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Re: Moves
| quote: | Originally posted by vtec junkie
Just bored and thought i would post a clip of myself dancing. to bad my digital cam doesnt record sound. thanks to drgoodvibe for hosting the clip for me. lets see what you got!!!
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Yeah, that's great. Really. Kinda reminds me of myself, dancing in my room and all. Also kinda reminds me of when I used to use my broomstick as a guitar and quietly yell out, "POUR SOME SUGAR ON MEEE!!!", and then my mom walks in and I quickly take my guitar off and move it around in a sweeping motion on the floor, as if I need to sweep the rug with a broom or something while the music in the back is blaring and shaking the whole house. Of course she's nice enough not to shatter my ego, so she just quietly shuts the door and giggles to herself about how cute her 12 yr. old son is.
So yeah, dancin' like that kinda reminds me of those quiet, semi-solitude moments where you think you're all alone, but then you find out that you're not. And so I dance alone to some cool music in the background, watching my moves in the mirror to see if they're just like the ones I saw of that guy on the internet, liquid popping as if his body is made of water or somethin'. Of course the reality of it is I really look like I have a severe mental disfunction, and my arms are moving around as if I'm karate chopping some invisible enemy, and my legs which are supposed to move fluid-like actually look as if someone just ran over them in a car and I'm trying to walk again. And then I notice that with all that hard concentration going on, my face has taken on an expression of something like that of... constipation. I mean, it really looks like I'm needing to take a sh$t or something. Or at least a turtle head is pokin' out and although it's merely the size of a pebble, it really feels like a freakin' football! So I notice my constipated expression and try to change it to that of Mr. Joe Cool, but then my moves (if that's what you want to call them) really fall to crap because I'm too damn busy concentrating on trying to look like I have it all under control. Somehow, with my extensive childhood background in breakdancing (hey, I had Electric Boogoloo on tape, so back off!!!), coupled with my extensive background in marching to the beat (high school Marching Band Geek - '88 to '92), I somehow surmise that I've got the skills to lick this liquid dancin' thing in no time flat. The reality, of course, screams otherwise, but I do continue at my own peril.
So Mr. Joe Cool continues all the while his wife is pissing her pants watching him make a fool out of himself in his meager attempts to be cool and hopes to be the center of attention on the dancefloor next Sat. night. I guess that's why she loves me and still puts up with me - so she could get a good laugh at my ass. Because she knows the reality of it all: we get to the club, I have a handful of drinks, then I go and do my white boy bob up and down and clap my hands on the buildups. To be honest, it amazes me that white boys can really move like that period. Sorry if that hits the stereotype of "white people can't dance", but for the most part it's true. I mean, the 2 great dancing characters in Electric Boogaloo were black, and I don't even want to mention that one white chick - god damn was she hideous! She moves worse than that Showgirls gal, and she was supposed to be breakdancing! But I guess that's the advantage of house and trance music - it allows us two-left-feet dancers to blend in with everyone else bobbing up and down, as well as the Gumby dancers who move with no bones in their bodies.
Next chapter: my short stint with glowstrings.
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Whence September dusk grows crisper still,
with leaves all crimson conquered,
I yearn to shout,
and dance about,
and stick pickles in my honker...
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