The miscegenatory union of the sedate didactatorium and the dancing date has, from my first rencountre with the notion, obtained of a thorough discomfiture to my delicate sensibilities in its apparent incongruity to the ruling fastidious dendritic-nexus riddled with an implacable harmonizing harmotia of pleonexia, wherewith begrudden, cloying tendrils pulverize all riddles which have the immense misfortune of stumbling upon its Nobcaers. Such enlightened tenebriles do not admit of pruning, only preening, for no amount of ratiocination, however resolute, however intensive, could deracinate the congenitally seminated, and so upon hearing tell of a jollification stewarded by such singular benefactors, and a benefice’s beneficence allotting ecclesiastical land for the venue, my brambles avidly rambled me thither.
The particularized location was a capacious chamber, in the wings resembling a staid nuptial rehearsal dinner, with its circular tables laden with heavy cloth smocked to their respective axels and its inconspicuous yet allaying carpet adorned with a vaguely verdant motif; but these act as but sundries to the sun, the peripheral parhelion to “the cynosure of neighboring eyes,” where, perchance, a beauty’s spied, on dancing floor of paneled pine, phalanzh’ in lover’s hands entwined. The room had been especially dighted for the occasion with a disc jockey’s sound board surrounded by a prismatic panoply of shifting coruscatory lights.
As the plenteous crowd defiled inward in a steady stream, I could not but observe with some dismay that my fanglance finagled, a mag-pied strata, quarried to the rudiments in prevised pursuit of the same, was culled as the habit of almost all the men attendant, which, with the cursory brush with lynched linen (primarily extracted as fodder for some half-witted chiasm), I had been given to scorn as something of a faux pas, but such was relegated to but a quibble in passim by the thunderous sinospheric dawning: I had not the slightest inkling in my amyotrophic sinew how one is to go about dancing; nota bene, my sense of rhythm itself had seen fit to decamp-at-large somewhere in my talocrural region, which proceeded to jounce to and fro’ all the night long, strictly of its own accord such that my mere focused introspection would provoke it to retire within itself, thus nullifying what use I could derive from it as a metronome.
Unnerved, I took to malingering in limine, maundering about ‘twixt familiar faces, abashedly gazing upon convivial, contented, graceful, better figures, tortured by what felt like my ostentatious spectacle of inadequacy. With each passing song I could feel my bones, denied their use, resuming the metamorphosis of irredentistic unification begun in infancy, with each passing second the swaying figures on the floor appeared more and more surely reminiscent of the gorgous serpents, and with stronger force I sensed the force petrification wending its way to my core, until I felt it indubitable I would soon succumb to what in medical parlance is redoubtably termed a catastrophic osteotic calcification of the heart (of paritous play but polar portion to the sangfroid Mr. Shelley ‘crost the viridescent felt, whose card’s saddled him with an excess of the endemically British phlegm, which when not countervailed regularly by contact with the Anglo spit indurates in impedimental integument about the heart; Mr. Shelley ought to have corporeally heeded the “voice from over the sea” sooner; let the River deflux friend, no shame).
Thus aneled in benighthood of The Most Inconspicuous and Most Ingenuous Order of Sam Slick’s Avian Clocks (motto: melius est si nos irrumare quam scutari; heraldic badge: a depiction of a coarse wool blazon adorned with the motto, enrobing in partial occlusion of a tableau displaying a pileated woodpecker’s head ensconced within an arboreal nook), bulwarked by my brothermen, we managed to jointly, albeit spasmodically, peak our agnostic cokkes to trill out a doleful tune and sheepishly ruffle our downy plumage, at times at the effervescent urging of the boisterous Maestro class, who with no small enterprise and élan took it upon themselves to play the vernal nymphs in these latter-day rites, buoying the hoi polloi, the third estate, the teenyboppers (perhaps it was time that was “thrown back”, though such spiritous exhortations I admit do loomingly soar above me) so appellated for their characteristic reaction to ebullient stimuli: jumping upon the balls of their feet in concert to a typically riotous beat.
And these are our rites sui iuris, though they may at first appraisal (peradventure some other ordinals besides) as lax turpitude run rampant, for though even the Bohemians at such a Hogarthian scene might saunter from the parterre with nose so high and spirits so low that they are liable to garrote themselves on their path dormir dans le garret on their clothesline hung ‘fore the dormer windows (der arme!), yes, even still, it is not a privilege to engage in such rumbustious revelry, God forbid such a cast be sent across the Rubicon, but a duty, a fortiori one portending the gravest import. For these careening, fractal caracoles, preserve ourselves unspoilt for our careers; we run unbridled, yet stringently blinkered.
