Frankie Manning

Frankie Manning died today. He was just a month away from celebrating his 95th birthday at a huge swing event in New York. I always hoped I would get a chance to meet him or at least take a workshop with him before he was gone. Well, it's too late now. I hope when I'm old, I'm still dancing, doing what I love, like him. And I hope at least a handful of people remember me from my dance classes and think that I gave them something worthwhile.

Rainy Day

Today was a windy, rainy day. When I went out to lunch, I was miserable. I zipped up my jacket and squinted my eyes and got upset about being wet. On my way back, I just decided to smile. Suddenly, the rain was fun. And for some bizzare reason that made me want to start a weblog.

Rainy day, dream away
Ah let the sun take a holiday
Flowers bathe an' ah see the children play
Lay back and groove on a rainy day.
- Jimi Hendrix

Jazz Lessons

I started on Clarinet in 5th grade and played up until my 2nd year of college. I'm actually pretty good. Not phenomenal, but pretty good. I never took music theory or paid much attention to scales and chords and the like. I'm good at playing what's written on the page, not thinking about it so much.

I've always wanted to be able to play jazz. It just looks like so much fun. And I know I can improvise, I'm a dancer. I've done tap improv in front of audiences before no sweat. So I started taking jazz lessons, assuming it would come naturally to me without too much effort on my part. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

I don't understand 1/2 of what my teacher says. He assumes I know a lot more music theory than I do, seeing as I've been playing music so long. He says "B minor 7 chord" and slaps four fingers down on the piano, and I think "uuhhhhhhhhnngggggh" as my fingers randomly flutter around. I don't know the chord, I can barely remember how to play B-major. My fingers know how to do it, but I don't know what notes I'm playing. Or how to make it minor. And extracting the chord from that makes my head explode. I freeze up, try a couple wrong notes, freeze up again. I try to start slowly.

"Ok, B... B... ok, this is B. Do notes go up or down? Up, so the next one is A. No, C. How many flats in B? No wait, sharps. How many sharps? Like 5, or 6? C has gotta be one of them, ok, so C#. B, C#, A, no D. D#? Aha! D# is the 3rd. OK, if I can just remember that long enough to calculate the 5th and 7th, I'll have a chord. Oh shit... minor?"

All of that takes my teacher about 0.1 seconds to figure out. He just knows it. And while he's rattling on about how to go up the chord on a pivot to the 3rd of the next chord, play chromatically down to the root, then scale tones down and enclose the 7th, I'm still going "uhhhhhnnnnggghhh... is F# the 5th?" It's frustrating, for both of us. I can tell he feels like I am wasting both of our time, and I totally agree with him. The only way I'll get this stuff is to practice. But I don't. Ever. Not sometimes, or rarely, but never. I just can't seem to find time. I have a couple free hours during the week, and all I want to do with them is sit on the couch with a beer and a movie and try not to think about what time I have to get up in the morning. I feel like I am so far behind where he expects me to be, there's no way to catch up. It's like I'm trying to surf, but the wave is already past me so there's nothing to ride, and I'm just drowning in it's wake.

I've tried several times to work up the courage to quit. But every week I go I feel miserable and guilty, and then I think "OK, this week I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna practice every day, and I'm gonna get this stuff" but I never do. I want to. I want to be good at this, I want to be able to jam with a swing band at a dance and just have fun with it. I miss playing. But I hate feeling like a beginner again. I'd forgotten how hard it is to be a beginner at anything. It's easier when you're in school because everyone's a beginner together, but now it's just me, and I feel pathetic.

I'm going to practice tonight.

Ramblings on the Supernatural

I am a realist, naturalist, materialist, atheist... I'm not sure what to call myself. It's a difficult thing to explain to most people, but I will do my best. Everything in the universe happens because of cause and effect, governed by physics and mathematics. There is nothing outside of this. This comprises the whole of reality. Anything beyond this view of the universe is what I call supernatural. This includes ESP, magic, ghosts, souls, gods.. anything I can't explain with a mathematical model.

