The Salsa Binge

                                                       Death comes to the salsa world.

Sunday night, January 12, Becky Bishop, 65, died when she drove her SUV under the bed of semi-trailer on Burnet Road.  She had just left the Go Dance studio after a fine evening of dancing. 

Becky was one of my favorite cha cha partners.  She was always smiling and laughing, even after teaching the beginner’s class at DNC on Thursday night.  Her horrifying death snapped into focus for me the reality that we do not know how much time we have left in our lives.  I also realized that I want to be like Becky, and dance in the last hour of my life.

I had planned on going to thirty clubs in thirty days for my birthday month of Aquarius, from January 20 to February 18.  Becky’s death prompted me to move my start date up to January 15. 

I asked myself “Why wait?”   

So, during the last thirty days, I have gone to 33 clubs.  They were mostly salsa or bachata events, although when there were none to be had, I went to see and hear bands of friends of mine who were playing around town.

One day, just to make sure, I threw the red flag, and asked several salseras for a booth review. My question to them: If I'm in a club at say 11:00 pm, and I'm in the same club at 1:00 am, does that constitute two clubs in two days, or just one. 

They all said "No, that's one club in one day" and charged me my last time out.

It has been interesting to witness the reactions of people when I tell them what I’m doing.  Some people, very supportive, encouraged me to keep on keeping on. 

 “That’s great.  You are not just sad about Becky’s death; you are actually doing something positive about it”.  

 One person heartily approved: “Everyone needs to do that.”   

Others were non-committal, but they rolled their eyes as if to say I was obviously crazy.  Still others showed their concern by looking at me sideways and asking about my mental health and general well-being.  

 Them I asked: “How do you stop a binge?”   

One replied: “By definition, you don’t.  If you can stop, it’s not a binge.”   

Another person said: “The last time I binged, I landed in the hospital.  I haven’t had a drink since.”    

Experience has taught me one cannot both drink alcohol and salsa effectively, so I have not been drinking at the dance clubs.   

One friend said:  “Oh, good.  Phil and I don’t drink and party during the month of January every year, so I’m sitting at home drinking tea and watching TV, and you’re going to 30 clubs in 30 days.  Totally not fair.”  

Personally, I feel a binge resembles a forest fire.  You can’t stop it, you just have to let it burn out.

Because of the dance lessons I have been taking over the last month, combined with practically non-stop social dancing, my dance skills have improved, or at least so I’m told. I have expanded my horizons by visiting several venues I haven’t frequented before, and met many new, amazing dance aficionados.  Propelled by a friend’s untimely death,  I have found new friends through dance.  Becky would be proud.

What the What?

A few weeks ago, Lydia invited me to a salsa house party hosted by some friends of hers.  As she was the only person there I knew, I spent some time getting to know the others.  Beer and barbeque and salsa helped that process, and after a while I felt right at home.  At one point, I stood in the living room talking with five men in their thirties, all of whom knew each other.  Four of the guys wore wedding bands, with wives and kids all over the house.  The fifth one was engaged, and the conversation turned to the subject of how and whether one could find happiness in marriage.   

The guys kidded each other as guys do, with “you’ll find out”, and “it’s not too late” as part of the banter.  

As the only guy there with gray hair and several ex-wives, I offered up my experience: 

“If you want a happy marriage, find yourself a good-hearted woman, and then listen to her.” 

Well.    Judging by their reaction, you would have thought I had told them the secret to marital bliss included getting down on all fours and eating dog shit.  Their brains exploded.  I thought one guy was going to spit on the carpet.  

Cries of:

 “What, are you crazy?” 

“You can’t be serious!” 

“Listen to a woman?” 

“You must be out of your mind!” filled the air. 

I just shook my head and smiled, and had another beer.

Drinking Vodka

    

                                         Drinking Vodka

   Overheard in the salsa club:  I drink because I’m not happy; I drink, and I’m happy.

According to news reports, in the 15 months prior to her DWI arrest, Travis County District Attorney Rosemary Lehmberg allegedly purchased 23 gallons of vodka.  She averaged about 2 fifths a week.  This total does not include bar tabs.  Ms. Lehmberg’s vodka buying habits reminded me of an incident in my past.