For what else can reconcile us diligently compendious souls to this church, in collating an auricular blowout to the tastes of an expressly and manifestly conservative a school topladen, tendering a groaning buffet which exceeds its obstreperity only in its emphatic amatory. My mind has duly repressed much of the blasted rug-ripping of that night (God bless its vigilant guardianship of my sanity, I would have slotted sacral botkins to its templed home a thousand times’ over excepting its staunch sedulity) but I do recall five by name with certitude: “Party Rock Anthem” of LMFAO, notable, I suppose for the licentious allacronym, but more so for its stupefyingly inexplicable pervasion of more than half of all school dances conducted sith its rearing on the unctuous teat of some chimera of harbour ambience and the flamboyant subversion of the métier of the droogs; “Party in the U.S.A.” of Miley Cyrus, whither I shall take the moment to traduce the soupçan of dexterity accorded from the inversion of the standard disposition of the noun and adjective (as well as an either liberal or archaic acceptation of what precisely may be utilized as an adjective) in the phrase “Welcome to the land of fame excess” so as to align the desired rhyme, as ill-disguised trumpery, as I feel myself supremely secure in presuming the originally concocted phrase to be “Welcome to the land of fame and sex”; “Low” of Flo Rida, whose lyrics are impervious to the paltry palter that the lode star lauded for her callipygian posterior is a patron of a club, inasmuch as the strumpet trumpeted under low is unmistakably connoted as a stripper whom Mr. Rida seeks to vamp throughout the bald-ballad, of which I shall cull but a few incontrovertible meters: “Make it rain, I’m makin’ it snow/Work the pole, I got the bank roll/I’ma say that I prefer them no clothes/…Hey, shawty, what I gotta do to get you home?/My jeans full of guap and they ready for shones [i.e., whores]/Cadillacs, Maybachs for the sexy groan…Sorry but I had to fold her/Like a pornography poster, she showed her.” And would you believe, lettered reader, that we all shouted out the chorus and aped the quean in squatting downwards in increments in tandem to the eponymous refrain. What fantastical wonder, what arrant preposterousness would such a sight register to the tutelary spirits who superintended the entire function. Are they blind to the travesty, that we mirror more than the contortions of the odious odalisque, but we too prostitute our dignity in parley for evanescent minced-merriment? Of course not, daft reader, they are more sapiential and prescient than you could even dream of emulating, in their tangled skeins of prescription and proscription imbricated with russet Shaker needles, composing a bound bonnet we wear indoors. In point of fact, this juncture shall service as an opportune point to disclose that being that the disc jockey purportedly would play all songs submitted to a queue open to be augmented by anyone, I arrayed two choice songs, “Libiamo ne’lieti calici” at no later than 6:57, and “Come Out Ye Black and Tans” at no later than half past eight, neither of which were deemed admissible. It is plausible enough that they were misconstrued for fascist brindisi, but I wean it more likely that their veracious nature was vaguely known, and was deliberately spurned; “California Gurls [sic]”, cf. “Sex (Sex) on the beach/We don’t mind sand in our stilettos/We freak in my Jeep/Snoop Doggy Dogg [I wonder what notions went a’twirling ’round his head to induce the nominative volte-face to the sonorous “Snoop Lion”] on the stereo, oh, oh,” which indites eloquently simpliciter; and “Hot to Go” of Chappell Roan, an acclaimed purveyor of the campy aesthetic (Some-tag!), which I assert was the only song which could for the slightest instance be thought mellifluous, let alone canny or inspired, primarily for its aura of wax cylinders unrolling through the dense undulations of smoke, but nonetheless was similarly plagued by prurience: “Well, I woke up alone starin’ at my cеilin’/I try not to care, but it hurts my feelings/You don’t have to stare, comе here, get with it/No one’s touched me there in a damn hot minute.” The chorus, which is far and remote the weakest portion of the song for its deterioration to line-dance instructions of tenuous relation to the verses, but which of salience are to be discriminated as all the more loathsome for the established dance moves one is moved, even I, if with a rueful smirk affixed to my sheening visage in acknowledgement of my gauche incompatibility, to execute, whereof one slides their hands down their torso in a graceful and sultry manner, or a simulacrum whereof, when the tocsin rings “Hot to go”.
So what is this grand ploy which dictated the availment to such execrable tools, this ingenious scheme of which I have alluded to: it is the factitious purging of lust through a relatively piffling permissiveness exciting frenetic convulsions by those upon the floor, thus enervating their libido. Why were only songs of utterly parsimonious quality utilized?: subconsciously the febrile, nescient, nascent minds would associate capitulation to the meagre megrims of the flesh as wanting in moxie. Why was the temperature rather frowzy (I cannot rigorously abjure the recourse to “calling a cab”), why were the cups diminutive and prone to leaks, why were the sole viands proffered ephemerally energizing mucilaginous cates: all so as to aggravate the siphoning of physiological wherewithal.
Why host a dance at all, why compromit with quit rent our divinely handed-down tenets in the slightest. Pardon my bluntness, dear reader, but are you an idiot? If you are, please cease to peruse these columns, I am not so destitute as to pan the homeless. Such merry carousing would occur regardless, but if co-opted and constrained by adroit writs and wits, the ornery impulse to impropriety may be sublimated in with a hydrolock’s controlled disembougation, rather than the scaturient torrent of a fruitlessly damned dam; such were the exigencies of the Catholic Church in affixing their imprimatur to Carnaval, and who are you, my aerated swell, my incromulent Cromwell, to pontificate as wicked or otherwise unsound the needful compromises of so venerable an institution as the pontificate? For when handling persons who are hardly…well, I shan’t surrender to invidity, however enticingly cathartic such due thrall to another due might prove, and asperse teenagers as inhuman, but they are of a peregrine constitution to be sure, whose exact nature eludes me in my aversion to fathom too deeply into the umbrial extremes of the human psyche, and so I would emphatically council the inconversant reader to shield their schnoz and bite their tongue if ever gazing into the gaping maw of these uncharioted whiff-hacks.
