How it started

I have 2 separate Twitter accounts, one for personal blather (@swingdag) and one for work (@chenglau).

@swingdag started as a dance account, an add-on to this blog, but it soon took over. It’s now the fun (and locked) account for blithe randomness about jazz, motorcycling, dance and phallic baked goods, mixed in with links and chatting with other tweeps.

@chenglau is the public ‘business time’ account. My online business card, of sorts. The business socks help, too *wriggles argyle-covered toes*.

Why have multiple accounts?

Space for my multiple identities

@swingdag is where I can virtually kick off my shoes and assume questionable positions amid multiple entendres. I wouldn’t do that in my workplace or with family

@chenglau is for what I’m confident about and don’t mind everyone knowing about. It reflects the side of me that is logical, organised (barely) and has a purpose.

Reflects the way my brain organises things

My brain separates work from fun, an overflow from an upbringing where learning was not creative.

It’s difficult to break the pattern, but I’m slowly finding ways to bring innovation back into my work headspace. Work is still not ‘fun’, but it’s certainly more interesting.

Keeping focused

I have way too many interests and need to actively tell myself to prioritise.

So when only the @chenglau window is open in Twhirl, all I allow myself to tweet about is web dev, new media, usability, design and writing links and musings. @swingdag is a sometimes treat.

False sense of privacy and control

I’d like to think that keeping a locked account means that I can filter out people that I don’t want in my life. False notion, of course. But really, it stems from self-consciousness.

Social networking

It’s my way of offering people a choice between whimsical Cheng and professional Cheng. The two worlds don’t often mix. Thus people I know through work don’t have to wade through pics of phallic cookies, links to jazz music or live tweets from swing dance events. If they want both, well, they can follow both.

Fun vs Serious

Basic Cultural Studies 101. The public realm vs. the private realm, where the public is about structure and objectives. The private is mere frippery with no particular aim.

I’m self-conscious about what I call fun, and at low points, I see my ‘fun’ as useless.

As I discussed with Xavier today, each part of your life pays great dividends to the others. It took me till I was 26 to understand that it’s ok to learn things that I may never make a profit from, like dance… that it was an investment towards my physical and mental wellbeing. I don’t know how I’d stay sane without cooking, writing or dancing.

But until I can profit from my hobbies, the dichotomy shall remain.

Conclusion

Like the way a website’s info architecture often reflects structure and politics within an organisation, my multiple accounts reflect the way my brain runs, in all its flaws and furrows.

I still have another 2 or 3 Twitter accounts. The beauty of social media is how it facilitates connections between like-minded folk, regardless of niche. There’s a dot-com, Twitter account and Facebook page for everything. You’ll find someone who thinks the way you do.

But for someone who is not a salesperson and doesn’t really want to have a personal brand, I’m not yet ready for the scrutiny. Fear tells me that I can’t afford to put out anything that may come back from its cached grave. A denial that humans change over time, perhaps.

Till then, this will have to do.

Back on the motorbike again after an enforced winter break with the following observations:

• Motorbikes rock.
• Hailstones fucking sting.
• Getting back on the bike is like… falling off a bike.
• As soon as another biker acknowledges you, life is sweet.
• The road suddenly holds ten times more danger than when in a car, what with slippery white paint, road snakes, tram tracks etc.
• The rest of traffic comes to  stop as you slice past, smooth as buttah.
• Drivers don’t concentrate.
• Drivers have their own definition of  ’sharing the road’.
• Drivers get very competitive.
• Being on two-wheels makes me a  traveling target.
• When cars come up close and travel neck-to-neck with me, even though I’m speeding to get away from them, they may not be trying to be bastards. They might actually be trying to see if that’s REALLY a Pure Blonde beer bottle being used as a coolant tank.
• The weather may be shocking, but at least you’re not in a cage, and therefore life, as you know it, is good.

I’m just going to miss being able to show up to swing events all prettied up!

An hour of relationship advice summed up in one line, “Honey, that chick’s too young to fry!” Usually cautiously given on urgent request, with more words and an egalitarian emphasis. Both parties usually have some growing up to do (don’t we all) and especially not on each others’ tab.

Posting the lyrics because I couldn’t find them anywhere else online.

