The Fog Machine

They had a fog machine. We're talking about children who have had like, at most, 15 hrs of total instruction. And they're on a huge stage, with about 7 spotlights, servo-controlled spinning multi-coloured spotlights hanging from the catwalk 30 feet above them. And there are big mains, speakers suspended from the walls blasting out music, and 18" bass bins shaking the floor.

Now, I want to say, Peja's ballet instructor won me over today. I'm not talking about the bullshit $60 it cost 4 of us to see the show, or that they told us Peja needed her own ticket to watch the show after they performed (god bless Sienna for sneaking her in -- here's a really long parenthatical digression; back in Minnesota when we were first friends, on a day-off from planting, I had bought a $3 basketball at Target, and we were going into another store, and I got Sienna to carry the ball, because she's a cute japanese girl and I look about 100 times more likely to be shoplifting, and I knew no one would bother her about it -- and it worked with Peja and a complete lack of ticket). Wait, where was I? Oh, yeah, Peja's instructor -- both of her classes did dances with story lines, and although they had the cute factor (since the kids are crazy young and small) working for them, the applause was still way over the top. The crowd went ape shit.

A friend of mine was there with his daughter, and he asked me, "so, are you a full fledge ballet dad?" And I don't really get it. I don't understand putting together a bunch of random steps and then dancing them in front of people with dance music blasting. But I get what Peja's teacher did, because it was dramatic and interesting and suspenseful. So, thanks Miss Felica -- it was rad.

And a quick shout-out to Ben, who is the star of Peja's class, and who was awesome.

Thus ends my first post about Ballet. . . Uh. . .