercolors, especially when I finished after a good three or four hours of deep concentration.
I gave away my best painting to a boy who didn't deserve it. I thought he deserved it at the time -- ahem, high school boyfriend! -- but now I realize that that might be the best thing I ever painted. And I can never have it back.
It was a simple watercolor of a garden leading up to an entrance of a building. It was my favorite because of the fun I had selecting the colors of the flowers and blotting the brush down everytime I wanted a flower. And oh were there many! Now that I think of it, it's probably not very good, simply because all the flowers were just little brush blots in pink, purple and blue, but when I was finished with it, I thought it was pretty. I hope the high school ex-boyfriend thinks so, too. No I don't. Yeah, I do.
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So Polka Festival...
It. fucking. ruled.
When Matt and I made the trek down to Ennis -- almost an hour's drive from our apartment -- we rode in almost complete silence. It's like we were kind of sharing the "I don't know about this, but we can't turn back" vibe. When we drove up, we saw this big mega-church-looking center with nowhere to park.
Still unsure, we walked up hand in hand, and saw a blonde girl of about 17 wearing short shorts and cowboy boots talking on her (or her pimp's) cell phone. We walked in and saw what seemed like a big Czech wedding with no bride and groom. The Dallas Czech Orchestra was playing while we searched for some seats in the sea of long cafeteria-style tables and plastic chairs.
We sat alone at our table by the restrooms with a great view of the goings-on. Old people, young people (some in traditional Czech costumes), mothers and children danced to classical polka tunes. We were most impressed by the kids dancing so gracefully. It was like watching Mexican kids who know how to salsa because their moms taught them. Only they weren't Mexican. And the music was...polka.
I must have underestimated the Czech people. I thought of them as white. Europeans who found themselves in the U.S., like all the other white people with European roots. When Matt and I sat down to eat, we sat with this old couple who told us they were brought up speaking Czech until they went to grade school, and kept referring to non-Czechs as "white people." That killed me. Here I thought only my peeps and blacks called non-raza "white people."
Another discovery that made me go, "oooo-wee!" A bar. With smoking. A bar with smoking in a Catholic Union center. That's right.
Let's get back to the dancing. I love to dance. I don't care how bad I am at it, I always think I'm good for at least one try and am willing to dance wherever I am. Even if it is to unfamiliar music like polka. It's like Tejano music anyway, and if you know anything about kids from the Texas-Mexico border, we've gone to our share of Quinceañeras and weddings were Tejano music is all that's played.
But there's one problem that keeps me from dancing: Matt won't dance.
He's not one of those assholes that knows how to dance, except he won't. No, he just doesn't dance. He doesn't know how. I've had a hard time accepting this in our eight years together -- many a wedding, I've spent making faces at him while watching the happy couples on the dance floor.
I've tried leading him. I've tried coaching him two seconds before going to the dance floor. I've tried getting him drunk. I've tried asking other men to dance with me (but that can just lead to trouble). Always the same result.
I refuse to be one of those women who just sits it out because her partner won't dance. So we're doing the dorkiest thing I've ever heard of and it pains me to even aknowledge it here, but we're signing up for dance lessons. Yes. We are.
Before you start muttering to yourself, "man, Tanya's lost it. Poor Matt, having to take dance lessons..." just shut up your brain for a second! It was his suggestion. I don't think it's really because he wants to learn how to dance for the love of the art. No. I really think it's because he knows that will make me happy. And for that, he is the man.
Here are a couple of pictures of our little polka excursion:
That's right. I wore polka dots to this thing. I told you I would.
This has been an excellent weekend. The extra day off was a nice touch. Thank you, no-work holiday makers of the U.S.
Peace,
D
That name makes me giggle because it sounds like verga, the Spanish word for dick.
---------------------------
I've just spent the last two hours looking at posters online. Good times. Matt and I have been in major spring cleaning mode, which also kind of spills into spring upgrades mode. A couple of weeks ago, we spent an entire day making use of the movie posters I bring home from work and mounting them on poster board. I can now look at a deliciously evil Johnny Depp as Sweeney Todd (or Sweeney Tizzod, as the interns used to say) all day if I want to. And I do.