That Chick’s Too Young to Fry

(performed by Louis Jordan, written by Tommy Edwards 1946)

Say boy, don’t you harm that bird
Don’t you dare to try
Start releasing that chicken
Or you’ll get a lickin
That chick’s too young to fry

Hey boy, better take my word
Here’s the reason why
Gotta feed her steady
till she gets ready
That chick’s too young to fry

Take her back in the barnyard
Then let her go, just turn her loose
Way out there in the barnyard
Where she’ll grow up for better use

Hey boy, there will come a time
Some day by and by
She’ll be ready for fryin
So stop your cryin
That chick’s too young to fry

Take her back in the barnyard
Let her go, just turn her loose
Way out there in the barnyard
Where she’ll grow up for better use

Hey boy, there will come a time
Some day by and by
She’ll be ready for fryin,
So stop your cryin
That chick’s too young to fry

Get away, stay away, come back another day
That chick’s too young to fry

“…give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.” – Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet.

I volunteer fairly regularly with a charity that I also used to work for. Last night was a pre-event meet-the-crew do at their South Melbourne office, with about 50 volunteers, mostly musos, choreographers and giggly interns from the PR company hired to promote the upcoming gala ball.

Then there were people like myself, there to make sure that the CEOs, socialites and celebrities attending give more than they’re already paying, and perhaps feel as though they’re getting their money’s worth.

I already help with web-related things where possible and may have volunteered myself to redo their email newsletter, but these gala events provide an unusual night of observational entertainment for volunteers. The $20 glasses of champagne look cheaper to guests as the night goes on, and bids on the silent auction increase almost exponentially. As do the chances of catching the rich and famous at their very worst while dressed in their very best.

So there’s something in it for everyone. Those of you who’ve read Richard Dawkins’ The Selfish Gene (or are just plain cynical) will argue that there’s no such thing as an unselfish act of charity anyway. This was strikingly clear from a few men I talked to, who were blatant about their reasons for volunteering. Chicks, booze and free food.

Even when they spoke to the CEO of the charity, they toned down their language but couldn’t hide their disinterest in what the charity does, and had honestly done it because it was compulsory for them to (company policy), and it looked like the least stressful volunteering opportunity with maximum perve opportunity.

They have no idea what they’re in for. Especially they chose to trust little ‘ole me on which roles on the night were “the lightest”. I pretended to give it some thought and pointed at something on the list going round. They didn’t even question me and ticked the box.

I winked at the charity CEO as they signed up and she smiled back benevolently, returning a wink over their backs. For the roles they’ve ticked, not only will they be working hard carrying things around, they’ll be the first to arrive and last to leave. Plenty of time to perve. Such charitable fellows.

It’s great that we don’t need a regular partner to learn dance with and the people in class are awesome, but sometimes its just nice to have that special someone with you. Especially for the close and quiet stuff like blues. Cue guilt-trip in Loz’s direction!

I conned him into a blues class once. Showed him some videos on YouTube, played lots of blues music on the stereo until he finally warmed to it and agreed to attend one class with me. In my hasty excitement, I even bought him a dance class discount card but Oh NO, the folly!

That one class we did was a mistake on so many levels. The guest teachers spent more time talking about blues than teaching it, so it didn’t appeal to his short attention span. It was a full hour of learning to sway and pulse from side to side in one spot. Not even the chance to hold so many lovely lasses was enough to turn him into a repeat customer.

So I shall have to dance on without the pleasure of the Mr’s company. There’s not much I can do to convince him. He thinks Lindy and Charleston are daggy, balboa is boring, ballroom is too stuffy, salsa’s beyond his hip rotation abilities and hip hop’s for wankers. Blues has JUST enough introverted coolness and this-is-me-and-my-woman machismo to look like he’s not trying too hard.

Plus I try not to push  him. Leisure is meant to be just that, not a pressure or a chore. He knows how important it is to me and how delighted I am when he comes along (I wonder what gives that away, the manic squealing, perhaps?) but it’d be pretty unfair to inspire any guilt. Guilt-trips are so easy to lapse in to, learned that only too well from my family, heh.

If only he’d come along last night, anyway.  It must be about 2 months since I last did blues and I remember why I love it so much. The world disappeared for a good 2 hours in a series of mini-conversations with each new partner. And we did a lot more than just bob from side to side like manic semi-lit penguins.

