Today, I watched a World Champion Salsa dancer drop a girl on her head. It could have been her fault, but I doubt it.

Last Wednesday, I got thrown into a Salsa Gang Bang scenario. It sounds pretty awful, but it's actually when a bunch of Salseros take turns dancing with a girl. Normally, they are all guys that I normally dance with. However, this time all these guys I had never seen before were showing up and the song was two things destined to kill a Salsera: fast and long. I was, literally, dancing as fast as I can.

Why? Because I'm crazy.

When World Champion Salsero jumped in, I went with the flow even though he was very aggressive, and flipped me over. I was relieved Serial Monogamist Salsero stepped in. However, I overheard World Champion yelling, "Castigala!" which translates to "Punish her!"

WTF?!

Needless to say, when I saw him today drop the girl on her head, I realized that he wasn't kidding.

In all fairness, mysoginy isn't a mentality relegated to Salsa World, but, like toxic mold, it's omnipresent even when you don't see it.

I was still proud of myself for keeping up.

Just for today, I can keep up with the Salsa Gang Bang.

Ever since I started dancing salsa, I have problems I never had before. Like, what's a good snack at 2:00 am? Where can I get grape flavored G2 (lighter version of Gatorade) on sale? And, where do I store my salsa shoes?

I've developed quite a collection of salsa shoes. I'm really hard on my shoes and I dance four days a week. While many pairs don't look or smell that attractive, they are still worth keeping. My Shoe Repairman told me not to keep shoes in my car because the heat melts the glue and allows them to wear out faster. I can't keep them in my closet because there of that olfactory quality that I would prefer not to expose to my clothes.

I have an old milk box built into my hallway that's become my unofficial Salsa Shoe Closet.

Just for today, I can deal with salsa shoes.

On Sunday night the cops pulled me over for running a stop sign. The Bad Cop shined a light in my face and bellowed, "Turn your engine off! and put your parking break!" as if I were a wanted drug lord with a murder record. Then The Good Cop came to my driver's side window and got my info.

The creepy part happened after I got the ticket and drove the 100 feet to a parking space in front of my apartment building (the high point of the evening). As soon as I parked I noticed that the cops had followed me, stopped the cop car, turned off their lights, and WATCHED AS I WALKED INTO MY APARTMENT BUILDING.

"Maybe they wanted to make sure that you got home ok," said my mother.

Maybe. But kind of hard to believe.

I hate to think how I might have been treated if I was black and male. I found some information on Internal Affairs, and I filed a complaint.

Just for today, I can challenge authority.

Last night, I went to a dinner party at the home of another Happily Married Couple who, as commonly happens, nvited on a single guy to joing because that's what Couple Friend(s) do. It always feels very awkward for me, and reminds me of They Shoot Single People, Don't They? (Sex and the City, Season 2).

After talking to Jewish American Salsera, I wondered if it's just me.

"We've been ruined by these salsa creeps," said Jewish American Salsera. "And now we're not fit to date normal American men."

I have to say that spending time with married couples, usually, makes me appreciate my salsa life all that much more.

Just for today, I appreciate being a Single Salsera.

I went to an 80's party last night where a bunch of pushing 40-year-olds pulled out their pastel sports jackets, shiny spandex, and Cabbage Patch moves. I think an 80's Dance Moves Class might be order, especially if such functions continue to become a part of the cultural milieu. I ended up witnessing a lot of bastardized versions of the Roger Rabbit, Pop Lockin', and Electric Slide. Somehow, they didn't look quite right...But at least the 80's produced dance moves...I don't know if the same can be said for the 90's (though, correct me if I'm wrong).

My vintage Cindy Lauper skirt went off without a hitch, and I complemented it with orange and electric blue eye shadow, and a solid gold chain that my mom gave me in high school. Some people wore Wanna Be 80's outfits that are brand new, but there's just a certain plastic flavored cheese missing from newly store-bought 80's clothes.

Just for today, I can be authentic 80's.

Last week, I went to Korean Coffee Shop Land in (guess?) Korea Town with Comp Lit Salsero (another smart one), and liked it SO much better than the my regular Coffee Shop Land. The Korean place made me feel like I was in another country (perhaps, Korea?). They played Korean Christian Rock, all the coffee drinks are at least $10, and everyone, but us, was a) Korean and b) smoking, and, yet, I still felt much more at home.

The best part was the bathroom which featured a bidet toilet seat with "rear and feminine wash." A person (like me) could control the pressure via buttons on the wall. Talk about class! I always thought that if Americans weren't so squeamish, there'd be a lot more ass products on the market (I'm becoming crass in my old age...).

I have to say, the Korean remix of "Kung Fu Fighting" was maybe the only low point in an otherwise great coffee shop experience.

I can't go back to the Original Coffee Shop Land. At least not alone. So long as I avoid eye contact, I'm sort of safe. I think I'd feel safer in a mafia-run pizza joint filled with bullet holes than a place that serves organic coffee.

