This weekend I found myself in Baltimore. My way-cool friend, Dave, and his way-cool girlfriend, Kim, had a way-cool hotel room right at the Inner Harbor. Tiff and I went up for a night.
The hotel that we were staying in was hosting a National Ballroom Dancing competition. While Dave dismissed the event off-hand, the rest of us, myself included, were eager to see the dance-off. We waded through countless men with numbers on their back and women decked out in some funny looking dresses that connect to the wrist and enough make-up to make me want to become an Avon lady, to learn that it's by invite only.
While many of them were surprisingly young, as young as 12 or 13 maybe, it was clear that there were several big names in dancing. In fact, in a cramped elevator, a short Asian man with apparently limited English skills, turned to one of the passengers and asked, "Are you, John, Johnny, Jonathon? You dance this weekend?"
John, Johnny, Jonathon smiled with his slicked back hair and coolly said, "No, not this weekend. I'm just a spectator this weekend," just like I'm sure any big name celebrity would do. He then led his lady friend by the arm off the elevator, taking long graceful strides, all the while pointing his toe.
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