I also forget how tiring it gets as well, mentally taxing. I concentrate more during blues than other dances and invest a lot more of myself than I realise, emotionally. I come out of a blues night feeling lost, yet found. The real world around me is suspended in agar jelly while my thoughts roll on to a quiet 12-bar murmur.

On a side note, I’d love to go to Adelaide for Church City Blues next month, but it won’t fit into the budget, I don’t think. Maybe next year.

I got to the train station today in time to  witness a tableaux of escape and trickery to make John Candy proud.

There was a schoolkid sitting on one of the benches. Next to him was a man in a navy bomber jacket.

Schoolkid was leaning slightly away from Bomber-guy, his eyes darting about self-consciously. Bomber-guy wobbled slightly, more prepared to be in a horizontal position than vertical.

There was a second fella in a jumper who was shouting into Bomber’s ear, “Yer gotta git orf at North Melbourne if yer wanna git ter Dandenong. Ya hear? NORTH MELBOURNE.”

Suddenly, his eyes brightened. In a spark of inspiration, Jumper-fella turned to the schoolkid, “Now YOU make sure ‘e gits orf at North Melbourne, awright? Jest shove ‘im orf or somthin’.”

“Uh…” hesitated Schoolkid, unsure of why he had to be involved.

I found a seat close enough eavesdrop while pretending to read. Bomber was WAY off his chops, slurring his words, his eyes always on the verge of closing, but he still attempted to make small talk anyway.

Very small talk. Asking a 13-year-old schoolboy things like, “Why yis wanna studyin’ fer?” probably won’t get you definite answers.

The kid said, “Uh, I dunno,” eliciting a bark of laughter and spittle from Bomber.

I looked up in their direction and caught the eye of Schoolkid, who looked very amused, yet embarassed and uncertain. Why me, indeed.

Our train came, and Jumper-fella scooted as far away down the platform as he could, leaving the poor Schoolkid alone with Bomber.

Schoolkid obediently got in a carriage with Bomber anyway. I tagged along  behind and sat close by while they stood by the door.

As soon as we got to the next station, Schoolkid turned to Bomber, “Now, this is my stop, but you have to remember, get off at North Melbourne, ok? That’s 3 stops away. Count 3 stops.”

Then he leaped off the train. With a triumphant grin, his little legs whirring, he sped off down the platform and I caught a brief glimpse of his blue-and-red striped blazer as he successfully ducked into the next carriage, on the same train, wrenched free from the responsibility foisted unfairly upon him.

I continued pretending to read, albeit with a huge smile.

And the guy in the bomber jacket never got off at North Melbourne.

I’m not the most decisive of people and am notorious for turning up to events just in time for the second encore. So it’s only fitting, in the swing setting, that I only JUST cottoned on to the Danish Club at its LAST gig ever as a public venue in Middle Park. It’s being turned into another beachside McMansion. Go figure.

The Club has been a social epicentre for the Danish community since 1938 and is known as a great venue for devoted jazz enthusiasts. Bands like the Pearly Shells Swing Orchestra have performed there for forever, drawing a regular set of jazz lovers and swing dancers.

So when I attended the Sunday farewell, with the Pearlies at the helm, I felt like a privileged witness to Melbourne jazz history.

It was pretty obvious that most of the dancers had been gathering here and at other venues for years, moving fluidly as they did, chatting, laughing at in-jokes from the band. They packed the dancefloor, with many more perched on barstools around the perimeter of the dining room.

It’s interesting noting the differences between a Swing Patrol gig and something like this.

For one thing, a lot of the SP crowd are babies in the business of swing dancing and live jazz; there are lots of newer dancers at level 2 or so giving it a good go. This translates into social dancing with a purpose. While they’re doing it because they enjoy it, the dancing also has an after-school revision session feel to it. Almost as though the dancefloor’s an examination venue and they feel the pressure to perform.

Not to say that they don’t enjoy the music and the dancing for the sake of it, but concentration appears to be everywhere but on their music and their partner… “What’s the next move, goddamnit, what’s the next move?”

The folk at the Club looked as though it was by-now second nature. Music and socialising first, worrying about getting the steps right second. By the same token, a lot of them DID have their serious ‘game face’ on, the sort you see in ballroom dancing.

