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Saturday, May 19, San Cristobal: Saturday Night Red Light District. When I turned 15, my family lived in the Panhandle of Texas. The town, Dimmitt wasn't exactly the buckle on the Bible Belt, but it was definitely one of the holes. The city fathers, the powers-that-be, the standard bearers in that little town believed that dancing was a sin.
Like playing cards and drinking alcohol. Playing cards leads to gambling, drinking alcohol leads to a life of debauchery and ruined families, and dancing leads to sinful unmarried sex and little bastards.
I recently read that in North Carolina, high school teachers will soon not be allowed to tolerate kissing in the schools, because kissing leads to sex, and sex leads to So my wayward father, who didn't care much for the powers-that-be, decided to use my birthday party as a venue for a jab at the status quo.
And being the truly innocent person that I was, I happily let him. Max, the kid next door, had a band. So I asked if he and his band would play in our garage for my birthday party. Of course they were happy to do that, it was their first gig, unpaid, but a gig nonetheless.
They were pretty terrible, not that I remember what they played or how well, I was too busy dancing. I invited everybody I liked, which was probably way more people than liked me, and a bunch of them came. A few parents called my parents to ask about dancing and when told there would only be dancing if the kids knew how, they pulled their kids' invitations.