Growing Up Miles, Part 1024 (Dance)

Dance... it was never, as far as I can recall, a big part of my life growing up in El Paso. I do recall getting bored when it came on TV or in a movie, though it was fun to watch my parents dance. And I enjoyed watching ballet (sometimes), "Spanish dancing" of any sort, and a couple of other things. But if I danced at all, I don't recall it.

Until 7th grade in Augusta, GA. There was a dance, and my best friend, Claude, didn't refused to let me be a wallflower. The day before a dance, he put on a couple of records and taught me some basic dance moves. (I distinctly remember dancing to the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarkesville".) I might have danced a couple of dances, but not being Mr. Popularity (in fact, being both The Outsider and That Weirdo) it's amazing I danced at all.

In 7th grade in Augusta, if you lived On The Hill, you went to cotillion to learn manners, social graces, and ballroom dancing. (I can neither recall nor find on the web the name of the place nor its mistress). I, however, was told that two extracurricular activities would be one too many and had to choose between boy scouts and cotillion. Boy Scouts won and my pathetic social life went even deeper into the manure pile.

The next year, however, Patsy Brown's mother and Mom (possibly with Patsy's help) arranged for Patsy and me to attend cotillion together. She and I had never been especially friendly; between that and the ideas of wearing a suit every week and learning to behave like British aristocracy, I was mortified. I was very nearly determined not to enjoy it.

After the shock and strangeness of everything wore off (including holding girls, a fearful delight for most of us guys) I had a blast. Patsy and I got along great, and I found out that a bunch of other girls I'd never been able to talk to (including Jane, an amazingly sweet, pretty girl I'd always admired, but who had a boyfriend) were easy enough to get along with as well. We just needed some social structure. Under our amazing (if ancient) tutor's hand, we learned how to fill out dance cards (a skill I have used not once since graduating that class), to (among others) waltz, foxtrot and cha cha, the proper way to be seated at table, the proper use of various knives, forks and spoons, and-- in short-- all the basics we'd need if we ever had to take jobs as British aristocrats. I'm still waiting for that to happen, or at least an invitation to dine with an ex-president or something.

While I didn't get a chance to use any of these dance moves until long after my feet had forgotten them, it gave me the confidence to dance and ask girls to dance.

(Quick aside- the most dreaded thing for most of us boys was getting picked by the lady in charge to demonstrate the proper way to do something. She was about a hundred years old, had a rigid spine that would make a drill instructor jealous, was perfect at everything she did, and was one of the most imposing women I have met in my life. Her outfits were proper and beautiful antebellum. She was a lady of the sort who demands perfection in men, even 13 year old men. Just being picked to help show a new dance with her almost brought football players to tears. Nobody else could have taught us as she did. We loved her, we feared her. She was our royal monarch, ruling our lives for two hours a week.)

I went to a few more dances, mainly sock hops[1]. Then, in 9th grade, we had the Junior High Prom. It was Kind Of A Big Deal. Again, Claude came to the rescue. He and his date, Edith, took me with them. I think I might have danced 4 or 5 times that evening, and talked to actual girls a total of 20 minutes when not dancing. Life was looking up.

Since I didn't help put on the Junior-Senior Prom in 11th grade, I didn't go to it. A lot changed my senior year, and I actually had something of a social life. I went to quite a few dances, with dates even (mostly with a girlfriend, but also a couple when I didn't have one). But when prom hit the next year, I had neither a girlfriend nor a date.

The morning of prom, just before school started, I found out that Jane (yes, that Jane), our Homecoming Queen, one of the sweetest young ladies on the planet, had no date. Everyone assumed she had been first pick, so nobody asked. The bell rang. I rushed to homeroom, explained to Mr Alford (awesome math prof and good guy) what was up. He gave me a hall pass. I went to Jane's homeroom and got permission to speak with her. When I asked her, she gave me a really strange look. "Why are you asking me now?"

"Are you kidding? You're the homecoming queen. I couldn't imagine you'd not have 50 guys asking you out the day the prom was announced." ("All cooler than me,", I continued in my head.) "That's what everyone else thought, too. But as soon as I found out, I came to ask you."

Her expression was one of mingled delight and relief. "Wow. That's really sweet." Then she looked embarrassed. "Last night I called my cousin. He's driving down from Tennessee today to take me to the prom tonight."

"Oh. OK. Well, um... have a good time."

"You, too. Thanks!" (She didn't kiss me, but the look she gave me felt like one.)

At lunch, I found out that a friend, a junior working with me in the lunch line (let's call her Sadie), also didn't have a prom date. "Want to go? Just as friends?"

