I grew up in the cultural desolation of suburbia. But at least the urb we were sub was New York City.

Culture could just come trickling east along the freeway, oozing its way into the subdivisions like so much ChemLawn runoff. Which may be why I was such a sub-urbane adolescent.

Other girls may have spent those years totally crushed out over a pretty face, or two . . .







But I wanted more sophistication.
Not to mention shapely thighs and a package that may have defected but was clearly not defective.


















Even out in the suburbs, I was a full century ahead of a certain denizen of (Sex and) the City.

So how do you think I felt this Saturday night, to at last have fulfilled that long ago fantasy of a dancer writhing around the floor of my own home?




Somehow my fantasy always seemed, um, less flannel than this.





Portland may not be New York City. But what in Portland is the walk-in closet off my bedroom in Manhattan would just be the bedroom (or maybe the whole apartment). And my living room is big enough for an entire dance performance. So that's what we had this weekend - a fundraiser for Performance Works Northwest.










Fundraising is nice. Though maybe not quite as nice as nut-cracking Mikhail Baryshnikov.