For my final finals feat, I answered your typical kitchen-sink issue spotter about discrimination and then drafted a proposed amendment t Title VII to answer any problems I - as a theoretical aide to a feminist Washington legislator - feel have arisen in the federal courts' interpretations of sexual harassment law (which, quite frankly, is kookier as all hell).
I naturally suggested that all sexual harassers (defined as "persons endowed with external genitalia, who attempt to interact in any way with persons endowed with internal genitalia") be immediately rounded into fenced areas and pelted with rotten fruits ("including, but not limited to, tomatoes, bananas, all products listed in 294 USC sec. 3941(a)(1)(iii) and any product susceptible to becoming softened through a process of oxidation and bacterial build-up a product of which is a smell to be defined by guidelines established through the EEOC). No, I don't really know what I wrote, but naturally, it was doubtlessly brilliant and should be enacted into law by this time next week.
I began my spring break far more actively than one might expect by attending the PNB's Contemporary 4, which was a fantastic show. I used to hate contemporary dance passionately, but the more exposure I've had to really good contemporary, the more I can buy into the strength, emotional prowess, humor and musicality that it can grasp when properly done. And it was quite properly done. The show consisted of - you'll never guess - four pieces, which were generally in the contemporary style.
The first was Mark Moriss' Pacific, which will be most prominently remembered by me for the surprisingly pleasant effect of extraordinarily fit men in long flowing pants/skirts and little else beyond a sheen of perspiration.
The second was by far my favorite - a world premier of Marco Goecke's Place a Chill, an ode to the cellist Jacqueline du Pré,. Her career was cut short by a debilitating disease that caused her to lose physical control of movement and confined her to a wheelchair. Set to Saint Saen's Cello Concerto 1, the piece interplays with the lush and sensual musicality in a surprisingly effective show of rapid pace jerks and twitches mimicking her disease. The dancing, with its heavy emphasis on small and speedy body isolations, could easily be set to hip hop, but with the Saint Saens... it just works. Mostly I was torn between tears from the emotional impact and an objective sort of fascination with the technical perfection and cleverness of the whole thing. It was so well balanced. I wish I could really embody how evocative the contrast became, but ultimately it was simply superb.
The third was another oldie, Piano Dances (a number of short pieces set to ten piano solos of varying modernity and tonality), and the fourth was a PNB premier of Alexander Ratmansky's Concerto DSCH. They both featured fantastic interactions between the dancers, the latter featuring a somewhat pas de deux and a pas de trois that was utterly delightful and moving at the same time. I found myself giggling and clapping my hands together at the moments of sheer inventiveness. But I will stop now, because I find when I write approvingly of my experiences, they feel fawning and far duller than when I skewer things. I suspect this is why critics really ought to hate their art-form. It's just more interesting to read that way.
Not to be quieted quite so soon, I spent Sunday somewhere near Lake Samish, watching some more sweaty men in tights and spandexy outfits performing feats of emotionally intense athleticism. Yes, it's mountain bike racing season, and it was pleasantly not so close to freezing as to turn me a shade of blue slightly more prominent than Andrew's racing jersey. Incidentally, his new team is called Blue Rooster and I just have to ask, am I the only one who feels this team name is rife for innuendos about sexual frustration... take a minute on that one, it involves a few mental steps... yeah.
I began my spring break far more actively than one might expect by attending the PNB's Contemporary 4, which was a fantastic show. I used to hate contemporary dance passionately, but the more exposure I've had to really good contemporary, the more I can buy into the strength, emotional prowess, humor and musicality that it can grasp when properly done. And it was quite properly done. The show consisted of - you'll never guess - four pieces, which were generally in the contemporary style.
The first was Mark Moriss' Pacific, which will be most prominently remembered by me for the surprisingly pleasant effect of extraordinarily fit men in long flowing pants/skirts and little else beyond a sheen of perspiration.
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| Move over, utilikilt... Nummy |
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| Also kudos to the PNB person who made the executive decision to work shirtlessness as an enduring motif |
Not to be quieted quite so soon, I spent Sunday somewhere near Lake Samish, watching some more sweaty men in tights and spandexy outfits performing feats of emotionally intense athleticism. Yes, it's mountain bike racing season, and it was pleasantly not so close to freezing as to turn me a shade of blue slightly more prominent than Andrew's racing jersey. Incidentally, his new team is called Blue Rooster and I just have to ask, am I the only one who feels this team name is rife for innuendos about sexual frustration... take a minute on that one, it involves a few mental steps... yeah.
Andrew did well, which always makes for a slight uptick in the mood on the way home, which is fraught well enough with sheer exhaustion and a little bit of residual racer instincts that can make the freeway portion a little, er, exciting.
But enough! My brain liquidated sometime last week and is starting to leak out my nose. So, today, I am doing it right: America's Next Top Model, a big cup of tea and a whole lotta drooling. SPRING BREAK!!!!!!!
But enough! My brain liquidated sometime last week and is starting to leak out my nose. So, today, I am doing it right: America's Next Top Model, a big cup of tea and a whole lotta drooling. SPRING BREAK!!!!!!!
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