       Several years ago, my work included a project which required a considerable amount of photo-copying.  I frequented a copy machine repair shop on South Congress.  They would put a repaired copier out for use, and have customers check out the machine before selling it to a business.  Copies were cheap, so I went in about once a week for several years.  As a result, I became friends with Melissa, the young woman who ran the front of the shop.  I entered the office early one Monday morning to find Melissa along with Brian, one of the repairmen, in the room. Melissa had her head on her arms on the desk, and the room reeked with the smell of stale beer.  I asked what happened.  She moaned, and told me that she and a group of friends had ridden in a RV to Dallas to see a NASCAR race at Texas Speedway.  They drank all the way there, all the time they were there, and all the way home, arriving back in Austin about 4 a.m. Monday. She had staggered to work at 8.  

I said “Melissa, don’t you know you should drink vodka, it doesn’t put the stink on you like other booze.”  

Merely mentioning vodka made her groan out loud.  Suddenly, before my disbelieving eyes, a most amazing transformation occurred.  Brian, the repairman, morphed into an eight year old child  (I can’t explain this; I can only report what I saw).  

In a trembling, little boy voice, he asked me:  “Is that why my grandfather drank vodka?”

Stunned and incredulous, I said:  “I don’t know.  Talk to me.”  

He told me he grew up in Harlingen.  He lived with his grandparents while he went to elementary school.  Every day he would walk home from school to find his grandfather sitting in a lawn chair in the front yard, waiting for him to arrive.   

His grandfather would take him by his hand, saying “Come on, boy” and they would walk four blocks to the liquor store, where Old Grandad would buy two fifths of vodka.  The old man would inhale one bottle on the walk home, and then sit in the lawn chair in the front yard and sip the other one dry before going to bed.  Every night. 

Do it first, and look like a leader...

"I'm the sort of guy at the dance, when the girls walk in they sort of walk on by, and they take a few turns at the dance hall with the guys that are a little better looking, a little flashier, and have a little more bling.  They're usually wearing silk shirts and shiny shoes." Ric Santorum.

    I take salsa lessons at the clubs to meet new dancers. I want to be the attending physician at the birth of a new salsa baby.  I still remember the first time I saw salsa.  I was at Ruta Maya eight years ago, and there was a young man dancing with a young lady, and he was spinning her every which way but loose.  I wanted to be that man.      

Just recently, I asked an accomplished salsera I hadn't seen before to dance.  As we were leaving the floor after our dance together, she turned to me and exclaimed: 

"I feel like I just got off the Tilt-A-Whirl at the circus!"    I beamed.

 
Here are some guidelines for beginning salseros and salseras.

For followers:

     I tell all the girls the same thing when they mention they are new and don't know what to do. 

 "All you have to do is two things to dance with me:  Keep your feet moving, and look pretty.  Can you manage that?"  They always say yes.  

As a follow, you want Galaxia's attitude, who told me one night, "I want to be the girl that every guy wants to dance with.  I pray to God to make it so."

     Beware of the beginner's bunny hop.  All beginner's exhibit a distinctive hopping motion early on.  As you become more comfortable with the basic step, try to iron out the hops.  You'll progress faster if you do.  Another characteristic of beginners is the death grip.  This is a powerful grasp of the leader's hand, and is very uncomfortable, and hazardous as well, because you can twist the leader's hand right off if you're not careful, like an aikido move.  To avoid this, follow the Rule of Thumb:  No Thumbs.  If you don't use your thumb, you cannot grasp your partner's hand.  Lose this annoying habit as quickly as you can.

     After a woman has been dancing for a few weeks, she becomes nervous and self-conscious about her lack of style and coordination.  She has started to know what she doesn't know.  My advice then: relax, breathe, follow your hand, and listen to the music.  Dancing involves having fun, so don't get hung up on what you can't do yet, and focus what you can.  And, practice, practice, practice.  

As famed salsa instructor Jose Santoyo told us during a recent class: "Repetition is our friend."

