Interpretive dance

I’m annoyed at interpretive dance. There I said it. I’m all for supporting the arts in this town, but I draw the line at interpretive dance.

I went to a friends’ birthday party recently and they put on a play of his life using a troupe of interpretive dancers. My stomach immediately went into flip-flop mode as I dreaded what was to come. All of the clichés were represented; color coded unitards, on bodies that shouldn’t be paraded onstage, let alone in a unitard; dragging audience members out of their chairs and into their crap routine; dirty, bare feet that were grey and cracked from performing on a beat up tile floor in a church basement; huge sweat stains on that shitty polyester underarm of the same unitard (sweat and polyester are an unholy combination) ; the attempt at profundity but all you feel is hideous embarrassment; a spacey, granola-crunchy chick with bangs playing flute music with an old woman banging out show tunes on a dusty upright piano; the smell of the awful pot-luck food on the folding card table; and the incredible relief when the last routine is finally done.

Interpretive dance; a fart-smelling shameful evil of our time.

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