And because the crowd at the Club were more established, there were a lot there as exclusive couples. Well, perhaps not so exclusive, but there’s an extra layer of protocol to observe. As one person noted (Jan), as a female follow approaching a male lead, you have to make sure that you ask their partner first for permission before continuing on. It’s basic courtesy in that setting, obviously.

Which brings me to another point of difference with SP. Because everyone attends an SP social with the purpose of learning and polishing skills, the opportunity to dance with as many different partners as possible comes first before that sort of decorum. Or at least there’s a less formal element to it. You don’t have to be as guarded when requesting a dance.

In an extreme example of partner possessiveness on Sunday, I bumped into a familiar face on the dancefloor and started chatting with him. He was standing on the edge of the dancefloor with a partner that he’d just danced with for four songs straight.

I had no intention of asking him for a dance as I was merely on my way for a breather out on the porch. But he seized on the chance, while his dance partner was there next to him, to ask if I wanted the next dance.

I thought that seemed a bit eager, not asking her first, so I turned to her with an unsure look and made to say, “Only if the both of you aren’t dancing to the next song. I’m quite happy to do the one after…”

And by golly she blew it right there and then.

She gave me a piercing glare and hissed, “Fine then, if that’s the way it is!” and off she stormed back to the tables, casting me another look or two, sneering to her friends.

He registered my shock but shrugged, “Ah, that’s ok, it’s fine, she’s been like that all night if I dance with any other women, any other friends.”

“Is she your partner-partner, not just your dance partner?”

“No, not at all! God forbid. She’s just weird, crazy, she acts like I’m hers.”

I watched over his shoulder as she tottered out the door in a red wiggle dress with a sweetheart neckline, swearing about how rude people could be.

I’d already done what I could to buffer the situation, so I can only assume that he’d been doing that to her all evening. Even if I was with someone on the dancefloor, I’d ask my current lead first if it was ok to take a break from each other and dance with someone else. If you’re still standing on the dancefloor, watching the band, the connection hasn’t been broken yet and it needs to be gently negotiated.

So yes, I don’t blame her for reacting the way she did. There must have been a lot brewing.

But if it was any consolation to her, I had my most embarassing dance of the night with that lead. I should have left it at that and walked away, but no. He grabbed my hand and led me straight into a spin, did all these double-arm ceroc moves that got me tangled, ending with an unexpected dip by the neck.

So unexpected, in fact, that I landed straight on my bum, in front of an amused table of six.

“You need a strong neck for that one,” he shrugged later.

Another lead who witnessed it told me that he shouldn’t have led that me into that dip, that it was a performance move and possibly very very inappropriate on a casual social floor.

Oh the dramas. And I thought ‘Dirty Dancing’ or ‘Take the Lead’ were works of fiction!

Level 2

I wasn’t there at Camberwell last week, but we were still in the Lindy version of the Rueda de Casino. Apparently last week they did a Coca Cola with a Cherry on Top, and I Iearnt what it was, but goodness knows if I can follow it on the social floor.

Dame

Basic tuck turn to the left and pass on to the next person.

Reverse Dame

Basic tuck turn, but lead catches follow in lead’s left arm on 6, sends follow in opposite direction to the right, with palm back, on to the next person.

Dame dos

Tuck turn, send follow to the left, but skip the person next to you and send follow to alternate person. Interesting test of lead’s accuracy with direction and follow’s ability to, well, follow.

Coca Cola

Lead takes follow into a tuck-turn. Blocks follow’s right leg with his left on 4, sends her to the right on 5, causing follow to spin off to lead’s right to the next person.

Coca Cola with a cherry on top

Same as above, but lead catches follow with lead’s right arm on 6 and passes follow to the left to the next person.

Revision: switches

Kick-ball change for the follows. Staying on toes makes it easier.
Tacky Annie moves for the leads.

Amoeba

All holding hands, leads and follows alternating. Follows do first 4 counts forwards, next 4 counts backwards. Leads do first 4 counts backwards, then next 4 counts forwards, therefore the ‘Amoeba’ effect.

Then leads take the follow to their right, and do this move that I CANNOT remember (BLAH!) that sends the follow back to their right.

Repeat amoeba.

Afterthoughts

Was good fun, and the repeated “DAH MAAAY! DAH MAAAAY!” yells cracked me up. Especially when Steph yelled out Dame 3 times in a row followed by a Reverse Dame. That got the flock bamboozled!