Just for today, I can explore the world of Coffee Shop Lands.

Am I the only one underwhelmed by Michael Phelps' post-gold medal win speech? I'm not sure spending that much time in the pool is really good for anybody. Really, I think the guy could stand to crack open a book and expand his vocabulary...I'd much rather hear what the "losers" have to say.

Just for today, I'm bored by winners.

I havn't been watching the Olympics because I got sucked (or suckered myself) into this sometimes trashy, soft-core porn ShowTime series "Tell Me You Love Me" (on Netflix).

It's about couples going to therapy, and it turned into something like a ten hour movie with lots of front frontal nudity and no plot. I applauded the pioneering attitudes toward geriatric sex during the scene in which the 65-year-old therapist gives her husband a BJ. However, later, it got to be a bit much for me when she started saying things like "Fuck me!" and being multi-orgasmic. As much as I want to revolutionize sexual attitudes, I still want to keep my warm fuzzy feelings about grandmothers.

Just for today, I can get suckered into TV.

My friend is having an 80's themed dance party for her birthday next week, and just for occasion, I asked my mom to mail me my poofy gold and black Cyndi Lauper-style skirt from the 11th grade.

I remember my mom picking it out at the store, and lecturing me on learning to make fashion statements, and then me thinking, "you've gotta be crazy to think I'm going to pull that off." Somehow, I wore it to a couple of formal dances, and then it sat in the closet in my mom's house for 19 years, waiting patiently, for the 80's to become retro-chic.

Well, that day has come. And, now, the things I wear (slutty salsa dress) puts poofy Cindy Lauper dress to shame.

Just for today, I am feeling old.

I had to leave Coffee Shop Land. It was getting to the point where I was afraid to look up from my computer for fear that some Coffee Shop Weirdo would blaze his eyes into my face and say, "Whatcha writing?!"

"Because they see me all the time, they think I'm one of them," I told my friend.

I'm not saying that I'm not a social misfit, but I'm one with goals. If I'm going to be in the company of lost souls, I may as well go somewhere that doesn't leave me smelling like a grilled cheese sandwich. So I went to the public library, as I would prefer to be asked for money by a homeless woman wearing a blanket than conversation from Latte Heads.

Just for today, I'm a bitter ex-coffee shop dweller.

Last Sunday, I told Relentless Salsero why I've been avoiding him like the plague. For 36 years I've relied on my Avoidant Persoanlity to deal with relationship problems. I figured that if it was good enough for my parents, it's good enough for me.

However, it's starting to get a little old to expect everyone to interpret my non-verbal cues. I also don't know any other way to deal with Lost Coffee Shop Creeps (aka, Schizophrenics Without Meds according to fellow Bitter Coffee Shop Writer). I have to say things like, "Go away, please." Large Blond Guy, who, according to Coffee Shop Manager, gets here at 6:00 am and leaves at ?? pm, starts a conversation with me anytime my line of vision falls within a ten foot radius of him. It gets to the point where I'm afraid to look up from my computer. Bottom line, I'm all growed up and I need to start acting like it.

So, I figured I'd start with the person I've been most recently avoiding, Mr. Relentless.

Plus, Relentless has always been big on honesty. So, here goes:

"Your constant sexual aggression is totally alienating me from you," I told Relentless.

(You go, girl!)

"I'm not going to change. This is who I am," he responded.

"I'm not asking you to change. But if you want call me to go out to dinner or work out, I want to let you know why I'm not going to call you back. I'm just being honest."

After that the conversation devolved into something like third grade banter ending with his request that I not tell anyone else about our conversation in case he wants to "pursue" her (of course I won't tell anyone, but I will write about it in my blog). I've always admired Relentless' integrity about his sleazeball nature, but, in the end, hanging out with him left me feeling like I'd just been run over by a snail brigade.

Needless to say, he's not thrilled with me right now. I don't think being honest is a good way to become popular. But it does give me a lot more to write about.

Just for today, I can be honest in relationships.

I finished reading my big encyclopedic book about the history of marriage, only to find the most important information on the last four pages. Yes, it's filled with all sorts interesting and pathetic facts like, until the 1970's men could still force their wives to have sex with them (under American law), and the idea that professional women over forty are more likely to get hit by lightening than get married is a myth (tragically, the population least likely to marry consists of young African-American mothers living under the poverty line).

However, the most important piece of information FOR ME, is that when women get married they have less free time and do more housework, and when men get married they do less housework and have more free time.

'Nuff said. Yet, another valid reason for my revolutionary Intimate Neighbors Situation. Two seperate residences, one relationship. I get to keep my bathroom obsessively psycho clean and he (that mythical person), can watch his billboard-sized television with 5,000 chanels and keep his dirty dishes on the coffee table until the cleaning lady picks it up (all stereotypes inspired by ex-boyfriends).

Just for today, I can be validated by a history book.