In prehistoric times, everything around us was beyond our abilities to explain. Why does it rain? Because the rain god sends rain. Ahhh, it feels good to have an explanation. But eventually we discovered that clouds were made of water vapor and that when they reach the dew point they condense into water which falls out of the sky because of gravity. Well, who made the earth and sun and sky to make all that possible? Musta been God! Ahhh, it feels good to have an explanation. But eventually we discovered that the earth and sun and sky were created by swirling gasses left over from a supernova 5 billion years ago in the Milky Way galaxy, and that that was a result of the original Big Bang which created all matter and time in the universe. Oh! But somebody must have set off the Big Bang. That musta been God. Ahhh, it feels good to have an explanation. It's only a matter of time before we can explain the Big Bang, and then the supernatural will be pushed back even farther. To put it in math terms, the limit of God, as knowledge approaches infinity, does not exist.

I believe science is the process of converting what is perceived to be supernatural and making it natural. As we learn more about the universe, the need for God disappears. As we learn more about the mind and body, the need for a soul disappears. I believe that if we could continue learning forever, we could do away with all things supernatural. Most people are not comfortable with this. They feel it reduces us to mere automotons, biological computers that can't make independent decisions. I don't argue that that is what we are, but I don't think that reduces us. It is still a wonderful and amazing thing to be alive, to be Human, to think and feel and love and hope and be the wonderfully complex beings that we are. Just because it's the result of physics and chemistry doesn't make it any less real. This is the whole of reality, there is no higher consciousness for us to aspire to, so what are we being reduced from? If you believe in angels and gods and souls than of course being just a series of chemical reactions is unromantic and depressing. An example would be if we lived in 2-dimensions, everything flat. The entire universe was 2-dimensions. What need is there to invent a 3rd dimension and then lament the fact that we can't attain it? Or to pretend that what we can't explain happens in the 3rd dimension. I think everything is explainable in the world we are in, and that nothing fantastical needs to be invented to explain it any better. And I wouldn't be depressed by the realization that I was only a 2-dimensional being, because to me, two is all there is. Sure if you believe in 3, then thinking that you will only ever be 2 would be sad... you wouldn't want to accept it.

But just because I don't believe in the supernatural doesn't mean I don't think it's possible. Anything is possible, but some things are much more probably than others. A meteor could crash into me and kill me right now, yet I have no fear of that happening. It's possible that there exists a separate set of rules that govern the universe, that has no observable impact on my life, no proof of existence, and yet could account for God, souls, and everything else. It's possible that some people can detect this, and some can't, and that I am one who can't. All of this is possible. But I were to accept everything that is possible, it would be the same as not believing anything. I have to take what I know to be the most probable explanation of the universe and treat that as the truth, even if it's possible I am wrong.

I don't believe in a soul-mate. I don't believe that there is just one person who you are meant to be with, and no one else can make you as happy or complete as that person. I believe everyone is different, and that we each have relationships in different ways, we each compliment each other slightly different. I believe that finding someone who makes you truly happy is a rare and wonderful chance, and that when you find it you should hold on to it. If you lose it, it's true that it is possible to find it again. But you might take years to find it, or you may never find it. And certainly, the experience will never be the same. It will be a different person, a different connection, a different time in your life. So when you find someone that makes you truly happy, happier than you've ever been before, someone who compliments you in ways you didn't think anyone could, you hold onto that, you fight for it, as if they were the only ones you could ever feel that way about.

I could have any number of possible lives. Some of them happy, some of them sad. Every day I make choices about what to keep and what to change in my life. Every day I make choices that could lead me down different paths. In an infinite universe, anything is possible, even the supernatural. These paths can take me to any place I want to go.

And every day, I choose you.

No sane man will dance

Dancing occupies so much of my free time, it's hard to really calculate. Between organizing, emailing, driving, dancing, workshops, teaching, choreographing, not to mention the money... it's just inconceivable how much energy I put into dance.

I started dancing when I was six. I loved Mary Poppins, and my favorite part was the dance number Step-In-Time. I watched Bert and the other 'sweeps soft-shoeing up on the roof, and I knew I wanted to do that. I've read whenever Shirley Temple came out with a new movie, enrollment in tap classes skyrocketed. It was kinda like that for me. I saw that and decided "yeah, I want to do that." What can I say, I was a weird kid.

I used to do shows in the living room on a piece of particle board. At Thanksgiving I would charge a penny, hand out tickets, set the stage, get everyone seated, and put on a show. It didn't sound like much, but I thought I was kickin' ass! My grandmother used to tap a bit. At one of my "shows" she taught me how to do a shuffle, and maybe a couple other moves. Then for my birthday she bought me lessons at Swan Ballet Dance Schools. It was weird, being the only boy. I was so shy, and I didn't get over my shyness until about halfway through high school. It's hard being a boy and taking dance lessons. It's just not something you can tell your 3rd grade friends. Barely any of my friends knew about it until high school. It was a weird double life. But I couldn't stop. I loved it too much.

