Even Zamfir Would Have Been Better

The past weekend was quite musical, in many ways. Musical foods were ingested by many loved ones in my close proximity (if you catch my drift), and I attended two musical events: the first, on Friday, was a joint performance by a couple from Santa Fe: he plays classical guitar, she weaves silk tapestries, and together they were a collage of pomposity. They also made me a little envious, since they earn a very comfortable living just “exploring the tonal language of color” and “nurturing all parts of themselves by reflecting, contemplating life, and pursuing their whole selves through art.” Not that I want to explore the tonal language of color, but I would like a contemplative nook, koi pond, and lush, rain foresty-garden in which I can just…contemplate. (Well, I’m working on my "contemplation" garden, but I’m not sure how much contemplating I’ll be able to do mere feet from neighbors screaming things like, “Get out of the car now! You’re not supposed to be in the car all wet! I’m calling your dad. Okay, he says you’re supposed to get out of the car. I promise, I won’t do it again! GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

On Saturday we attended a wedding reception at which the DJ played a mediocre-at-best, repulsive-at-worst selection of music. Including the old polka favorite, “I don’t want her, you can have her, she’s too fat for me…she’s too fat for me (Hey!), she’s too fat for me!” I think it almost goes without saying that the DJ’s musical repertoire included the chicken dance, the hokey pokey, the Electric Slide, and that one weird stompy dance with fast hand-clapping that I never quite understood. Couples swaying to a somewhat acceptable Journey song toppled tables, chairs, and small children as they stampeded off the dance floor when the DJ gracelessly segued into Shania Twain’s “Feel Like a Woman.” I file this song under “Things that most certainly do not make me feel like a woman,” right between Hogan’s Heroes reruns and that white crap that collects in the corners of your mouth when your lips are chapped. My grandmother had a touch of the stomach bug that evening, but I suspect she was simply experiencing a visceral reaction to the auditory assault being inflicted upon us all by the DJ.

There was also a bizarre dancefloor-ritual conducted by the DJ to the Bee-Gees “Stayin’ Alive.” All of our old friends were there: the Shopping Cart, the Sprinkler, the Lawnmower, the Cabbage Patch, the “Walk Like an Egyptian,” and a few I think the DJ made up right on the spot: the Estranged Father, the Who Farted, and the Cry in the Corner.

I was sitting right next to the near-empty dance floor, trying to stifle a raging, uncomfortable case of church giggles while my brother mouthed across the table, “This is SO. Painful.”

I was really starting to feel bad for the DJ. I hadn’t seen anything that awkward since the poetry I wrote in junior high while wearing tapered, tight-rolled, acid-washed jeans and enough hairspray to shellac a thousand guitars.

Well anyway, here’s to the summer wedding season. May your DJ play music people won't run away from, and may all your salad spinners come with receipts.