I'm a writer, painter, and a reader.
I don't review, but if you like random humor, funny kitties & book related art or writing inspiration, you've come to the right place.
So, the town nearby mine has an old and venerable tradition. It's kind of like a finishing school for young teens. Hundreds gather weekly for a sixth month period to learn basic ballroom dancing steps and etiquette. The boys have to wear suits and ties, and girls are forced to abide by a strict dress code. Dress code enforcers circle the ball room, measuring hem lengths and strap widths, removing anyone caught pantyhose-less or whose (gasp!) bra-strap shows.
The girls are required to wear white gloves to avoid contact with sweaty palms, and after every dance they thank their partner and introduce themselves politely to the next boy in line. No one can ever be refused a partner. For watching parents, it can be hard not to laugh at some of the combinations - girls in the full bloom of young womanhood often dance with boys that barely come eye-to-chest with them.
Boys practiced pulling out chairs, opening doors, and all kinds of other niceties from a bygone era. My 14 y/o twins hated it, but I told them that someday, when they were invited to a white-house dinner or fancy dress ball they'd thank me. I never felt comfortable in that realm, and as much shit as my husband gave me I was adamant. I wanted it to be a possibility for them.
And then I saw HIM. Tom fucking Waits! He was putting his youngster through the same torture I was inflicting on mine, no doubt for all the same reasons. The parents sat in chairs that lined the walls of the auditorium, and I'd often nudge the mom sitting next to me to ask, "Do you know who Tom Waits is?". Nobody I asked ever did. As far as I know, no one ever recognized him, and I never approached him, leaving him to his fatherly duties in peace.