I immediately excelled at tap. I was moved into the advanced class when I was 11 or so, and I was in class with a bunch of high school girls who thought I was adorable. Everything about tap just made sense to me. There was nothing the teacher could throw down that I couldn't pick up. I danced all the time, in department stores, grocery stores, in the kitchen at home, under my desk at school, even now at work in the kitchen or by my computer.

If I had wanted to, I could have gone professional. I'm sure of that. If I had had the initiative, I could have taken more classes, switched to a better school, taken theater lessons, auditioned for shows, I really could have done it. I never practiced, but I'd be willing to bet I'm one of the better tap dancers in the state. If I had wanted to, I could have made a career out of it. But I didn't want to. And I don't. I never wanted to make it about money. I love it too much to sell it. I wouldn't have been happy struggling as a performer. I'd rather do it in the comfort of my own free time. Just for me.

High school was a big coming-out for me. I was finally secure enough to admit to people that I took dance classes. Hell, I even told people I took ballet. I feel like I experienced a shadow of the courage it must take some people to come out about being gay. (In fact, I'm pretty sure there were some people who thought I must be gay.) I took up swing dancing, I tapped in the school musical, I really started to make my dancing public. It only took me the better part of a decade!

When I got to college, suddenly I had the opportunity to teach and choreograph with UDC, an then Wilson. I enjoy teaching, and choreography is OK, but nothing compares with the dancing itself. The best part of my job at Wilson is the 15 minutes after class, when all the kids leave, when I can just jam. Being able to do that makes me happy on even the worst days. There were times, around when I broke up with Mary, that that was the only happy part of my week.

Tap dancing makes me happy like almost nothing else can. Some days I'm just so in the groove, everything I do sounds good. Even swing can't match it. I still feel self-conscious doing swing sometimes, even though I know I'm pretty good at that. (Probably the best in town, actually.) But tap dancing, I have no reservations, I can just unhook my brain and dance! If you don't have a creative outlet like that, you can't understand how it feels. It makes me feel so good about myself. Sometimes I feel a glimmer of that when I swing dance. Once or twice I played a few notes on my clarinet that made me feel like that. But nothing will ever match the high I get from tap dancing.

A Little Room for God

I do not believe in God. I sincerely doubt I ever will. There are two main reasons:

1) I have no evidence of God

Some people assume Atheists actively deny the existence of God. That something must have convinced us that there is no God. In my case this is not true. In fact it's the opposite. Nothing has shown me that there is a God. If no one had ever told me that there is a God, I wouldn't know to even consider it.

2) I have no need of God

I can be happy with myself and my life, and I can explain the world around me, without the need of a god. Science and math can explain the entire universe, everything that happens or will happen or has happened. And I do not feel any emptiness or void in myself that needs to be filled with a supernatural being.

But am I right?

I think so. But I am scientist enough to acknowledge that I may be wrong. I may be crazy. Do crazy people know they are crazy? If I were crazy, how could I trust my perception of the world? It might be completely off.

Or maybe I am defective. Maybe most people that claim to feel the "presence" or God are right, and I just lack the ability or the sensitivity.

Maybe we as humans, as objects in the physical universe, can only interact with other physical objects. There could be infinite other entities occupying the same space in the universe that we are simply unequipped to perceive. We can only rely on our 5 senses.. what if there are things outside those senses? Can you prove there are not particles in the universe that don't reflect light, occupy volume, or exert electromagnetic, gravitational, or strong or weak atomic forces? No, you can't. There would be no way for us to detect them.

Lastly, there is the question of Why. Why is there matter and energy and time and space? I don't mean that there is necessarily some purpose to them, but there has to be some explanation. We are made of atoms. Atoms are made of particles. Particles are made of quarks. Quarks are made of energy. Energy is... what? How does it exist? What explains it? Where did it come from? It is said that energy is a basic property of the Universe, that it just is. This however, is just as ridiculous an argument as stating that "God just is." There atheists and theists meet a common obstacle.

It is there, at this most basic question, that we define the difference between theists and atheists. Theists would believe that at this level there was a conscious, powerful intelligence that created energy. An atheist would say that it was an unconscious physical happening. There is no way to prove either, because any explanation of either would need to be further explained ad infinitum. Where did this god or physical force come from and what is it?

