Friday, June 30, 2006
dancing music
Here's the deal with music and dancing:
Rock is good. I like rock. Indie, classic, punk, maybe not so much new, but overall rock is good and it goes well with roll.
But, as far as I'm concerned, there's no dancing to it. Sometimes I see cute indie girls dancing to rock and I think they look hot and all, but I don't get how they're doing it. As far as I can tell, rock is for swaying, air guitaring, and singing alonging.
When it comes to dancing it has to be hip hop or dancehall reggae. You need big sloppy beats that make you want to fuck and make other people want to fuck you.
And now a story about rock, dancing and not fucking:
One time a friend and I went to Club 279 Q107 live to air dance night upstairs from the Hard Rock Cafe for a hardcore irony night. Just telling the cab driver "Yonge and Dundas" with a straight face was a challenge.
So we get to this shit bar and pay our shit cover, and the place is complete lamesville. Like, guys on the dance floor wearing tivas. But I'm all manic on irony and bust out the ridiculous moves to fucking Pearl Jam or whatever. Then this girl comes up and introduces herself and says "I like everything about you" and I, still manic/spastic, somehow come up with the idea that we should trade shoes. So we go off somewhere to trade our shoes, and I'm sitting next to her undoing my ratty fucking stan smiths, and I realize with complete certainty that these things are going to reek. But because I feel too embarrassed to say to her "I can't do this, my feet reek", instead I do that thing where you avoid the 6/10 embarrassing situation you're facing immediately, dooming yourself to a 27/10 embarrassing situation ten seconds in the future. So I take off this stinking stan smith and I hand it to her and the first thing she does is takes it and BRINGS IT UP TO HER FACE FOR A BIG WHIFF! She makes the type of face you'd imagine she'd make, and I say "sorry, I knew I was fucking that up but I panicked and didn't know to do" and she said "that's okay, I'm used to smelly things. I have two cats and two dogs and just yesterday one of my dogs did a big diarrhea on my bed" and I'm think "shit I really like this girl because a) she was really kind about that, b) she's totally hot, and c) that line about 'a big diarrhea' is genius" but then I also think "too bad that when I was in high school she was 3" (literally). Anyway, we dance some more, and then I ask her if she wants a toe ring and after she says sure I pick one up off the dance floor and hand it to her. I ask her if she's going to wear it and she said no but she would put it in her scrapbook, which I also thought was wicked because at the time I was all passionate about scrapbooking. Anyway eventually the night is winding down and this girl wants my number and can't give me hers because she lives at home but she has no paper so rips open a condom wrapper (subtle) and hands me that for me to write on (which only works because it is non-lubricated, which causes me to think "this chick must have a wet pussy!" (have I gone too far? maybe I've now gone too far. sorry. but it was what I thought)).
Anyway, she had to run off to meet someone after that (presumably the dude with his arm around her I saw her walking down the street with half an hour later), and she must have lost the wrapper after fucking him or whatever, because three days later she shows up AT MY WORK and is riding the elevators all morning and describing me to people and goes to all of the offices in the building looking for me (because she doesn't know my last name) and leaves a note at reception which eventually gets to me and kind of freaks me out. Then my boss comes in to talk to me about it and is like "M, you really should call this girl because she obviously really likes you and she's pretty too" and he, at least, doesn't seem weirded out by the fact she's psycho or the fact that she's twelve.
So, that night I call the number she left at reception and it rings four times and then the machine picks up and it's her mom on the message so I'm thinking about what I'm going to say on this message other than "Hi, I'm 31 and I'm calling to fuck your 20 daughter with a boyfriend" but just before the beep someone picks up and it's the brother and I'm "Is L there?" and he does a "hold on... [yelling: maaaaaa! is L home?]... no I think she's at the Robert Plant show" (this chick wasn't at Q107 night for irony) and I ask if I can leave a message and the guy sounds really bothered by it but finally agrees and I say "Can you tell her that M called?" and he's "M from where?" all intrusively brotherly and I say "M from scrapbooking" except it's even lamer than that because what I actually say is "uhhh, uhhh, it's M from, uhh, uhhh, uhhh, sorry. It's M from, uhh, uhh, scrapbooking" and he says "uh huh?", and I say "yeah, can I leave a number" and the guy's like "I don't have a pen" and I know I've been defeated so I say "I'll call back later." and that's that.
Except a week later my boss tells me I have to call back, so this time I call back and I get the machine again, then the beep goes but then I hear all this clicking and I think someone has picked up the phone and I start saying "hello? hello? hello?" but then I realize that no one has picked up the phone and instead this is the message I'm leaving, and I realize there's no fucking way I'm going to leave my name and number and something about scrapbooking after opening the message with three confused sounding hellos and my boss can just fucking fire me or call her and fuck her himself because I'm never calling back again. So I hang up and that's the story about dancing to rock.