      At my last salsa outing, I danced with Illiana, who runs a horse stable north of Austin, where she offers equine therapy for autistic children.  It seems a special affinity exists between autistic children and horses.  There are several equine therapy centers in the U.S., and Illiana, along with several other women, provide training seminars in cities across the country.   

About half way through our dance, I leaned over and remarked:  “It must be hard for a horsewoman to be led around the dance floor like this.”   

She nodded yes, and replied “This is why I tell the other women at the stable they need to take dance lessons, so they can learn what being led feels like to a horse.”

    Dance shoes.  Women must find dance shoes that fit well.  Loose shoes will lead to blisters, and can cause you to stumble or twist your ankle as they slide around on your foot.  

The more experienced dancers wear shorter heels, although, as Galaxia told me one night: "If you can't dance salsa on 3 inch heels, you're not a salsa dancer".


For leaders:

   Learning to lead salsa requires more work than learning to follow. The leader has to perform the immediate move, plus think about how to lead into the next move at the same time. It's similar to playing pool, where one shot sets up the next, only the next shot happens every five seconds.  Plus, unlike pool, you have to watch out for whirling elbows.

    Partner dancing requires non-verbal communication. Similar to language, salsa has a vocabulary and grammar, which one uses to form sentences and paragraphs of movement. Before they can begin to salsa, newbies first have to learn the rules of vocabulary and grammar.    Just as there are four letters in DNA, the basic step, the  cross-body lead, the right turn and the left turn comprise the fundamentals of salsa.  When you can both perform and lead these four things, and carry on a conversation at the same time, you're ready to move on.  Remember, the term expert implies someone who performs the basics better than anyone else.

    The only demand in salsa involves respecting the clave.  I call it the tyranny of the beat.  Once you know the basics and can stay on the beat, the moves one can perform become limitless.  Take classes with as many different teachers as practicable, as each instructor will have his or her own preferences as to style, and you can pick and choose which ones fit your style.

   Always look busy.  A cardinal sin in salsa is to stop moving because you feel confused.  Instead, do the basic step, a cross-body lead, and a follower's right turn while you think about your next move. 

    Most salsa events have a free class early in the evening.  Take those classes.  After the class, stay and dance, even though you feel intimidated. It takes real courage to begin salsa.  I see it time after time, when the music starts, the beginners scatter like cockaroaches when you turn on the kitchen light.   After I had spent six months attempting to dance salsa, I saw, on two different occasions, a young man in his thirties who looked calm, and smooth, and in control of his partner.  I asked each of them how long it took them to achieve that level of skill.  

They both said: "18 months."  

At the end of my initial 18 months, and for the entirety of my birthday month, I went to thirty clubs in 30 days.  My dance marathon ended with the U.T. Salsa Fest, at which I met Melody, about whom you will hear more later.  So, keep dancing, don't quit, and you too can become a salsero.  The results are worth the effort.

    Salsa guru David Abril says salsa happens in the pause.  The pause on counts 4 and 8 gives salsa its' distinctive herky-jerky motion.  Listen to the music, honor the pause, and you'll look in control.  A salsa expert once told me that when you dance on one, you dance with the music.  When you dance on two, you dance in the music.  Find out which one you prefer, and do that.  And finally, don't be sucky.
 
    Try to be aware of the location of your center of gravity as you dance.   In Swing, your center of gravity should stay in your shoulders. Your feet should never touch the floor, you should seem to glide, not step, as you dance. In salsa, your center of gravity remains your hips and legs. You push the floor with your feet.  You will improve your salsa if you can keep your center of gravity low.

    My 5 Move Guideline for learning patterns:  I find that I cannot remember a new pattern that contains more than five individual moves.  Fives moves this week, five moves next week, and I've got a ten move pattern.  Many instructors believe they have to cram a hour class full of new moves.  I find that less becomes more in trying to acquire new techniques.  However, learning patterns is not enough.  I watched a lead at Dallas last night, and while he had learned many moves, he hadn't learned to dance.  He looked manufactured instead of organic.  Expressing your inner joy of movement defines dance, so listen to the music, and and let it control your body. And always remember leaders, it's not about you, it's about her.  