And so, I will admit that even in my worldview, there is a room for the possibility of God. I just choose to believe in the less fantastic of two equally impossible realities.

Coke and Me

This is totally serious and totally scary.

This is a story about Coke.

On Tuesday, Sept. 2, I had a major hankering for a Coke. I went to the break room, but the machines there only have 20oz bottles for $1.00, and I didn't want that much sloshing around all day, so I made the long lonely trek up to the 5th floor. There we have an ancient, rickety old machine that serves 12oz can for $0.50. For you mathematicians out there, that's a reduction in price from $0.05/oz to $0.04166/oz, or 16.66%. Needless to say, I was pretty stoked. So I put in two quarters and gleefully mashed the Coke button with my right thumb, only to be greeted with an incessantly blinking orange-red light next to the fateful words "Sold Out". Totally bummed out, I conceded defeat and pulled the coin release lever. BUT IT DIDN'T WORK! (Here's where stuff starts to get hairy.) I pulled and pulled, like a be-nickeled slot machine patron, but to no avail. I perused the less palatable options and eventually settled on the lesser of 4 evils, Sprite. Sprite is an odd sugar-water substance that is supposed to taste like lemons and limes (which would be delightful!) but instead tastes like carbonated corn syrup in water. Because that's what it is. Finishing a whole can of Sprite usually makes me feel vaguely ill, a little jittery and washed out at the same time, like I just drank diluted Windex. But I would rather feel sick than lose $0.50 of my hard earned cash! Opening a can of Sprite is the worst part. You get that wonderful kuh-shhhh-thuk sound of aluminum snapping and carbon escaping into atmosphere, and your Pavlov brain screams "Coke!" to which your tongue has to deliver the bad news, like a parent telling their overexcited offspring that they are not going to Disney World, but Dizzy Whirled instead. I dejectedly slumped back to my cube to finish the deed.

At least that was the end of my problems.

OR SO I THOUGHT!

Flash forward to Wednesday. My unsatiated taste-buds are turning on the charm again, and I think I'll try for that Coke. They must have refilled the machines last night! There will be plenty of Coke for all! I jumped on the elevator and ascended towards the clouds, my mind billowing with the prospects of Coke in the near-future. I run to the old machine to find - GASP - they have not refilled the machine. The sold out light is still resolutely shining, and for all I know may have been shining for the past 10 years, an aging beacon of a the past century. But today, I will settle for nothing less than my ultimate goal. Undeterred, I jumped back on the elevator (the girl at the front desk glancing up quizzically, wondering why I keep running around the top floor with no apparent errand), and plummet slowly back to the basement. My lips tingle as I approach the break room. I don't care if it is 20oz, I've got two days worth of Coke-imbibing pleasure to catch up on. (Which, by my previous goal of 12oz, would be 24oz, so really 20oz is taking a 4oz cut, or 20%. But at a time like this, I couldn't give a rat's ass, plus I didn't bring my calculator, because I already used my pockets to load up on quarters and hands.) Finally, there I stood, basking in the red glow of the coke machine. Just before I pushed my quarters into the slot, I glanced up and read a pleasant reminder not to shake or rock the Coke machine. Now why would I want to do that? Nationwide, more people were killed this year by falling Coke machines than by terrorists. (It's funny though, we haven't spent trillions of dollars fighting automatic drink vendors...) I chortle merrily as my quarters go bumping and chinking down the chute to rest with their kin. At last, the display reads $1.00. This is my stop, time to get off. I gently press the Coke button and wait for salvation. A whirr. A pause. A sudden clunk as a plastic bottle of liquid falls helter-skelter down from it's frigid abode. I reach into the bin at the bottom of the machine and pull out - A SPRITE! My mind reels. My hand shakes. My tongue cowers in the back of my mouth, threatening to jump down my throat and just end it all. Why, O Fates, have you such hatred reserved for me? For a moment my reeling mind reels towards revenge. I want to hurt that machine. I want to make it feel my pain. Eyes burning, I advance towards it, arms outstretched, when I remember the warning about shaking. Of course. That's just what it wants me to do. I realize this is one battle I can't win. I back away slowly, never breaking eye contact, until I'm out in the hall. Back at my desk, I feebly dump Sprite down my throat, trying to drown my sorrows in Windexy oblivion

You've won the battle, Coke machines.

But the War... well, let's just say I've got a lot of quarters left, and I won't be doing laundry for a long time. If you know what I mean.

Be afraid!

THE END