Saturday, March 11, 2006

Boogie Nights

Webster’s New World Dictionary defines dance as moving the body and feet on rhythm, ordinarily to music. I have never been a dancer. I am overly white, as I have been told before. I am the only man ever born who was genetically cursed with three left feet. Not only do I have no rhythm I have no coordination either. I can walk in a straight line just fine, but when you add music my feet try to tango while my legs waltz and my body rhumbas, and all in different directions and to different beats. It is not a pretty sight. Imagine if you will someone electrocuting a chicken standing on hot pavement. The chicken has grace and style; I on the other hand look like I am trying to capture a greased squid with my toes on a sheet of ice. I don’t even do that well at a cake walk. I like music – I can play guitar, the radio, and can even sing on key, but moving and music don’t mix, not for me anyhow. I am in awe of ballroom dancers they move with such grace and beauty – I however move with the grace of a beached whale being attacked by three-year-olds with plastic shovels. If I were to toss and twirl a woman she would need emergency medical care. The orchestra would have to be removed from various bodily orifices. I wonder what operation is necessary to remove a tuba or a bassoon or both. Watching the Olympic ice dancers was incredible; if I were to strap knives to my feet and go out on the ice there would be dismembered audience members everywhere – Freddie Kruger on Ice. In the 80’s there was break dancing. I can break dance although when I do it things and other people get broken. If I ever tried to spin on my head my chiropractor could buy a new house, not to mention a few personal injury lawyers and their new Mercedes. I can drive down any street on a hot summers day and hear the beat of music pealing through the air and see bodies flailing and flying through the air in perfect time – expressing what the music is saying to them. What the music says to me is that I need physical therapy and a few x-rays. I remember seeing a T-shirt several years ago that was an advertisement for some brand of alcohol, it said “Helping white people dance since ...” I don’t think there is enough alcohol in a truckload to help me, maybe after a truckload I could pass out and no one would notice that I didn’t even fall down in time with the music. I can’t even slow dance. I do fine as long as I don’t have to move. I can stand still to music just fine. I remember many years ago that a gal told me girls her height liked to dance with tall guys like me because they could hear their partner’s heartbeat. What she would hear if she danced with me would be breaking bones and ambulance sirens. The fact that she was short probably would have added an extra element of risk of bodily harm. I would probably gouge her in the eye with a rib – maybe one of hers.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

hmmmmm, I thought I was the worst dancer in the world. Perhaps not. Although I too fear dancing.