I always tell a new follow: "I want you to help me make you look good."  

Keep that attitude, and you'll have many willing partners.

     Final hint: Pay attention to the salsa clubs on the Full Moon.


http://socialdance.stanford.edu/syllabi/smarter.htm

Those Salsa Bitches

On Thursday night, Dallas Night Club rocks with the best night of salsa in Austin.  I notice Layla, the Brazilian sex therapist, back in town, and ready to dance.  Seeing her again made me think about how a seasoned salsera  looks and acts.  She’s wearing a brilliant orange sleeveless dress, with bare shoulders and cleavage.  It is a short dress, well above her knees, with rows of two inch fringe that stand out and seemingly shimmer of their own volition when she spins.  Her smooth, tan legs look yummy against the fluorescent orange.  Her light orange, satin dance shoes have two inch heels.  Layla, a strong-willed, exuberant dancer, will trample a weak lead.  I love dancing with her.

The mental conversation inherent in salsa appeals to me.  I love the anticipation and the move, the call and response aspects of just two people, making dance.  Some salseras feel as light as a feather.  Simply hit the turn signal, and they spin of their own accord.  You merely invite a move, and they know what to do; they flow gently into and beautifully out of it.  

You know you have a live one on your hands, if when asked if they can salsa, they reply: 

"You lead, I'll follow".  

Other, less experienced dancers need a firmer hand to know where to go.  Dancers with less than a year in the clubs require that you give them no option but to do the move you expect of them.  I call dancing with beginners "Tipping Cows".  If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of their hooves clattering across the dance floor.

"Want a beer?" I asked Layla.  

"No," she said, "I don't drink anymore." 

 "Oh," I replied, "Why not?" 

"The last time I drank, I ended up in handcuffs."  

"Wow," I said, "you mean when you woke up you were handcuffed to a bed?"  

Layla replied archly, "No.  I ended up handcuffed in the back of a squad car."  

"Oh, well, never mind," I said with a dismissive wave of my hand.    

Just then, Raoul walked up, looked at Layla, and said "You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  Let me marry you, and I'll take care of you forever."  

Layla looked at him skeptically, and said  "I don't trust you."   

"Why not?"  whined a crestfallen Raoul, with love and hurt in his voice.  

Stone-faced, Layla retorted:  "You're Latin".


I met Michelle, a new girl I saw at Dallas for the first time the previous week.  

I asked her to dance, and she said "Sure, but go easy on me, I have a phobia about salsa."  

"Phobia?" I responded, slightly cross-eyed.  

"Yeah, five years ago my old boyfriend told me I would never be a good salsa dancer.  I recently broke up with him, and I'm trying to get back into salsa."  

"Well"  I replied,  "Let's prove that sonofabitch wrong.  I'll tell you what I tell all the new girls I meet:  

I need you to help me make you look good.   You're the picture, and I'm the frame.  You only have to do two things to dance with me.  One, keep your feet moving, and two, look pretty.  Can you do those two things?" 

"Sure, I can do that" she said with a smile.  

"OK, let's see if you know the basics."   

I began the basic step.  "Check".  

Then I performed a cross-body lead.  "Check".  

Then a ladies right turn.  "Check".  

Then a cross-body lead to her right with a left-hand turn.  She stumbled and grabbed my arms in a panic. 

"See",  she said in a plaintive, little-girl voice, "I can't do it!" 

 I gave her a hug, and said "Don't worry honey, it'll be ok.  We'll work on it until you have all the tools you need," and I led it again.  And then again.  

I have done the same thing with more than ten beginners, and now that they are accomplished dancers, they still remember me as the nice guy who gave them a break when they were just starting out.  Time and patience yields excellent dance partners.  The following week, I asked her to dance again. 

 "OK," she scolded me with a finger, "but no scary moves."  

After dancing for a minute or so, she leaned closer, and said  "I feel so safe and calm when I dance with you.  You're like my salsa therapist!"  I just laughed.

Later, I danced with a talented, experienced salsera with whom I had not danced before.  I did my usual thing, and our backs collided four times in a row.  After the fifth time, I stopped and turned with a WTF?  look in my eyes.  

