in tribute

While I was on my new city mission last spring, the Bubster and I went to Atlanta. Years ago I used to visit Mr. Stevens when he lived there. Back then I didn't think the place was big enough for me, but on this last visit, I left feeling like it was too big. Not big in terms of area, necessarily, but big in terms of overgrowth. It struck me as a place at odds with itself. Part southern comfort, part metro cold, it has a way of covering you with a warm blanket, only to snatch it away in the coldest part of the night.

Since we were there for nine days, we had a good amount of time to do touristy stuff, and I realized that out of all the times I'd been, I'd never visited The King Center, Auburn Avenue, or done anything related to the appreciation of Dr. King's life.

Martin Luther King, Jr. looks different at various stages in life. When I was a 3rd grader, he seemed to me like a saint. Because of him, I could sit where I wanted in the lunch room, drink from any water fountain, publicly play dolls with whomever I was of a mind to. By 9th grade, Dr. King had become a target for disdain (just like everything and everyone else) and we would suck our teeth and complain that we were tired of hearing about him, and the Civil Rights Movement, year after year. (It didn't help that the extent of what we learned was pretty much "We Shall Overcome" and that Dr. King had dogs set on him.) We reduced him to one speech, with the boys chortling refrains like "I have a dream, that you will one day, rise up... and let me get in your panties."

But somewhere in adulthood, you start hearing the truth about the man. It is not all pretty, but it is noble. When I began reading about his humor, his frailties, the ways in which he was afraid but did not act it, he became human to me. Since I know a little something about human limitation, in his humanness, he became an example. An example of how to hold to a calling; how to hold to what you believe is right, even in the face of great harm, and even when the cost of doing so is unthinkable.

For two days during our Atlanta trip, we ventured up and down Auburn Avenue, which conveniently features the National Historic Site, The King Center, Ebenezer Baptist Church, Fire Station No. 6, and Dr. King's birth home. I am proud of the way so many people, not least among them Coretta Scott King, have worked to keep all that Dr. King stood for alive and visible in the place where it all started. Here's a link to all the sites.

WHAT WE SAW

"The Freedom Road"
National Park Service King Visitor Center
450 Auburn Avenue

Our visit started where most do, in the National Park Service's King Visitor Center. The Center has a featured exhibit entitled "Courage To Lead," an audio-visual journey through major moments in Dr. King's life and the Civil Rights Movement. "Freedom Road" is a sculptural installation set in the center of the exhibit. It's an ode to the everyday people who marched, sang, sat-in, and even died in the Movement. It was one thing to pose with the figures, fun even, but I can only imagine the strength it took to participate in reality.

From the Visitor Center, we went to Historic Ebenezer Baptist Church. A new Ebenezer has been built across the street, and Christine King, Dr. King's sister and the only surviving member of his immediate family (excluding his children, of course) still attends. Ebenezer was Dr. King's home church, the place he watched his father lead and preach, the place he where he honed his own minsterial skills. The day we visited, the "Mountaintop" speech played on a loop, and it was surreal to sit in the pews with Dr. King's voice washing over us, especially since we knew it was his last, and perhaps most prescient, speech.

Ebenezer Baptist Church
407-13 Auburn Avenue

What we didn't learn until later is that in 1974, Dr. King's mother, Alberta, was shot and killed right there in the church. Apparently the gunman intended to kill Rev. King, but hit Mrs. King while she sat playing the organ, and a deacon, instead.

The King Center is where Dr. and Coretta King are interred.

King Center 449 Auburn Avenue

The King Family's own labor of love, the Center features displays of Dr. and Mrs. King's clothing (including items worn by Dr. King during marches, and the suit he was wearing when he was stabbed in Harlem) family photographs -- many of which have rarely been shown to the public -- handwritten pages from Dr. King's speeches, and a special room dedicated to Dr. King's spiritual mentor, Mohandas Gandhi. One of the best things about the Center is that it sheds light on Coretta King's background. We think of her as Dr. King's dedicated wife, and she was that, but she was also an accomplished singer, pianist, and scholar by the time they met. After her husband's death, she served as a tireless crusader for human rights as well as the preserver of Dr. King's legacy.


Perhaps my favorite part of the visit was Dr. King's birth home.

