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Drink and dance and laugh and lie,

Love the reeling midnight through,

For tomorrow we shall die!

(But, alas, we never do.)

—Dorothy Parker, from Death and Taxes

 

We all have a place that holds us to the fire, whether we call it our hometown, holidays at our in-laws’ house, or a workplace where we are in over our heads. Whatever the GPS coordinates of our Waterloos may be, our battlefields have this in common: a constricting, strict Saturnian energy. These are places where we rarely get what we want. Instead, each time we visit them, we’re hammered by defeat.

Boise has been this place for me. After a break-up, a job loss, or the kamikaze free-fall of a functional degree of health, this is where I end up. But in not giving it up so easily, this town has taught me a necessary lesson: to stop asking what I want out of life and to start figuring out what life wants from me.

Sometimes the cues are subtle. Other times, getting what I need feels a lot like being dragged behind a bulldozer. It takes time, discernment, and synchronicity to find one’s stream in life. It takes faith to jump back in. When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad—I get my ass to dance class.

Today I stumbled through a ludicrously up-tempo Zumba class at the downtown Y. Because life’s hard and I believe a well-cut profile on the dance floor can warm even the bleakest heart, here’s my ode to dance halls, dance class, and the spirit that revels despite it all.

Happy Holidays. Xo K

 

Silk blouse with shoulder ribbons: FlyNow (Bangkok Paragon)

Mod silk tie: Bangkok Paragon

Skinny jeans: “The Legging” by Current/Elliott (Barneys CO-OP)

Sneakers: faux Vans (blackmarket)

Plaid shirt: ZARA (Bangkok)

High-waisted jeans: ZARA (Bangkok)

Gold flats: custom-made (Hoi An, Vietnam)

Friend: DJ Boots (The Blue Cat, Phnom Penh)

Khmer dance lessons from the soldiers of the Royal Cambodian Armed Forces Battalion 169 stationed at Preah Vihear

T-shirt: Kim’s Karate (thrift store)

Skinny jeans: Hudson (Macy’s, Boise Towne Square)

Sandals: faux Gucci (blackmarket)

Friend: Farrah K.

Woodstock photo dress: ZARA (Bangkok)

Jade rosary: Burma

Woven clutch: gift (Indonesia)

Friend: V Boots

 

 

 

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Top: Fancy Pants, Boise, Idaho
Jeans: Hudson
Shoes: Topshop (from their tiny store in Bangkok)
Black beaded rope necklace: Grandma’s

Phnom Penh’s Raffles Hotel has seen war and resurrection and still throws a hell of a cocktail party for the living.

In this season of ghosts, here are a few of mine: This photo was snapped back in the day when the Phnom Penh Post still had come one, come all bacchanalian networking parties, and these dashing, sartorial hotties were three of my most beloved men about the Penh.

And I am doubly-haunted: every time I look at this pic I hear the four first bravura lines of Frederick Seidel’s “Kill Poem”:

Huntsman indeed is gone from Savile Row,
And Mr. Hall, the head cutter.
The red hunt coat Hall cut for me was utter
Red melton cloth thick as a carpet, cut just so.

Tonight I am missing the Elephant Bar at the Raffles and my inscribed copy of Seidel’s book OOGA-BOOGA like I would miss my own severed arm. This photo represents more than a few of my favorite things. And yes—there was a height requirement.

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