Unapologetic,  she shrugged her shoulders, and said  "I don't know what to do.  Every time I turn around, you're not there.  It's like a magic show!"  

She looked down at her satin dance heels for a moment, and then back up at my face.  "I know what it is.  You dance in a circle, and I dance in a slot."  

She had nailed the problem.  I came up through the Cuban-style rueda, and she began with the dance school slot routines.   After 18 months of non-stop salsa, I took Swing lessons for a while, so I now do swing salsa in a circle.  We mutually agreed to take a break.

When I saw Layla the next week,  she told me about what happened after she left the club that night.  She had stopped at a convenience store in the early morning hours to buy gas.  While she was standing at the counter to pay, a young woman, obviously flying, entered the store, and took Layla in with a glance.  

"Oh", the girl exclaimed in an overly loud voice, "you must be one of those salsa bitches!"  

She wanted to dance right then and there.  

Alarmed, the store clerk, in a voice inflected with a strong Bengali accent, asked 

"Should I call the police?"   

"No", Layla laughed, "she's right", and they danced in the aisle together.  

Layla left the store with a shake of her head and a smile.

Got time for a salsa lesson?

                                                          

 My martial arts career began more than 30 years ago.  Starting with self-defense , I moved on to Shodokan Karate, dabbled in Kung Fu for a year, and finally graduated to Tai Chi eleven years ago.  My self-defense sensei was Air Force Colonel Jerry Robinette (Retired).  Among other postings, he was Commandant at the Air Force SERE (survival, evasion, rescue and escape) School for two years.  When Vice President Lon Cheney wanted to set up a CIA program to torture information out of al Qaeda suspects, he reached out to the SERE School for instructors.  The SERE School  trainers modeled their tactics after those used by ChiComm interrogators during the Korean War.  The instructors intended to prepare present U.S. pilots for whatever detention tactics, including torture, they might encounter if shot down over enemy territory.  One of the Colonel's tasks included making sure the trainers received the support they needed to carry out their assignment.

     Colonel Robinette was a strict sensei who demanded excellence. Aspects of the the Colonel I admired included the fact that although he understood the power of carefully applied violence, he did not share the military's disregard for human life.  For example, Major General Johnson, commander of U.S. forces in Iraq's Anbar province, described civilian deaths as a "cost of doing business".

     The Colonel had sayings he had accumulated over a lifetime in the martial arts.  He would show us a move, and then say "OK, now repeat 10,000 times."  

Or:  "The more sweat on the practice field, the less blood on the battlefield."  

Or:  "You're not a loser until you quit."  

Or :  "What you're trying to do is replace your opponent's consciousness of you with the consciousness of PAIN."  

Or:  "If you can sit up and get out of bed the morning after a fight, you weren't fighting hard enough."  

One of the Colonel's comments profoundly affected my life.  His advice:  "Spend at least one hour a day on a subject, any subject, and after a while (he didn't say how long) you will become a world's expert on that subject."  I followed that advice in my day job, and ended up with six patents.

      As a former F-4 fighter pilot in Vietnam who flew close air support for ground troops, the Colonel liked the brutal, linear attack style of Shodokan karate.  Anyone knowing the nature of the Japanese schools of martial art, including karate,  would not find the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor surprising.  Do not telegraph your intent, just attack as hard as you can, as fast as you can, and as soon as you can.   After the Colonel passed away, I continued my study of  Shodokan Karate with the Colonel's sons, one of whom was Micheal Dell's children's bodyguard.

     One Tuesday evening, the Colonel stopped by to check on our progress.  The tempo of the dojo quickened when he entered the room.  He slowly made his way around the mats, asking each of us individually how things were going.  

When it was my turn, I said "Yes, Sir, my skills are progressing, although more slowly than I want."  

About six months before, the A.P.D.   S.W.A.T. team had invaded our school for a year's training in proactive self-defense, and I had been sparring with them on a regular basis.  

"I have a hard time keeping up with these younger guys,"  I continued.  