Birth Home
501 Auburn Avenue

It is owned by The King Center and maintained by the National Park Service. Tours are free and open to the public (and fill up quickly, which is why we went back a second day). They are led by park rangers, and ours was a very engaging and well-informed young man. The King family moved out when Dr. King was 12, and for years the house was divided into a two-unit rental. It has been restored to the way it was during Dr. King's boyhood, and some of the family's furnishings have been returned. No photography is allowed inside, but there's really nothing like being there. I loved hearing anecdotes about Dr. King and his siblings, how much he loved to play, how hard he tried to avoid piano lessons, and how close his family was. Apparently his parents weren't quite prepared for his arrival and didn't have a crib set up. They improvised and used a dresser drawer. It's amazing to see that dresser, right in the upstairs room where Dr. King was born.

I hope that if you find yourself in Atlanta, you'll take a trip to Auburn Avenue and journey through the life of the great Dr. King.

steven's 41st happy one

Mr. Stevens is in Amsterdam, and I am thinking of him, because today is his birthday. Last year I did a blog tribute (hard to believe it's been a year, even though life seems so different now), so this year I'll just say, Stevie G, I love you madly.

eye candy friday -- portlandia

While I was finding myself last spring, I took a solo trip to Portland. I love traveling alone. Nothing but endless mounds of me time stuffed chockablock with things only I want to do. I devoured Powell's (even better than I'd imagined and I'd imagined great) and took in the peace of the Japanese Garden. Downtown is so wonderful that I could've spent all my time there, but I ventured out to the 'burbs and found them good. I stayed at The Benson Hotel, a pretty swanky place, and wore a scarf named in its honor whenever weather permitted.

Portland had been on my mind so long. I'd been considering it as A Possibly Better Place Where I Won't Rip Out My Hair from Everyday Living. I really enjoyed the city, one where actual thought goes into planning and development. Three things mark a favorable city: good grocery stores, a sexy central library, and healthy appreciation for yarn and crafting. Portland's got all three, but I worried that if I lived there I'd go nuts with the rain and the lack of sun (though neither was a factor during my trip). And do you know how you land some place and feel like you've come home? That happened to me with New York City, San Francisco, and Barbados. But I didn't get that feeling in Portland. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Admired its fundamental intelligence and was wowed by its devotion to making stuff (I could walk to two yarn stores from my hotel). Felt like I wanted to camp out in Powell's forever. Found the people friendly enough. Just didn't feel that I could fold myself into it all. But any time you say Let's take a trip to Portland, I'll go.

Japanese Garden

Downtown

florida, baby, we're finally getting out of the ghetto

This being the New Year and all, my ambitions are running quite high. That it's the second week of the year and I'm still feeling present and enthusiastic about the things I am resolved to do is very encouraging. Most years my resolutions have faded into darkness by this time. But let's focus on the Good, shall we?

I love all things blog. Other people's blogs. My blog. The act of blogging. The way blogging has changed -- some say rescued from stagnation -- the Internet. So I've decided to get a little more involved with some of the things folks are doing here in blogland, particularly when it comes to two of my favorite things, knitting and photography .

As I mentioned, I'm participating in Knit From Your Stash 2007. These are the rules I am laying down for myself:

1) Knit From Your Stash will run from January 1 through December 31, 2007. Oh yes. The entire year. I'm feeling frisky.

2) I will not buy any yarn during this period, with the following exceptions --

• If someone loses a limb or a loved one and I just have to knit for that person and don't have the proper yarn, I am allowed to buy it.

• I am allowed to purchase yarn to complete a project when I find I don't have enough.
  

• I get three "Get Out of Jail Free" cards for the entire year -- I can buy to my delight but I'm thinking I'd best not start using them in January.
  

• Trips are freebies, up to three times, and do not count against the above. I am only human and cannot give up my love of exploring out-of-town yarn stores (and I might want to discover the joy of a fiber festival or two). However, this does not mean that when I'm out of town I can take the opportunity to order stuff on the Internet. This should go without saying, but I'm a shifty one.

• Yarn gifts are allowed. Please send right away.

• I am allowed to trade and barter stash. The whole point is that no money can leave my hands unless it's under one of the above conditions.

3) Needles are exempt. Magazines are exempt. Patterns are exempt. I would put the brakes on craft books, but instead I'll vow to buy no more than 10 this year. Is that a lot?

4) I will not replace crack with heroin. I may buy fabric and such, but I must complete 3 sewing projects for every new project I buy materials for.

