22 July, 2009

Charlie vs. Canadian Dancers

Already, right out of the gate, two barely legal French Canadian broads came in wearing matching short shorts and track jackets (in red, with white stripes on the sleeves and "CANADA" in block letters on the back) asking for the updated access code. So I give them the new code and send them on their collective way, which is more than certainly down to the convention center where this year's sixty-seventh Sparkle Motion gathering is going down.
That's not saying that this is the sixty-seventh year there's been a teenage dance troupe convention, that's saying that this is the sixty-seventh time this year.
OK, so sixty seven is an exaggeration, the number is probably closer to six or seven, but that's still a lot of teenage girl dance troupin'. And of course, all the Yankee girls have to get all snooty and have Mommy (because you know Daddy don't give a shit about no dance troupe) pay for a room at the Hilton which is connected directly to the convention center via the Skyway, so they can get to and fro without having to worry about ever interacting with the scummy outside world that is Minneapolis, the world capital of violent crime against teenage girl dance troupes.
French Canadian women, however, have already had a hard enough time crossing over the border and want something a little nicer, homier, more classically refined than the Hilton to calm their nerves since, after all, they've been dance-training for the express purpose of going to compete on foreign soil, so they make the mistake of checking into this dump.
Am I griping about the presence of French Canadian jail bait? No. Would you?

It's like if this guy took John Lithgow's place in Footloose.
What I will gripe about is the group of five Manitoban hipsters who came to town for the Sonic Youth show last night with their ripped girl-pants, multiple bandannas, and weed-whacker-accident haircuts practicing karate-kick-dance-moves out in the living room out in the living room until I showed up with my Vietnam-era fatigue pants and shaved head at the first sound of somebody falling on their ass, because I run shit like that.
Boss Lady, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as she is on her morning off, came walking through as I poked my head in the living room, giving the subtle and wordless yet still authoritarian indication that, "Hey, fellas, I like Sonic Youth and Bruce Lee, too. But I'm in charge, this is not a dojo, and if you want to dance, the Convention Center is six blocks that way. Don't worry, those girl pants you're all wearing will easily pass for tights.
"Oh, and not one of you looks like you could hold down an actual adult job with those dumb-assed haircuts. Enjoy the freedom of childhood while you can."
Yes, that was indeed the message I wanted them to infer from my presence. Boss Lady shoots me a look as though to say, "Is everything all right?", I shrug toward her as though to say, "Nothing I can't handle," and Haircut 100 out there just kind of stood in a semi-circle not immediately grasping the wordless, draconian, platonic boss/underling love that just occured, though knowing full well that they shouldn't be practicing whatever figure skater bullshit they were trying to perfect.
One of them, a blonde unibrowed chap who appeared to have rented out time in wind tunnel where he could stand sideways to get his hair to stick out to the side at 90o, came into the office and asked, "Hey, I gotta question before we go. That little tree out back? With all the little black berries? What's that called?"
I told him I didn't know, then jokingly added that I wouldn't eat the berries.
Flock of Seagulls replied, "Uh... Oh." Looking at his friends with worried yet composed panic he said, "I guess I'll be fine."
The seven foot tall one sporting something between a pompadour and a fauxhawk said, "The squirrels were going nuts for those."
Let's go back through that, paraphrasingly:
Jack-off Number 1: "I just ate some shit that might make our trip back to Manitoba a certifiably bowel-shaking hell-storm of cold-sweats, delusions, and shit-pants."
Jack-off Number 2: "Yeah, squirrels love that shit."
I'm sitting here at the desk wondering if I should call poison control or the hospital or what for Flowbee over here when the four out of the five of them that congregated in the office decided to just leave en masse; a minute and a half later, the one who had enough sense to wear a hat came in and said, "My buddies leave?"
"Alright. Thanks, man," as he took off to get back in the car to Canada.
If this kid really did eat the berries, I doubt they'll get as far as Brainerd before the kid starts convulsing like that scene in Total Recall.

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