I lied about the next one being last...

Thoughts on a Digital Familiarization Course and Feelings of Inadequacy


I could, Zorba-like, teach you to dance,
to take part in the parson’s laughter of the feet.

I could introduce you to turnout, posture, carriage, proper handing, and a bright social spirit.

I could teach you steps - starting with the right foot except for the exceptions:
beginning hands around deseal -
and figures -
mnemonics to keep you straight most of the time:
the skirts go up and the pants go down; otherwise known as second couple face down;
which way to start as odd person out in a reel of three.

I could impress upon you the horror of a two-beat pas de basque,
and traveling on the hop.

I could indicate the few dances you should know by heart, and how to remember them;
chase, set, chase, set, down, up, pou, sette;
which tunes go with only one dance, and which dances must start with a certain tune.

I could show you how to recognize which are antique dances,
and which, gym mistresses’ redactions;
which are well thought-out, and which require unspecified foot-fiddling;
which are delightful dolphin innovations, and which are pointless modern messes;;
which are the products of Bletchley Park,
and which issue from the mathematics department at the University of Aberdeen;
let’s roll up the carpet and I beg to differ.

I could tell you what makes a reel a hornpipe or when a jig might slip,
and why Cairn Edward is almost worse than taking five with Brubeck;
introduce you to the joys of singing along, buchtin’ time is near, my jo;
and the hazards of such singing, oh my mother’s name is Lily, she’s a…

I could mention weekends and weeks, Asilomar, Pinewoods, Pawling;
tours with Ken to castles or islands or the Mediterranean.

I could explain how to order from the late James Senior;
how to tie a bow that will never untie itself, yet release easily when you want it to;
tell you about innersoles and gel liners,
and why tying your shoelaces above your ankles makes you look like McDork.

I could show you how to drape and pin an evening sash in a number of becoming ways,
Juan Valdez’s serape not being one of them.

I could recommend that you shorten your ball dresses so you won’t step on the hem,
choose breathable fabrics, use makeup that won’t sweat off,
and hold back on the color and pattern to let the men show off.

I could copy you my pattern for kilt hose,
lend you some stocking needles, show you how to cable,
and how to kitchener a toe (not true, that story about the general).

I could summarize crotal dying, fual mordant, wauking;
the tartan myth and the Sobieski brothers.

I could introduce you to pleating to stripe, to sett;
box-pleating, and gathering to a belt laid on the floor;
warn you about pushing your high-waisted, custom-tailored garment down to Levi’s level
and wearing it dangling around your calves;
about pinning both aprons together, matching your tie, or your socks before six;
and about inappropriate times for going regimental
(and I could Google up Col. West and Lance Corporal Wotherspoon for you as well).

I could point you to necessary lyrics through and beyond Burns and Scott and Caroline, Baroness Nairne.

I could give you party pieces, ach where were you, McAllister,
and they had conquered millions frae the Tiber to the Forth, Hamlet, Hamlet, loved his mammy;
and campfire songs, half a pint of woad per man’ll, let us worship like the Druids,
I am an Anglican, and round and round and round and round…

I could tell you why Miss Nancy Frowns (it has to do with Mrs. Hepburn),
and give you peripheral book and movie selections by the dozens, possibly hundreds.

…but it would take more than an hour a week for nine weeks.