Pump and Slipper
Jump and flip her. Jump and Jivin'. Living like F., crazy, but less crazy than Zelda. We performed the Great Gatsby last night. Unadulterated fun, the famous formal.
A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary — much easier to talk to.
"My name's Dean, Philip Dean," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett."
Edith looked up quickly.
"Yes, I went up with him - to the Pump and Slipper."
- May Day
Pump and Slipper's the St. Anthony Hall dance that dates back to before the beginning of the century. Descending through time, somehow it stayed in the twenties and pages of Fitzgerald stories. We've inherited long gowns and tuxedos or sharp suits and swing skirts, lights along the windows and bowers of flowers on the fireplace mantles. As usual, a live swing band played. The music kicked up its heels. Conversation sipped champagne with dropped in strawberries and circumscribed postmodernism anachronistically. We pretended Edith and Dean, Jordon and Nick were standing over our shoulders, behind us, somewhere in the crowd. Loud lively rhythm inspired our make believe. Men nonchalantly nodded and offered a hand. Firm arms led, spun, and dipped on dance floor as if they had never known grinding a weekend before or met a slack body bumping into it to a bored d.j. Instead, stylish couples danced stylized steps. Flutes sprouted casually out of springtime hands. Swing time slowed, we swayed, rocked almost elegantly. A man with innocent teeth cut in.
Outside, it's pouring the weight of Aimee Mann. Her words warped by voice drench the scene that's been dry for two weeks. The rain replete sky provides serious light to write papers by. The sound striking the window works well with typing. Listening to the latest album online thanks to Ben. Switching soon to the game to check on Jared Wright to keep the Righty in line, hitting his spots so the Rangers don't. Their bats, the rain, and my papers won't let up.
A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary — much easier to talk to.
"My name's Dean, Philip Dean," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember me, I know, but you used to come up to New Haven with a fellow I roomed with senior year, Gordon Sterrett."
Edith looked up quickly.
"Yes, I went up with him - to the Pump and Slipper."
- May Day
Pump and Slipper's the St. Anthony Hall dance that dates back to before the beginning of the century. Descending through time, somehow it stayed in the twenties and pages of Fitzgerald stories. We've inherited long gowns and tuxedos or sharp suits and swing skirts, lights along the windows and bowers of flowers on the fireplace mantles. As usual, a live swing band played. The music kicked up its heels. Conversation sipped champagne with dropped in strawberries and circumscribed postmodernism anachronistically. We pretended Edith and Dean, Jordon and Nick were standing over our shoulders, behind us, somewhere in the crowd. Loud lively rhythm inspired our make believe. Men nonchalantly nodded and offered a hand. Firm arms led, spun, and dipped on dance floor as if they had never known grinding a weekend before or met a slack body bumping into it to a bored d.j. Instead, stylish couples danced stylized steps. Flutes sprouted casually out of springtime hands. Swing time slowed, we swayed, rocked almost elegantly. A man with innocent teeth cut in.
Outside, it's pouring the weight of Aimee Mann. Her words warped by voice drench the scene that's been dry for two weeks. The rain replete sky provides serious light to write papers by. The sound striking the window works well with typing. Listening to the latest album online thanks to Ben. Switching soon to the game to check on Jared Wright to keep the Righty in line, hitting his spots so the Rangers don't. Their bats, the rain, and my papers won't let up.
