||[Jun. 10th, 2006|11:22 pm]
So I'm cleaning my room. I've taken all my worldly possessions, stacked them in the middle of the floor, and I fully intend on sticking them all in an 8'x8'x2' foot space, thus freeing my hard wood flood of any and all od-stack-ow's.
I need this, of course, for'a to mak'a a space, for'a to shak'a my ace.
After 30 years of dreaming, it's taken a two second tango with an SUV and a few skull fractures to get me off my ass and dance'n.
I'm taking lessons. Where am I going? Oh, no where special. Just, um, everywhere.
I've even got my summer quarter set up. Git'ar play'n and Jazz dance'n. Awwwwww yeaaaaaah!
Now you may be saying to yourself, Fro, Demi, 404, whoever the fuck you are now, WTF? How many classes do you need?
Well folks, I am just that white, and that dedicated to removing whiteness from my booty. If I don't got teh mad skillz by this time next year, there is no hope for me a'tall.
Bluesdancing rocks. Two weeks ago, I had 0 skill, now, I can at least keep my partners from falling asleep. This is coming from the worlds biggest chicken shit. I, literally, was impossible to drag on to a dance floor. But I always promised myself I'd learn. I promised nearly until my death. Now I can't get enough. Now when I listen to music, I can close my eyes and see dancing. I'm retarded for this shit.
In the process of cleaning, I am throwing away lots of shit. Today it was books and magazines. How serious is the culling? I threw away about twenty 1980's playboys that I've had packed in boxes. Boxes I haven't opened since I moved from Sac'a'tomatoes... To Sucktown... To Deadwood Shitty... A tossing eight years in the making...
Also, high-tech computer lit' from about the same time-frame. Lots of RPG books, too. Can you believe I had Ninja Turtle RPG books? What teh fuck was I smoking back then? Where can I get some of that now?
Hardware has hit the shitter, toys, CD's, every thing.
I feel like a young Greek Bride-to-Be, sacrificing all her childhood possessions to Artemis, the virgin god of losing-one's-virtue-to-a-much-older-hairy-greek-muth'a. I don't mind really. Well, so long as there's no greek bastich in my future.
Dancing is, well, amazing. Not in the FEMBOT IN A WET T-SHIRT, "I'm DANCING!" kinda way, but in the strange freedom one has with total fucking strangers. Blues dancing, for instance. I've been places on that dance floor that usually take me 10 dates to get to otherwise. I'm not a perv, I'm not there to grind, I am there to learn, and so are they. It's almost a sick desperation, addiction, to having a good time. Such a desperation that we are willing to spend time and money to achieve the ability to have a good time.
It's perfect, actually. I'm single, I'm muth'a fuck'n busy with school, I don't WANT to get in a relationship, and I'm gun shy about hump'n round. I've got all the intimacy I need just make'n womans look awesome!
And that's what dancing is. I had a hard time picking up lead because being assertive, especially towards a woman, is not my forte. I felt like I had to ask permission before I made a move. I didn't understand the role one took when one lead. That role is making the woman shine. Now, that doesn't mean you have to look bad, you can look awesome! But the point is simple.
And that point was made to me last night, not in words, but in dance.
Two of the instructors were dancing together. The woman, beautiful of course, was sailing around wildly, just an amazing spectacle of rhythm and motion. What was the guy doing? Emoting amazement. He kept flashing “OMG” or “Damn she's hot” or “Were I not happily married with ten kids, and a loving wife, I would hit that in a second” looks.
He was making her shine, and advertising her shininess all at the same time.
It clicked. It clicked till I fucking snapped.