"Sure," she said. She and her twin sister had been planning to go dateless, so she had a dress. After school I went shopping and found a dark purple tux. It was a lot frillier than I wanted, but since it was 1973 and James Brown was cool (and lived there in Augusta), it worked out well. We had a good time at the prom. I danced quite a few dances (including a couple with Jane). It was a lot more fun than I had expected. Until..

I forget who we were riding with, but they dropped me off first. As I got ready to get out of the car, Sadie-- just a friend-- grabbed me and gave me a fairly serious goodnight kiss. I went inside in shock. I liked her as a friend, but that was it, and she'd said the same thing all along. The punch wasn't spiked, so I guess my good manners, spiffy purple frilly tux and dance moves won her over. Without my permission.

I think I saw her twice that summer, and we talked on the phone 2 or 3 times. But when I left for Georgia Tech that fall, she had our life together planned out (college, air force, marriage, open our own restaurant, kids...) Once off at college, I was all too happy to forget about all this. But when I came home at Thanksgiving, she called me (a HUGE deal, as in her world, only a floozy would call a guy). 'Why haven't you called me?"

"Um, I'm in college. It's super busy." (This was true, but sadly had far more to do with partying and goofing off than academics.) We talked for a while, and I had to go somewhere. I didn't call her back. Over Christmas, Sharon (my sister) got onto me. Sadie had been telling her how I'd done her dirty, leading her on, etc. I explained what had really happened. "Oh, I'm glad you didn't do all that then. But she's really mad. She said, 'I'm going to find some fat, rich, older, bald guy who smokes stinky cigars and marry him. That'll show him!'"

Later that year, Sadie dropped out of school. A few weeks later, Sharon said Sadie showed up at a pep rally, trophy husband in tow. He was fat, rich, older, bald, and smoked stinky cigars. Yep, she showed me. Imagine how bad I felt.

Despite the outcome of prom, I kept dancing. Various groups of friends and I went to Underground Atlanta a lot (at the time, it had at least a dozen clubs where dancing was big. I liked The Mad Hatter the best, with a psychedelic dance floor, lots of black lights, and a fun crowd-- not too rowdy, not too snooty, not too grubby). I seldom had a hard time finding gals to dance with, but the only time I ever got past a dance or two, I was rather drunk. I insisted on memorizing her phone number rather than letting her write it down, and of course by the next morning I forgot it. Brilliant.

One night at The Mad Hatter I couldn't find a partner fast enough for an unannounced dance contest. I jumped up on a table and danced solo. The DJ called me out and said that if I'd had a partner, I'd have won. But per the rules, only couples could play. On the other hand, I had all the dances I wanted the rest of the night.


Fast forward a couple of years. I met another Sharon and in short order we were married. While we both liked to dance, somehow we never did. She remembers me not wanting to, but I recall her not wanting to. I think I win, because at my 10 year HS reunion, Fran came over and asked Sharon if she could borrow me for a dance or two. "My husband won't dance, and I notice y'all aren't dancing, and I remember Miles could dance!" Sharon said yes, and Fran and I danced. I think Sharon and I only danced a slow dance or two all night. Either way, we almost never danced.

A few years later, I went with Nick (a best friend) down to Tampa for his brother Mark's wedding. The reception was from around dusk until dawn the next day. Apart from sitting down to eat and spend a few minutes with Nick's (extremely awesome, extremely Italian) family, I danced non-stop the entire time, up until about an hour before dawn. I danced with every woman in the place, because i was one of the few guys willing to dance who didn't have a jealous wife glaring at anyone who looked my way. (Sharon wasn't there, but she's the polar opposite of that sort of insecurity.) I danced with girls and women from 2 years old to 80 or more (she could jitterbug!) School girls, college girls, bar maids, housewives, moms, a couple of mildly drunk recent divorcees who were a little too friendly, grandmothers, cousins, aunts, nieces, you name it. I had a blast. Right up until the seat of my suit pants split. I sat down. I got asked at least a half dozen more times to dance.


Fast forward again, this time 10 to 12 years. Sharon and I were at Shawn and Tiffany's wedding. At the reception, a couple of decades worth of bottled up dancing exploded. Sharon danced non-stop for hours. Since then, if we go anywhere there's dancing, she's usually ready whether I am or not. I've had to learn how all over. Sometimes we just fake it. The best part is that we're having fun and look confident, so sometimes people watch us to try to figure out how to dance! The real dancers just smile and leave us in their dust. We don't care. We dance.

And when it's dancing time, we look for people who have nobody to dance with, the lonely ones or the ones afraid to try to dance- the people we were in school. We split up and ask them to dance. "I don't know how" is their inevitable response.

"It's OK, I don't either. We just fake it and look like confident."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

And just as inevitably, we dance.