He smiled at me, and said   "Robert,  young men as a rule are faster, stronger, and have more endurance that us old guys.  So, in order for us to win, we have to cheat."  

 "Oh," I said, and returned to my workout, an enlightened grin on my face.

     Eleven years ago, I began studying the Chinese martial art of Tai Chi, which is a slow-motion form of kung fu.  Guy Forsyth, the Austin singer, songwriter, and musician, leads a free class every Monday and Thursday at ten o'clock at Strange Brew.  Want a one word description of Tai Chi?  Subtle.  The Tai Chi masters operate under the assumption that a beginning student has already spent twenty years or more studying other forms of martial art, and now stands ready to study the fundamentals underlying martial movement.    One day after class, I discussed the nature of karate, kung fu, and tai chi with Guy, who agreed with my assessment.  Using karate, you take your arm, and beat your opponent to death with it.  Using kung fu, you take your opponent's arm, and beat them to death with it.  According to the tai chi master's world view, to oppose your opponent's force with force is considered rude and uncouth.  Rather, one merely assists one's opponent in moving in the direction they were already going; preferably face first into a tree. Using tai chi, your opponent takes their own arm and beats themselves to death with it.  Subtle. 

     Eight years ago, I stumbled across salsa dancing. Salsa has has now joined martial arts as my main hobby.  I really love the universality of salsa.  The salsa dance floor represents the most integrated piece of real estate in the City of Austin .  On any given night, every race, every nationality, every religion, and all five sexes, including heterosexual male and female, gay and lesbian, and cross-dressing transsexuals (you can do amazing things with duct tape) are accounted for when the music starts.   Come to the clubs, and you'll see what I mean.

     After a while, I began to understand how my study of Tai Chi could inform my enjoyment of salsa.     Many martial art moves embed themselves in salsa, like the pattern called Wax On, Wax Off.   Tai Chi, for me, involves foot placement, so that if one gets one's foot in the right place, the rest of the move flows naturally.  The same insight applies in salsa.  Another similarity between Tai Chi and salsa revolves around the sparring mat and the crowded dance floor.  In salsa, you not only have to dance with your partner, anticipate her moves and lead her to the next one in a smooth fashion, but you also have to interact with the other dancers on the floor.  Avoiding collisions in salsa is just as hard, and takes just as much concentration, as sparring in the dojo.  Multiple dancers and multiple sparring partners impose the same requirements for mental anticipation and  physicality to perform safely. 

 "Louie", a former A.P.D. under-cover narcotics officer, was my karate instructor for two years while he studied for his black-belt exam.  At the beginning of each class he would say:

 "O.K., Ladies, listen up.  We didn't come here to practice bleeding, so take care of your partner".  I try to do the same on the dance floor.

     Soon after I began dancing salsa at Ruta Maya, I said to myself, 'Self, you can work out at the dojo, and wrestle with hot, sweaty men, or you can work out at the clubs, and dance with hot, sweaty, beautiful women. What's it going to be?'  

Now when I get home after a night of salsa , my hands smell like women and perfume, instead of boxing gloves and sweat.  Verdict ?  See you at the clubs. 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOMpi-TPdcw&feature=youtube_gdata_player

A beautiful Mexican comes sweeping in the door...

                                                                 

        During my weekly session, I spoke with Layla, the Brazilian sex therapist I met on the salsa dance floor.  I told her about my recent encounter with a gorgeous Mexican, Melody Sonora, on whom I first laid eyes at the U.T. salsa conference earlier that year.  Mel, tall and slender, had dancer's legs, lustrous black hair, and obsidian Aztecan eyes.  She combined a beautiful creature with a shining presence and a body built for two.  While sitting in the lobby of the ornate, chandeliered University of Texas Ballroom, looking at the floor as I waited for the doors to open, I heard footsteps.  Looking up, I saw black suede boots with four inch heels, then skin-tight black designer jeans, then a black western silk blouse with red roses embroidered across the chest, then a beautiful face ringed by curled black hair.  The coiled snake tattoo on her left shoulder, partially hidden by her blouse, should have warned me, but her looks had me too smitten  to decode the hint needled into her body.  I later regretted my inattention, as her beauty masked her reality.  