I think that covers everything. I feel better already. It's like I've put on protection whereas before I was just freeballin'. I thank the people who started this KAL.

I have also decided to do Eye Candy Friday, started by Sundara over at Purly Whites. I don't go in to work on Fridays, but I do often find myself engaged in heavy procrastination on Friday afternoons. Maybe posting a little eye candy will jolt me into productivity. Ha ha.

I'm a sucker for themes. The idea of visually and verbally pontificating on a theme each month fills me with such grandiosity and self-importance that I've got no choice but to participate in Snap a Dozen Days over at Unwind.

And because I'm trying my best to stay present with the food thing, here's a recent good eat.

How can something so bad be "good"? you wonder. Well. It's from one of my favorite LA eateries, Mani's Bakery. ("Eatery." Talk about words I never used when I was down on the farm in Ohio.) I live walking distance from Mani's so I eat there a lot. The food's great, though the atmosphere can get a little yuppified on some days, a little hipsterfied on others. And it's pretty small, so not the sharpest choice if your stomach is touching your back during lunch or dinner or brunch rush. Oh, yeah, the treats. Fruit juice sweetened and otherwise wholesome (as much as things covered in chocolate and cream cheese can be). What I love about Mani's desserts is that everything tastes like it's supposed to. Ever eaten so-called healthier desserts and found the gingerbread tasting like the sugar cookie tasting like the peanut butter bar tasting like the macaroon? Ick. I don't know how Mani's does it, but I'm glad they do. So glad that I bought waaay too much for girls' night with my friend Carol (the cupcake alone was the size of my head). It was only the two of us watching Devil Wears Prada and tackling all this tastiness. Carol laid back, but me, I showed those treats who was boss.

Watch this.

Maybe it speaks to my maturity level, but I cannot stop laughing at this clip. Justin Timberlake has never been better.

and a happy new year

Well, well, well. When I went to mail a gift at FedEx Kinko's last night, right before I ran screaming from the building when I found out how much it costs to two-day a box that weighs just over a pound, the woman working behind the counter three hours past the end of her shift declared that 2007 isn't going very well, so far.

For me it is, because I refuse to have it any other way. I see the good moon rising, dammit. I say more warm vibes, makey makey stuff, and sunny times in the mind for everyone this year. By year's end I'll be able to say exactly what's so bad about feeling good, and I got a notion the answer is NOTHING.

One thing that's putting pep in my step is my decision to take part in Knit From Your Stash 2007. The hours I'll save from not combing the Internet for that magical yarn I saw on someone's blog or in someone's knitting bag at SnB -- you know the one, it'll make me endlessly desirable and ever young, it'll turn my gray hairs back to black, it'll slim my fanny and square my shoulders, it'll make everyone... well... like me -- could be used to actually knit. Or read. Or blog. Or play footsies with The Bubba. Or work on the book or the play or the screenplay that nips at my heels every single moment of every single day.

I am going to have to bolster my self-esteem elsewhere. Maybe I'll discover the Endless Well of Authenticity.

Plus, I've already got more yarn than God and three more White men.

I've kicked off the year in grand style, having completed my first UFO, the Heartbreakingly Cute Baby Kimono from Mason-Dixon Knitting.


Specs:
Lion Cotton - natural, about 3/4 ball & a bit of navy for trim and crochet tie
Size 8 Denise needles

I started it several months ago but put it down when I had to figure out the pattern. That, and some other sassy project strolled by, demanding my flowers and chocolates. Once I picked up the kimono again, it could've been a relatively quick knit, but there's a typo in my book that's apparently not in anyone else's, which lead to considerable ripping. And the seams. Oy. But it's done. And cute. And on its way to a preggers friend in Austin in a FedEx box via the US Postal Service.

Because it wasn't soooo long ago that I had a baby (okay, maybe it was), I realized that the right side of the kimono, crossed under the left, would be flopping out from underneath and messing up some of the heartbreaking cuteness every time someone lifted the little bundle of joy. So I sewed a button inside.

The teeny-tiny wrist openings made me nervous. It frightened me too much to think that Schmin's wrists were ever really that small, so I left little slits in the sleeves. Couldn't hurt.

It feels so good to be using what I already have, finishing the things I started. There's a Buddhist saying, "That which you are seeking is causing you to seek," and that's surely been the case with me and stash acquisition. Sometimes I'd click the order button on Knitpicks or eBay and know it wasn't really the yarn or the needles or the pattern books or the fabric I was looking for, but something else. What I intend for this year isn't necessarily to find out what I was looking for, but to stop looking altogether.

