Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

I hope those of you caught in Storm Nemo are snug and warm wherever you are and have a drop of the crayture handy to see it through.

Last evening the Middle Gel and I attended a Girl Scout Father/Daughter Valentine’s Day dance.  Actually, her cadet troop was running the thing, so I suppose it’s more precise to say that we hosted the G.S.F.D.V.D. dance.  I must have blown up 150 balloons.  (You may insert your own lawyer/long wind/ hot air joke here.)

I must say that even in teh course of just the seven or eight years I’ve been attending these dances with various of the gels, the musicke has changed mightily.  Back in the day, I recall dancing to a wide variety of classick rock n’ roll:  Getting silly with “Twist and Shout”; getting even sillier with “Shout!”; hangin’ to some Jimmy Buffett; doing some slow stuff to an Elvis ballad; line dancing to “Cotton-Eye Joe”; and (much to my chagrin) doing teh “Macarena”.

Last night it was almost all recent pop.  For all I’ve seen mention of them on the innertoobs, I had never before heard, for instance, this “Gangnam Style” thing;  I had never before actually heard Justin Beiber;  I had never before heard, “Call Me Maybe”.

It was appalling.  Appalling in its banality, appalling in its vulgarity, appalling in its sheer barbarism.

And even more appalling was watching a collection of middle-aged men and their fourth, fifth and sixth grade daughters all acting like they were about 21.  The vast majority of those kids had teh choreography to these things down cold.  And it was choreography, I might add, in which a pole would have fitted quite easily.  (“I’m So Sexy”?  Really?)

What was the most appalling was that everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, simply blind to the debasement of it all.

O! tempora, and so-forth, indeed.   You may label me a prig or a snob if you like, but this stuff is just completely alien to me.

The gel and I only danced to the final track, a more traditional slow bit.  The rest of the time we amused ourselves by playing balloon volleyball.  The gel was every bit of teh same opinion as me about the quality of the musicke, looking down her nose at the ceaseless, mindless thumpa-thumpa-thumpa and recoiling at the crass, inappropriate lyrics.

Good.  Gooooooood.

In fact, the high point of the evening came once we turned everyone out and set to cleaning up the mess.   I let fall to the gel and her fellow troopers the fact that the pins from the boutaniers Dads’ lapel flowers made quick work of all those balloons.   That was fun.

 

 

 

 

 

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