The dance sucked.

The thought of that burned down my throat like a shot of tequila.

Everybody at the party told me how terrific my choreography had been. How moved they were by the piece.

Eric, Drew and Fran left before the lead dancer came back with the review.

I'm glad they did.

Morgan and I ripped open the paper to see what the critic had said.

Saying that it was a negative review would have been an understatement.

The first words out of everybody's lips after they read the review was "He doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. That guy's always been an asshole."

"Don't give it another thought, Mike," Morgan said, trying to cheer me up. "You saw the crowd's reaction, they loved it. You did a masterful job for your first dance. Hell, you should read the bashing I took on mine. I know it's rough to get slammed, but trust me, after you do more work and people start to remember your name and believe me they will-- you'll get used to it."

I left the party and drove until I wound up here.

The stool still felt the same.

I flipped open the newspaper to the review of my dance.

 However, it is not the fault of the dancers. They all do what they can with the tired and clice piece they were given.

This is Mr. Orlando's first work and it shows. He borrows heavily from Ailey and a list of other contemporary choreographers. It's too bad he took the chaff and left the wheat.

There were a few bright spots in the evening. Diane Murphy and Colin Franklyn, the two principle dancers, shine in this otherwise lifeless work.

I closed the paper and felt the burning in my throat again.

It did hurt going down.

That was why I ordered the beer chaser.