Next post I'll list my personal rules for KFYS '07, which are a bit different from the KAL originators'.

Happy New Year. May the enthusiasm and hope that holds you at this lovely time of year sustain you all year long.

my other hair is a mercedes

In another life I was an entertainment writer. My pearls of wisdom could be found on the Internet and in a couple of local newspapers, here and there. In that incarnation, I did a passel of movie reviews. I will admit now, for the first time, that I was assigned one or two films too heinous for all but the most hardcore and drunken cinephiles and that because I fit into neither category, I reviewed those movies without the benefit of actually seeing them.

What, do you really think Ebert and Roeper watch all the dreck they give thumbs up? Bah.

But if I'd been called upon to review Dreamgirls, I would've jumped at the chance to watch it. And now that I have, I can say I would've been glad that I did, versus wishing I could've saved two precious hours of my life by making shit up.

All kinds of meaningful (says me) commentary and penetrating (also says me) observations about race, colorism, class, gender, and culture run through my mind when I think about the film. Foremost, I realize that the portrayal of Black folks in American cinema has come a long way. It's terrifically consequential to have popcorn fare like Dreamgirls and a weightier existential concern like The Pursuit of Happyness playing at the same time. But, it's still easy to fit the characters in Dreamgirls into the stereotypes film historian Donald Bogle proffers in his book Toms, Coons, Mammies, Mulattoes, and Bucks. In fact, let's take a look at the main characters: Jimmy Early (Eddie Murphy), coon; Curtis Taylor (Jamie Foxx), buck; Deena Jones (Beyonce), mulatto; Effie White (Jennifer Hudson), mammy. Well, there we have it. If anyone disagrees, read Bogle and get back to me.

I find it best not to get lathered up over these things. Dreamgirls is, above all things, a high-hatted musical in the grand tradition. If it were a dog, it would be a big, slobbering St. Bernard, jumping on you and knocking you down, getting all in your face to get you to show emotion. It's that emphatic. And, take my word, it will get some feeling out of you. But it's neither the triumph nor the tromping of the dream girls themselves that will make you cry, it's the way they sing about it all in the film's two big musical numbers.

If we wanted to dabble in real life here, we'd take a closer look at what happened to the people these characters are based on. Diana Ross/Deena Jones ricocheted straight to the top, knobby knees and all, while Florence Ballard/Effie White sank to welfare and a gravelly grave at age 32. But we don't want to see that in a movie. We got our own troubles.

So let's talk about what we do want to see, and how Dreamgirls delivers the object of our desire with the force of 10,000 dancing Rockettes.

THE WIGS

The wigs, they rule.

Of course this isn't even a sixteenth of the tricked-out wigness featured, and not even the best. There are wigs in Dreamgirls that make the mouth water, the jaw drop. Real hair that naturally grows from scalps is so over. None of it is good enough, and I don't care if you're freakin' Cher, circa 1972. This movie hips you to the fact: you need to get yourself a wig. You only have to wear it during moments of high drama, if that makes you more comfortable, but you simply must have at least one, and that's that. How else are you going to fake your way to the top?

In his New York Times review of Dreamgirls, A. O. Scott laments that "The decades are marked by the progression of hairstyles, lapels, jewelry and dresses...." To which I say, You damn right!

I've listened to the 20th Anniversary benefit concert on CD, and didn't go to the movie expecting anything provocative or lasting. (Or even an engaging musical journey. With the exception of the anthem "And I Am Telling You," the rest of it remains stage music, inextricably weighted by the story it has to help tell.) For me it was all about aesthetics, and Dreamgirls drips with aesthetics.

Schmin, my movie buddy, hadn't thought about much of this beforehand, but agreed that the wigs were badass. He was also impressed with the acting, and with Anika Noni Rose, his official nomination in the sexy category.

Here we are on Christmas day. In anticipation of the happening head coverage to come, I'd brought a little drama of my own.

Here's a link to the LA times article on Jennifer Holliday's reaction to the film. I know the filmmakers weren't obligated to her, but still.

blue suede christmas

I've been holding off on posting because I've been in the doldrums. Several times I almost posted some serious waaa waaa waaa, but told myself to wait. Not that I minded crying here. It wouldn't have been the first time I've cried in public. I'm sure it wouldn't have been the last. The thing was, I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong, or, rather, on how to capture what it all felt like. This is a place where I like to be articulate. Even if I don't know what ails me, I need to be able to write about it with lucidity, to satisfy myself.