I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat,
But always keep that hunger.
May you never take one single breath for granted;
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed...
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean.
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens.
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance...

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance.
I hope you dance...

-Lee Ann Womack, Copyright © 2000, Uni/Mca Nashville. All Rights Reserved.



[1] All gym floors were wood, and you were only allowed to wear clean tennis shoes on them. For dances, you dressed up, and you didn't want rubber soles, anyway, so you danced in your socks.

I Don't Get Lou Reed

A lot of my friends in college were Lou Reed and Velvet Underground fans. With a few exceptions I wasn't. ("Take a Walk on the Wild Side" was intriguing.) They said it was an acquired taste, like Andy Warhol. I wasn't a huge Warhol fan, but at least I got his art. Lou? Not so much.

Then I learned that Lou Reed wasn't as one dimensional as the softer music I kept hearing on the radio. Two of his albums woke me up, kicked me out of bed, and set my pants on fire.

First, of course, was _Rock 'n' Roll Animal_, a live album recorded at Howard Stein's Academy of Music in NYC in 1974. From the first, liquid notes of "Intro/Sweet Jane" to the butt kicking end of "Rock 'n; Roll", something leaped out of the speakers, grabbed hold and refused to let go. I don't tend to rank everything into lists the way some people (cough, Andy Whitman, cough) do, but this has to be one of my top ten favorite rock albums of all time. It's a party trapped in a disk (box, whatever). If nothing on this album makes you get up and dance, your legs were probably stolen while you weren't looking. I have a lot of guitar heroes, but this album put Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner near the top of the heap.

Next up, in 1975, was _Metal Machine Music_. This was as different from Animal as Animal was from any of Reed's early music you'd hear on the radio. MMM was essentially a wall of noise, either electronics going berserk per the original liner notes) or guitar feedback gone berserk (per Reed's later statements). The industrial scene and noise rock owe a lot to this album. It was originally released as a double vinyl album; the end of side four looped back on itself-- whether this was art or a joke is anyone's guess. But most people didn't even notice for quite some time. You either love or hate this one. I happen to love it. I have listened to it all the way through many, many times; I only know a handful of other people who have done so. In college, it nearly brought stoned peaceniks to blows on more than one occasion-- it grated on their ears too much.

So maybe I do get Lou Reed-- at least somewhat. Whether he would get me, I have no idea.

[The mix I currently listen to in my car includes soft to medium praise music, Rock 'n' Roll Animal, 90s punk, It's a Beautiful Day, the Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East, the 77s (rock), various incarnations of Daniel Amos (some of the weirdest music in all of Christendom), Skynyrd, Johnny Cash and many others. Pretty much everything but Nashville Country, bad rap... and soft Lou Reed.]

Is it Hot in Here, or is it Just You?

People disagree over what "hot" means. This is true regardless of context. I would like to offer my definition of "hot" as it pertains to spicy foods. There are four criteria:

1. If it makes your forehead sweat and / or your eyes water, and
   
2. if it clears your sinuses / makes your nose run, and
   
3. if it burns going in, and
   
4. if it burns coming out,
   

then, and only then, it's hot.

Love Monster Meets Schrödinger's Cat

Almost a year ago, someone from another church noticed how many of their youth were hanging out with me. They expressed concern that I was building a "cult of Miles". I believe they meant this in terms of "cult of personality", but we didn't get much chance to discuss it, beyond my assuring them that wasn't the case, as they were busy.

But as I've pondered where this question came from, I realized what had happened. They were perhaps too busy, concentrating on teaching and programs. I was simply loving on the kids. Don't get me wrong, this leader is awesome and loves his students. But teenagers-- like pretty much everyone else-- respond to love. As Jeff Kyle used to say, "Teenagers spell love "T-I-M-E" and "M-O-N-E-Y". I throw in a third spelling: "F-O-O-D". Since I was hanging out with them, going to eat with them (sometimes buying), we built relationships. I not only earned the right to speak into their lives, many of them wanted me to.

I couldn't really help it if I wanted to; I just love people. Especially teens and young adults. As Pogo might have said, "It just come all over notchural." While it's an effective way to impact people, I don't focus on that as then I wouldn't really be loving anyone. I don't think much about it, I just do it.

And as it turns out, I have a pretty good role model. I read about this guy who spent a lot of time teaching and helping people but he did it in the context of just hanging out with them, living life with them, having fun with them, crying and hurting with them, meeting their needs-- in short, loving them. Eventually he died for them. Then, blowing their minds, he came back for them, setting them all free.

I can't do everything Jesus did, but I can do a lot of it..

If you're reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you aren't reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you can't tell if you're reading this or not, you are probably a cat; please say hello to Schrödinger for me.