Level 3

Texas Tommy variations, and spins for the follows.

Texas Tommy variation 1

Lead switches follow’s hand behind follow’s back on 4 instead of 5, holds follow in that position for the rest till 8, goin in a circle. Keep frame and right arm strong to let follow know they ain’t going nowhere.

Texas Tommy – indian rope

Continuing with the texas tommy variation 1, with follow’s hand still behind back, a bit of a tuck turn, unravel follow until ‘all the bits click together’ in (Jamie’s words), then up and around the follow’s head, ‘polishing the halo’ above the follow, and as many spins as one desires. Helps for leads to keep their eye on the follow’s hand.

Rotating rock step, something else

Damn all this terminology. Rotated rock step in cross-hand, lead ensures that follow is being sent out and around to her right rather than straight back.

Lead creates a dynamic flow, bring follow back to her left (his right) in a curve. Follow continues stepping through until her frame is near breaking point. By this time, this has created so much energy, that when lead brings his hand back to his left to spin the follow, there’s plenty left to all the spins in the world. Almost.

Afterthoughts

There were more and I can’t quite recall then now.

Anyway, I am thrilled that spins were in order this time. Again, great practice in maintaining frame, making sure that the arm doesn’t flex beyond what’s comfortable. And when arm’s above my head, not breaking the barbie arm there, and keeping my hand before my face.

Apparently I appear to be resisting my lead’s hand and spinning, hardening up rather than relaxing and letting the connection remain light and springy. Noted and noted.

By the end of the night, I was doing double and triple spins. And to think that a week ago, I couldn’t even do one.

Plus for the first time, I didn’t come away from a Level 3 class deflated, but with a sense of accomplishment. And was able to approach leads for a dance feeling relaxed, rather than with trepidation.

Man I love dancing.

Still no class notepad!

Level 3

Spins for both the lead and follow, a little fun improvisation.

Noni showed led us follows through progressions to a fun fancy and dynamic spin on a cross-hand turn.

First was a normal one done in the right foot.

Second involved a quick switch from right foot to the left one, straight after 4. Maybe add a little kick while spinning, for energy.

Next one added a forward kick on 5, swinging the leg back on 6 into the spin to really build up the energy. And touching the floor on 7 on the way up.

To make it work, follows have to stay connected to the lead, centre focused and directed towards them, tension maintained in the arms cos follows are gonna need it to build up DA POWER. Woo, and may I say, hoo.

Apologies, but I didn’t listen to what was said for the leads, but they were taught to do a similar spin, also touching the ground on the way.

Afterthoughts

This class came in the nick of time. I don’t think I’ve ever sucessfully done a spin on one foot, lacking balance as I do.

I couldn’t get all the way up to making the foot switch look elegant, but at least I could now spin on one foot! Thinking about asking Steph if we can focus a couple of classes on spins. Spin spin spin. Keep saying it and it starts to sound funny. Doesn’t any word!

Level 2 class tonight at Fun Pit, then dinner with the camberwell crew. Go Friday!

Melbourne has so many wonderful vintage and vintage-inspired clothing shops around that I’d have to organise a week-long tour to see all of them. Including coffee, chocolate and pastry breaks, of course. Or coffee-chocolate pastry even!

I initially planned to shop alone, but it’s more fun with the company and opinion of equally-discerning folk. So I’ve invited a bunch of swing bananas from the Camberwell class for a quick jaunt through the CBD and in Collingwood.

Melbourne CBD
Retrostar
Quick Brown Fox
Leghorn Rouge
Kinki Gerlinki
Route66
Anton’s
Anonymous Posh
Out of the Closet
Shag
A little shop off Little Collins that I know by sight, but not name. Yeah, gee, that helps eh

Collingwood
All of Smith St. So many new shops have popped up in the past year.

Fitzroy
Circa on Gertrude St

Then maybe to watch VIRUS play at The Laundry in Fitzroy.

And dinner…

And then to watch Bop Deluxe at Manchester Lane. Just been given the heads up on The Shuffle Club at Transit Lounge, Federation Square. 10pm.

Pushing it, no?

A report will be available after the weekend.

In the meantime, Rody and I are going to explore the rock and roll landscape on the West side of Melbourne, in Sunshine. I’ve already packed the ugg boots!