One day I was over at one of my favorite knitting blogs, Nik's Knits, enjoying an entry on a baby sweater she'd raced to complete in time for a shower. At one point, she described the disdain she felt upon walking into her apartment and seeing an "exploded view" of the sweater. She posted this link to illustrate what an exploded view is. I saw the picture and immediately thought, That's it, my whole life looks like that picture. Only take away the numbers that correspond to the diagram. And scramble it up some. Make it really blurry. There, you have it.

I started writing about this revelation and again a voice said Stop. So I didn't post, went on doing whatever it is I do.

The thing about shouldering on is that while you're at it, sometimes light creeps in through a side door and things start to make sense.

I think of myself as immune to the holidays. Especially now that Schmin's grown up and I don't have to run around town hunting down DuckTales, Transformers, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The Bubba and I are pretty low key. I like to send out New Year's cards and some years I get to it, some years I don't. Holidays schmolidays.

But this year doesn't look like any other year. You know how you look around and wonder how you came to where you are? It's not that you reject this place, it's that you have a piercing memory of having been some other place and what you can't figure is how that time came to be over and why it's impossible to get back to.

What I'm saying is that I miss my mother. Her death is my greatest loss. What it's like to dwell in the space she left is ineffable. This is my 8th Christmas without her and it's particularly painful because damn this has been a hard year. It's been a year that's left me feeling abandoned and bereft, low right down to nothing, only to circle me back and make me know that people care, I am never truly alone, and that Somebody is hauling me up by the armpits.

This holiday season has proved to be a microexperience of the year's emotional landscape. One day up, one day waaaaaaay down. So far outside the boundaries of PMS that there's no scapegoat. Here, two days before Christmas, I've had a soft landing in a place of gratitude because, I will grudgingly admit, that which hasn't killed me has made me stronger. (Grudgingly because do we not want, just one time, our rescue fantasy to come true? Perhaps I should make a New Year's resolution to let this go.)

I have also landed on terra firma because I make things. And it is my great good fortune to be surrounded by other people who make things. From noise (see all entries containing the word "Schmin") to music to clothes to words on a page or a website. I think many people underestimate the power of The Make. I know I did, before I got down to brass tacks and started knitting and sewing. When you make things, opportunities for uplift abound. I present my case:

Even if you've never touched a shred of yarn in your life and don't ever plan to, how could this not appeal to you? All the warmth and color and play.

These paddy cakes came to be because of my good friend Ellen, whose generosity really provided me with a lot of light this weekend. Go on her blog and see what a tremendous talent she is (bask in the whimsy of the dolls she made for holiday cards). I'd bought myself a ball winder thinking I could make do without a swift (if anyone else ever wonders if this is possible, the answer is NO) and I mentioned to Ellen that I was planning to buy one. At our SnB holiday party Thursday night, she gifted me with one of hers.

I brought it home and got to winding up yarn I don't plan to knit for years. It's obscene how much fun it is to wind yarn this way. As opposed to my old system.

Ellen's swift is cantankerous and seasoned, and I love it. When she gave it to me, I got the feeling an Elvis fan would get if The King himself were to take off his blue suede shoes and hand them over. I prefer things that have history; it humbles and thrills me to think of all the incredible art I've seen Ellen make, much of which started on this swift. Now it's my turn to dance a little bit.

Like I often say, Sometimes God She Smiles on You.

Though my mother won't come around this year to cook our holiday meal, lie around with me and Schmin and Steven, be happy about whatever Christmas present we buy for her, no matter how big or small, it will be a two Schmin Christmas. My boy and I have plans, just the two of us. We're going to see Dreamgirls -- because we're not that jaded -- rent some DVDs, and scrounge for food, probably at Ralph's.

I hope no matter where you are or where you thought you would be, you have a very merry Christmas day.

this is what happens when you're popular

First thing in the morning, you walk into the Gap sporting all your handmade goods. You feel empowered because even though you're still not safe from zigzag stitching your thumb when using your sewing machine, you truly believe that if you see something cool in the store, you can truck on home and whip it up. And how. You stroll along awhile, feeling stylish and capable. You finger the knitted accessories, flip a couple over to check the construction (call me foolhardy, but I think I've got the skills to knock off most of these babies). Before long, you notice these:

And by god, look what you happen to be wearing:

Your very own non-Gap inspired version of the jeans-to-skirt recon. Yours is of course made of a pair of Levi's you got for 9 bucks at Ross three years ago, thus earning you a net savings of 30 bucks.

