So today we (Charlie Greta and I) had a living room dance party. This is something I used to do when I was piss-drunk with a few like minded friends/relatives who might have names like Kati and Pete. Well today no alcohol was involved, but the dancing was just as clumsy. Classic 80's hits like Jenny-867-5309, Maniac, and Walk like an Egyptian could be heard bumpin' from my honky crib. I can only imagine that Snoop Dog does the exact same thing with his kids. Same music and everything.
Regarding dance, Greta is on a fast track to becoming the next female version of Barishnakov. As ballet is a predominantly female dance one could argue that I should learn the name of one female ballerina. But I will not. I dislike ballet, but when you have your own daughter out there in her leotard and tutu doing and understanding a demi-plié in a way that makes all the other girls look (more) like amateurs, a father can't help but feel a sense of pride and a slight tinge of "living vicariously" recalling his chilhood when he was strongly cautioned against donning a pair of ballet slippers when all of his relatively soon to be gay friends were dancing so... gaily.
Charlie has his own footballers style of dancing that involves strong Elaine-from-Sienfield thrusting and seemingly painful head banging against the carpet in sync with the coolie rhythm of Coolio.
Marine our French friend from faraway France will be here really soon! So far we have nothing concrete planned, but hey, Minnesota is a jet setters paradise with attractions like the Mall of America, Murphy's Landing, numerous corn mazes, Paul Bunyan Land, The Iron Range, and the list goes on and on. Just ask Garrison Keillor, he will explain it all to you in his condescending "brought to you by Powder Milk Biscuits in the big blue box" fashion that we all love.
On that note....
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