I need to let you in on a little secret:
Most people think that clubs don't let people under 21 years of age in because it's illegal for them to drink. But the honest truth of the matter is that minors aren't allowed in bars for their own protection. Because there are some things in this world that children simply should never have to see.
I danced Friday night.
Me dancing is a thing of horror and embarassment. It's angular, disjointed, and utterly caucasian -- and for those without the benefit of the proper level of life experience and maturity, it tends to become the sort of life-altering trauma that leads to a loss of all possible hope for all that is good and pure in the world.
Imagine the face melting scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark where Harrison Ford is begging Marion not to look at it, add some flashing lights and some nondescript techno beat and you'll kinda get the idea.
..But I was having such a good time, and for once the beat made a little sense to me, and K looked so incredible that I just wanted to be wherever she was at. So I danced. Or I did something that I thought would look like dancing to anyone not brave enough to sheild their eyes.
Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the place, or the desperate desire I had to find some way to shake off all of the tension that had unexpectedly risen between us that afternoon, (all that jagermeister I was pounding probably didn't hurt matters that much - oh and btw, is there anything people won't mix with Red Bull anymore?), but whatever it was - it got inside of me and let a lot of things loose for once. Probably a good thing, even if I did look like a marionette puppet on acid.
Man, I wish I could dance.
She loves to dance -- she moves so effortlessly. Half the reason I think I don't go out there with her most of the time is because I know it will take away from what she's doing. But I never really learned how. And like a lot of guys, I always feel like an utter tool whenever I try.
The strange thing about it is, put a guitar on me and I'm Fred Astaire. Free from worry or hesitation, in tune with rhythms and details, I love moving around when I'm creating music... like somehow the security of the instrument allows me not to think or be freaked out about what it might look like from the outside.
Because that's what it's really about. Men don't want to look bad dancing. Because like someone once said, dancing is a vertical representation of a horizontal desire, and the very last thing a man wants is for someone to start connecting the dots between an utter lack of coordination on the floor and any sort of clumsiness anywhere else. And maybe that's stupid or whatever, but it gets inside your head and it doesn't let go.
I remember once she said to me,
"I know you can dance,
because I've seen it when we're alone."
The kind of thing you live to hear,
the kind of thing you never forget.
Friday night I danced.
...And then we all proceeded to get so blitzed that we had to leave the car in the parking lot and take a cab home (but not before we pulled over so you could lean out the door and puke).
...but that's another story for another time now, isn't it?
Most people think that clubs don't let people under 21 years of age in because it's illegal for them to drink. But the honest truth of the matter is that minors aren't allowed in bars for their own protection. Because there are some things in this world that children simply should never have to see.
I danced Friday night.
Me dancing is a thing of horror and embarassment. It's angular, disjointed, and utterly caucasian -- and for those without the benefit of the proper level of life experience and maturity, it tends to become the sort of life-altering trauma that leads to a loss of all possible hope for all that is good and pure in the world.
Imagine the face melting scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark where Harrison Ford is begging Marion not to look at it, add some flashing lights and some nondescript techno beat and you'll kinda get the idea.
..But I was having such a good time, and for once the beat made a little sense to me, and K looked so incredible that I just wanted to be wherever she was at. So I danced. Or I did something that I thought would look like dancing to anyone not brave enough to sheild their eyes.
Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the place, or the desperate desire I had to find some way to shake off all of the tension that had unexpectedly risen between us that afternoon, (all that jagermeister I was pounding probably didn't hurt matters that much - oh and btw, is there anything people won't mix with Red Bull anymore?), but whatever it was - it got inside of me and let a lot of things loose for once. Probably a good thing, even if I did look like a marionette puppet on acid.
Man, I wish I could dance.
She loves to dance -- she moves so effortlessly. Half the reason I think I don't go out there with her most of the time is because I know it will take away from what she's doing. But I never really learned how. And like a lot of guys, I always feel like an utter tool whenever I try.
The strange thing about it is, put a guitar on me and I'm Fred Astaire. Free from worry or hesitation, in tune with rhythms and details, I love moving around when I'm creating music... like somehow the security of the instrument allows me not to think or be freaked out about what it might look like from the outside.
Because that's what it's really about. Men don't want to look bad dancing. Because like someone once said, dancing is a vertical representation of a horizontal desire, and the very last thing a man wants is for someone to start connecting the dots between an utter lack of coordination on the floor and any sort of clumsiness anywhere else. And maybe that's stupid or whatever, but it gets inside your head and it doesn't let go.
I remember once she said to me,
"I know you can dance,
because I've seen it when we're alone."
the kind of thing you never forget.
Friday night I danced.
...And then we all proceeded to get so blitzed that we had to leave the car in the parking lot and take a cab home (but not before we pulled over so you could lean out the door and puke).
...but that's another story for another time now, isn't it?
[Listening to: KMFDM]
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