HOME
ART/CULTURE
TRAVEL
NEWS/EVENTS
“A SENSORY BRIDGE TO GLOBAL CULTURE”
PUBLISHER’S CORNER
Advertise in:
AS WE INAUGURATE
TANGO LIFE & NEWS
TAKE ADVANTAGE OF OUR EXCLUSIVE
ONE-TIME OFFER TO PLACE YOUR AD HERE
FREE DURING NOVEMBER!
ADVERTISERS, DON’T MISS THIS CHANCE TO FEATURE
YOUR BUSINESS IN PREMIUM WEB SPACE
THAT WILL BE SEEN BY A GLOBAL AUDIENCE!
FOR DETAILS.
312.287.8406
AS A SPECIAL INTRODUCTORY BONUS, YOU’LL ALSO RECEIVE A DISCOUNT ON ADS PLACED THROUGH JANUARY 6, 2011.
Original short story by Robert Fulghum, written July 17, 2007, has been adapted for TL&N and printed with the author’s permission. Robert Fulghum is the author of the book, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.”
Learn more at www.robertfulghum.com
ROBERT FULGHUM
JOURNAL EXCERPT
DELUSIONS & REFLECTIONS
OF AN AGING
NOVICE TANGUERO
WRITTEN SUNDAY, JULY 15, 2007 FROM SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, WHERE IT’S WARM, CLEAR, AND SUMMER TANGO …
EDITOR’S NOTE: TL&N is pleased to present this humorous perspective on how tango enhances the aging mind and spirit.
Tango is not disco. But that’s the feeling I’m after in taking up the Argentine tango challenge. It’s the impression I want to make. I want attitude you can smell. When I walk into a club, and put on my shoes, I want people to stand back in awe and fear. He’s here! Señor Fuljumero! The man can dance! Women will stand in line to be asked. Take a number.
Fat chance, you say, for a white-haired, seventy-year-old man whose pot-belly shows no matter how hard he tries to suck it in. A murmur will emerge from the crowd. “Oh-my-God, why is he here again?” Men will smirk. Women will leave en masse for the ladies’ room. Bartenders will call 911.
Go ahead, mock me. Señor Fuljumero — Tanguero Último2 — is on the move.
Well, OK, so far I can flare my nostrils pretty well. It’s a start. And I have the suit, the shoes ― even the hat. The lessons are coming along nicely. And nobody actually runs when I show up for an evening milonga.1 Looking like you might know what you’re doing is essential, and I can at least do that.
Women have actually asked me to dance. Well, OK, one woman — the beauty-impaired, sequined-up old lady with toxic breath who manages to show up wherever I go to dance. Maybe I’m overdoing the nostril flaring.
Tango is not for wimps. Tango training requires stamina, fitness, and the ability to make quick, graceful moves without falling down. The dancing doesn’t start until 11 o’clock at night and goes until three in themorning. Shifting to night-owl existence is a new zone, like having musical jet-lag.
My children are embarrassed by my activities. They don’t talk to me about how I’m spending my time. They know. But they are all middle-aged...they can only imagine, and they never ask for details:
Soooo...What’s wrong with being loose? Loose is not immoral or illegal. So what if they have to come and get me in Buenos Aires because things got so loose that some of my parts came unhinged? Or so what if I die some humid night dancing in a basement waterfront dive with a smoldering Latina wrapped around my body like an anaconda. Soooo?
“What’s your old man doing this summer?”
“Well, he’s obsessed with the crows in his
yard and tango dancing, and he’s out on the town until three in the morning four
nights a week.”
“Wigged out? Senile?”
“We’re not sure — but something’s loose.”
Remember the film, Saturday Night Fever? Remember the way John Travolta pranced down the street? How he walked onto the dance floor? Electric, alive, a stud horse with flaring nostrils! Men watching stood back; women breathed heavily, twitching with eager rhythm, drops of perspiration on their brows. The music cranked and the crowd went wild when John went into his disco moves. The man could dance!
PAINTING BY DIMITRIS KATSIGIANNIS