I didn't buy any posters because I get kind of funny about buying things online. It's like "really? I can buy this? And that?" It's like a world in which money doesn't exist -- you just punch numbers into your compu and that's it. All of a sudden you've got Matisse's Fleur in your possession, when you could've easily traced it yourself. Fo' free, too.
All this art stuff reminds me of when I used to draw and paint. What the hell happened to that? I guess it got hard. But I used to really enjoy sketching and playing with my watercolors, especially when I finished after a good three or four hours of deep concentration.
I gave away my best painting to a boy who didn't deserve it. I thought he deserved it at the time -- ahem, high school boyfriend! -- but now I realize that that might be the best thing I ever painted. And I can never have it back.
It was a simple watercolor of a garden leading up to an entrance of a building. It was my favorite because of the fun I had selecting the colors of the flowers and blotting the brush down everytime I wanted a flower. And oh were there many! Now that I think of it, it's probably not very good, simply because all the flowers were just little brush blots in pink, purple and blue, but when I was finished with it, I thought it was pretty. I hope the high school ex-boyfriend thinks so, too. No I don't. Yeah, I do.
-----------------------------
So Polka Festival...
It. fucking. ruled.
When Matt and I made the trek down to Ennis -- almost an hour's drive from our apartment -- we rode in almost complete silence. It's like we were kind of sharing the "I don't know about this, but we can't turn back" vibe. When we drove up, we saw this big mega-church-looking center with nowhere to park.
Still unsure, we walked up hand in hand, and saw a blonde girl of about 17 wearing short shorts and cowboy boots talking on her (or her pimp's) cell phone. We walked in and saw what seemed like a big Czech wedding with no bride and groom. The Dallas Czech Orchestra was playing while we searched for some seats in the sea of long cafeteria-style tables and plastic chairs.
We sat alone at our table by the restrooms with a great view of the goings-on. Old people, young people (some in traditional Czech costumes), mothers and children danced to classical polka tunes. We were most impressed by the kids dancing so gracefully. It was like watching Mexican kids who know how to salsa because their moms taught them. Only they weren't Mexican. And the music was...polka.
I must have underestimated the Czech people. I thought of them as white. Europeans who found themselves in the U.S., like all the other white people with European roots. When Matt and I sat down to eat, we sat with this old couple who told us they were brought up speaking Czech until they went to grade school, and kept referring to non-Czechs as "white people." That killed me. Here I thought only my peeps and blacks called non-raza "white people."
Another discovery that made me go, "oooo-wee!" A bar. With smoking. A bar with smoking in a Catholic Union center. That's right.
Let's get back to the dancing. I love to dance. I don't care how bad I am at it, I always think I'm good for at least one try and am willing to dance wherever I am. Even if it is to unfamiliar music like polka. It's like Tejano music anyway, and if you know anything about kids from the Texas-Mexico border, we've gone to our share of Quinceañeras and weddings were Tejano music is all that's played.
But there's one problem that keeps me from dancing: Matt won't dance.
He's not one of those assholes that knows how to dance, except he won't. No, he just doesn't dance. He doesn't know how. I've had a hard time accepting this in our eight years together -- many a wedding, I've spent making faces at him while watching the happy couples on the dance floor.
I've tried leading him. I've tried coaching him two seconds before going to the dance floor. I've tried getting him drunk. I've tried asking other men to dance with me (but that can just lead to trouble). Always the same result.
I refuse to be one of those women who just sits it out because her partner won't dance. So we're doing the dorkiest thing I've ever heard of and it pains me to even aknowledge it here, but we're signing up for dance lessons. Yes. We are.
Before you start muttering to yourself, "man, Tanya's lost it. Poor Matt, having to take dance lessons..." just shut up your brain for a second! It was his suggestion. I don't think it's really because he wants to learn how to dance for the love of the art. No. I really think it's because he knows that will make me happy. And for that, he is the man.
Here are a couple of pictures of our little polka excursion:
That's right. I wore polka dots to this thing. I told you I would.
This has been an excellent weekend. The extra day off was a nice touch. Thank you, no-work holiday makers of the U.S.
Peace,
D
posted by deconstructionist at 6:02 PM
1 comments