Sorry if these chick I met in a bar stories are kind of obnoxious. But really they're all I've got. Otherwise all I'd have for you are things like "last I night I dreamt I was vacuuming," or "fuck, I really need more coat hangers," or "fuck, I really need a new bookshelf," or "fuck, I'm really glad I got my car detailed," or more bullshit about my neck or whatever.
Rock is good. I like rock. Indie, classic, punk, maybe not so much new, but overall rock is good and it goes well with roll.
But, as far as I'm concerned, there's no dancing to it. Sometimes I see cute indie girls dancing to rock and I think they look hot and all, but I don't get how they're doing it. As far as I can tell, rock is for swaying, air guitaring, and singing alonging.
When it comes to dancing it has to be hip hop or dancehall reggae. You need big sloppy beats that make you want to fuck and make other people want to fuck you.
And now a story about rock, dancing and not fucking:
One time a friend and I went to Club 279 Q107 live to air dance night upstairs from the Hard Rock Cafe for a hardcore irony night. Just telling the cab driver "Yonge and Dundas" with a straight face was a challenge.
So we get to this shit bar and pay our shit cover, and the place is complete lamesville. Like, guys on the dance floor wearing tivas. But I'm all manic on irony and bust out the ridiculous moves to fucking Pearl Jam or whatever. Then this girl comes up and introduces herself and says "I like everything about you" and I, still manic/spastic, somehow come up with the idea that we should trade shoes. So we go off somewhere to trade our shoes, and I'm sitting next to her undoing my ratty fucking stan smiths, and I realize with complete certainty that these things are going to reek. But because I feel too embarrassed to say to her "I can't do this, my feet reek", instead I do that thing where you avoid the 6/10 embarrassing situation you're facing immediately, dooming yourself to a 27/10 embarrassing situation ten seconds in the future. So I take off this stinking stan smith and I hand it to her and the first thing she does is takes it and BRINGS IT UP TO HER FACE FOR A BIG WHIFF! She makes the type of face you'd imagine she'd make, and I say "sorry, I knew I was fucking that up but I panicked and didn't know to do" and she said "that's okay, I'm used to smelly things. I have two cats and two dogs and just yesterday one of my dogs did a big diarrhea on my bed" and I'm think "shit I really like this girl because a) she was really kind about that, b) she's totally hot, and c) that line about 'a big diarrhea' is genius" but then I also think "too bad that when I was in high school she was 3" (literally). Anyway, we dance some more, and then I ask her if she wants a toe ring and after she says sure I pick one up off the dance floor and hand it to her. I ask her if she's going to wear it and she said no but she would put it in her scrapbook, which I also thought was wicked because at the time I was all passionate about scrapbooking. Anyway eventually the night is winding down and this girl wants my number and can't give me hers because she lives at home but she has no paper so rips open a condom wrapper (subtle) and hands me that for me to write on (which only works because it is non-lubricated, which causes me to think "this chick must have a wet pussy!" (have I gone too far? maybe I've now gone too far. sorry. but it was what I thought)).
Anyway, she had to run off to meet someone after that (presumably the dude with his arm around her I saw her walking down the street with half an hour later), and she must have lost the wrapper after fucking him or whatever, because three days later she shows up AT MY WORK and is riding the elevators all morning and describing me to people and goes to all of the offices in the building looking for me (because she doesn't know my last name) and leaves a note at reception which eventually gets to me and kind of freaks me out. Then my boss comes in to talk to me about it and is like "M, you really should call this girl because she obviously really likes you and she's pretty too" and he, at least, doesn't seem weirded out by the fact she's psycho or the fact that she's twelve.
So, that night I call the number she left at reception and it rings four times and then the machine picks up and it's her mom on the message so I'm thinking about what I'm going to say on this message other than "Hi, I'm 31 and I'm calling to fuck your 20 daughter with a boyfriend" but just before the beep someone picks up and it's the brother and I'm "Is L there?" and he does a "hold on... [yelling: maaaaaa! is L home?]
Except a week later my boss tells me I have to call back, so this time I call back and I get the machine again, then the beep goes but then I hear all this clicking and I think someone has picked up the phone and I start saying "hello? hello? hello?" but then I realize that no one has picked up the phone and instead this is the message I'm leaving, and I realize there's no fucking way I'm going to leave my name and number and something about scrapbooking after opening the message with three confused sounding hellos and my boss can just fucking fire me or call her and fuck her himself because I'm never calling back again. So I hang up and that's the story about dancing to rock.
Sorry if these chick I met in a bar stories are kind of obnoxious. But really they're all I've got. Otherwise all I'd have for you are things like "last I night I dreamt I was vacuuming," or "fuck, I really need more coat hangers," or "fuck, I really need a new bookshelf," or "fuck, I'm really glad I got my car detailed," or more bullshit about my neck or whatever.
// posted by Flidge Penkings @ 12:05 PM 
