To the dancing lady at the Garmarna show at Seattle’s Tractor Tavern:
You came in early and chose a chair about halfway back from the stage. But when the show started, you made your way down front to within the stage’s light, planted yourself directly in front of my chair–literally standing between my knees–and began to swivel and writhe like a slowmo epileptic. I leaned back to avoid your elbows as you did your I am a sapling and I worship the wind dance. When you stopped, I tapped on your shoulder and asked you how much I owed you for the lap dance. You scowled, asked me not to insult you, and said cleverly “This is music!” and I pointed out that it was music for me as well as for you. You fled back to your seat.
At the break between sets, I decided that I could have communicated with you more politely, so I went over to your table to apologize for my rudeness. You refused to accept my apology. In fact you burst into tears and told me that I had ruined the entire evening for you. I apologized again and told you that I, too, had felt insulted because you assumed that your enjoyment of the show was more important than mine. I pointed out that as you danced your eyes were closed, so neither of us could see the stage. You tearfully advised me to “back away.”
I returned to my seat, and for the rest of the show, whenever I looked in your direction, the men you were with were giving me that I’ll be waiting for you behind the gym look. I left early.
If you had wanted to dance in front of the chair I sat in, that’s the chair you should have chosen: it was empty when you arrived. If you had only wanted to be [as one with the music, you could have done your barefoot hippy dance anywhere in the tavern. You moved down front because you wanted to share the light with the band and be the center of attention.
Everyone around you who’d had to move aside for your elbows and odor thanked me when you retreated to your seat.
She was hot for you and you let her get away? She came all the way up there to worship your sapling, and all you can say to her is, “Hey, siddown, you’re blocking the view!” Shame on you. Have you no sensitivity? You hurt her feelings. Now she’ll withdraw into her inner being. She’ll never be able to express her vulnerability and her needs again. She’ll turn into a bundle of repressed feelings, she’ll internalize your rejection, and prolly she’ll end up joining the Lezbian Conspiracy and buying those monster dildoes like Zen101 was complainin’ about.
Another innocent female turned to the Dark Side, and it’s all your fault. Tsk tsk tsk.
[this post is available in a special format for the sarcasm-impaired; see the Straight Dope Home Page.]
You heartless bastard.
Don’t you get it? The music moves her much more than it moves you, and therefore she has greater rights to it than you do. It’s in the Constitution! Well, not directly, but this country was founded on Windeo-Saplian values.
And you leaned back away from her. Another insult. Embrace the fervent expression of saplingicity before you. Be the wind.
I would go on, but you get the point. Shame on you.
Let me put it this way: if she was wearing a fragrance, it was called Snatchouli.
Her mother probably thinks she’s “plain, but not unattractive.” And I’m sure, in the proper season, rutting males of her species (Praesultator horribilis ssp. foetidus, common name Prehensile-toed Anti-ablutionist) find her irresistible. They also, I have little doubt, find her from great distances if they’re downwind. And no, she didn’t fart, though I feel I would have welcomed such a relative breath of fresh air (from where she was situated, it would have blown my hair back).
She was swathed in flowing, vaguely Eastern, unwashed natural fibers (yes, swathed is definitely the word) seemingly designed for the maximum surface area for odor propagation and retention (many anaerobic inner folds) and diffusion (her motions and gestures appeared calculated to stir as much air as possible with her foul drapery). Oh, and toe rings.
Um, all of the above? I doubt if anyone would describe my manner as fierce or belligerent (perhaps the couple Dopers who know me IRL will contradict me), but I am kind of large and, I hope, imposing. The cutting wit goes without saying, so pretend I didn’t say it.
Norwegian folk-pop. I forget the song.
Actually, I pantomimed doing so for part of her performance. Everybody else was entertained.
I smelled that once, driving home from a camping trip with my sweaty sister-in-law. I contemplated pouring gasoline into my nostrils. If that didn’t work, I’d light it.
Good line, Lissener. Seriously, though, you handled the whole thing wrong from the start. The moment she started dancing in front of you, you should have stood up, said “Hey! Yeah, You! I’m sitting here!” and then just keep on shouting at her until she went away. Why be nice? She was in your way, wasn’t she?
yeah, but what kind of loser sits down through a show? dancers, even stinky ones, get priority over sitters. if you want to sit and watch, go to a movie.
i don’t like it, 'cos i’m lazy, but those are the rules.
anyway, you can’t really win an argument with hippies unless you punch them or knife them. they have a impenetrable field of passive aggressiveness which they cultivate in the bathroom instead of bathing, and if you try and argue with them, the passivity kicks into fatal (to you) overdrive. physical violence breaks the field because they have to hit back, and you can’t be passive and punch somebody. unless you’re karate master, in which case, you are at home training, not at a show.
For s/he of little imagination who cynically concluded that there was no coming back from the line, “What do I owe you for the lap dance,” I offer the following.
One she had made it clear she was not dancing for you nor was she interested in you, the obvious comeback is:
[shouting over the music]
“Dance? You must have misunderstood. I asked if anyone has ever told you you look FAT in those PANTS!”
[/shouting over the music]