        I felt like a salmon, rising to hit the lure, as I stood up and asked her if she knew how to salsa.  She looked me in the eye and replied:  

        "Yeah.  You lead, I follow."  I fell instantly in love.

        We had a wonderful time at the salsa conference; she and I danced with the stars.  I gave her my card.  She called me the next day, and we began a long-distance relationship, because she lived in Dallas, and I in Austin. 

       Over the next several weeks, Mel revealed that she was 50 years old, divorced, with five marriages hanging from her custom Gucci leather belt, four grown children, and ten grand kids.  Dancing released her from the worries and strains of life.  What she didn't tell me, at least not right away, was that she was recently released from an Dallas mental hospital, which she entered following a mental breakdown precipitated by her fifth in an unbroken string of violently abusive husbands.   As I came to understand, she was half crazy, and the other half was on medication.  Mel, under the care of a psychiatrist, had her equilibrium  maintained by the anti-psychotic drug Topamax, a.k.a. Dopamax.  The manufacturer of Topamax recommends that you call your physician if you begin to kill small animals while consuming this drug.  Mel endured large mood swings, from fear, to rage, to shame, as she battled her memories of physical, mental, and emotional abuse at the hands of her "loved ones".  With her story slowly unfolding before me,  I became more and more engaged, as her situation was crack for my co-dependency issues. 

        I felt an overwhelming urge to play Savior to the rotting lepers in her mind.  As our relationship endured, her mood swings became more and more problematic.  She would go from happy and carefree to angry and repellent in a flash.  Her moods were brittle, like a glass rod, bending  under pressure only slightly before breaking with a loud snap.  She would change from sunshine and butterflies to rain and roaches in the space of a comment.  But, when she was nice, she was very, very nice.  I loved her when she was nice.  I still remember the taste of her smile.  I especially loved her when we were alone together on the dance floor.  The first time we made love, I found a small arrow, pointed down, tattooed below her bikini line.

        Layla listened to my rant with a non-committal gaze on her face.  

       When I finished, I asked her:  "Well, help me out here.  What do you think?"  

       She replied: "Most people have certain requirements for a good relationship.  Generally, things like sex, comfort, and companionship head the list.  What you want is someone who loves you like you love you.  But, at the end of the day, you have to take a hard look at yourself, and then come to Jesus.  Some people are the exact opposite of  "good for you".  You need to be able to recognize when you are in a dead-end, destructive relationship, and get out, even if your self-indulgent, lizard-brained pleasure center is happy rolling in the puke generated by the misery inherent in such a relationship.  Mel has a border-line personality disorder, and has been broken by her experiences."  

        "The border-line," I asked her, "between what and what?"

        "Between neurotic and psychotic," she replied.   "She can only drag you down.  Get out NOW." 

         I sat sadly looking at her, shaking my head no, knowing she was right.

         Now, everyone has baggage, and what you have to do is weigh the baggage and see if it's worth the freight.  Well, I checked, and Mel had a thirty mule team pulling her baggage train.  She was as crazy as ten rats in a burlap sack.  Still, I knew in my heart that underneath all that craziness and suffering and pain there was an eight year old child dying for love.  As I left the session, I resolved to ignore Layla's advice, and continue on in my relationship with Mel.  I thought perhaps Layla was overreacting, and everything would be fine.

       That next week, one of her exes contacted her, and she suffered a psychotic relapse that broke through the Dopamax.  She drove me in the ditch, pulled her plates, and split.  I still miss her, the way the memory of a painful, infected tooth lingers after an expensive trip to the dentist.

        I have learned something, though.  From now on, when I meet a beautiful woman, as soon as possible I'm going to check her purse for drugs.  Not only coke or crack or meth or barbs, but finding an anti-psychotic like Dopamax will make me run like hell.                   

                                                  To Mel:   Songs of the Year 2010

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3oNSFQVzNM

http://perezhilton.com/tv/index.php?ptvid=b9f728f5f1f2b

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zG16eqK9LL0&feature=related


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yZ1uI5yPbY