But money saved isn't what's got you so excited. It's the fact that, thanks to crafting, you've finally stepped up to claim some small corner of the world as yours. At last, you've wiggled at least part way out of the door of consumerism and you can see your own creativity waving to you from a red convertible parked near the curb. It's revving the engine, ready to roll as soon as you jump the passenger door, and you feel your heart going thump thump because you know for sure that you're this close to being free. You feel the hot breath of manufactured goods on the back of your neck and you know it's coming after you, but you look up and there's the sun, and you don't even give that beast the time of day. Instead, you take one more sure step toward that curb.

And you plan your next project.

yellow is my new favorite color

I can turn down the best of parties, but I always think twice when asked out with the boys who love boys. One of the last times I danced from Saturday night until time to go to work on Monday morning was at a gay club in Atlanta, years ago.

So when Mister Stevens asked me and The Bubba to join him and his friends for boys' night at a historic place called The Victory Grill while we were in Austin, I said yes. I figured I'd at least get an earful of cheeky comments and that maybe there'd be good house music and I'd get in the mood to dance.

What I got was even better: good running commentary, some cutting of the rug, and the coup de grace -- the chance to preside over a competition between troupes of young, muscle-y, sweaty boys who lacked much in the way of either inhibition or clothing. Mercy mercy me.

Check out those tight little asses. Er, I mean, isn't yellow a nice color?

Turns out the night in question was host to a J-Setting contest. If you've never experienced this phenom, you simply must get yourself down South (I hear that's where it mostly takes place) and check it out. (If you do it before Madonna gets wind of it, you can beat her and claim you started it.)

A little history: Black colleges have drill teams that consist of sassy colored girls who come out with the band and show-out during half-time (or whenever duty calls) by dancing and strutting their stuff. The pre-eminent troupe is out of Mississippi, Jackson State University's Prancing J-Settes. They were the first, and they're widely accepted as the best. (Here's a clip of them in action and some background info.) Black gay men have taken the drill/dance squad from the football field to the dance club. They form groups and compete against each other in a series of dance moves they call "J-Setting," after the creme de la creme, the Jackson State team.

Now, don't get the impression that I knew about any of this before my night at the Victory Grill. I didn't, having only been to one Black college football game some donkey years ago and not having found it particularly appealing because no one actually watches the game but instead everyone mostly watches everyone else. Anyhow, you learn something new every day if you're lucky. And if you're really lucky that something new involves young supple nubile males dancing so close to you that you can reach out and pinch their sweet perky bottoms. And if you're blessed with the mother of all luck you're asked to serve as one of the judges of their dance contest.

I take my work very seriously.

I guess J-Setting became part of the gay community because the brothers couldn't let the sisters have all the fun and, seeing as the choreographer who helped bring the Prancing J-Settes to prominence, the late Hollis Pippins, was himself a member of the boys' club (this according to my mother-in-law, who would know, because she used to live in Jackson where word is said to really get around), it seems they have a right. Over the last five years or so, J-Setting has become the new vogueing among the Black gay male and flexible set.

Having said all this, the truth of the matter is, I don't care where it came from as long as the boys keep doing it.

I clearly want the boys in blue and yellow to c'mon to my house so I can give them candy, but the opposing team, seen in the top photo wearing black pants, white tank tops, and white Sateen gloves (which The Bubba liked so much that he nicknamed them Black Elegance), won the contest. I didn't vote for them, though I now agree they should have won as they did give a great performance -- okay, the guy below kissed me after Mister Stevens pointed me out as one of the judges and now I wish I had voted for them. But my vote went straight to those hotpants. Oh yes. You cannot have a body like these young 'uns, sheath it in sunshine nuthuggers, and not expect me to vote for you. And dancewise, my boys weren't too shabby either.

Because I'm now officially obsessed with all things J-Setting (and almost no things concerning my bread and butter, the study and teaching of grammar), me and Mister Stevens (see, I told you) would like to gift you with this footage. All but the guy in pink were members of the winning team, forever known as Black Elegance.