I Don't Get My Freak On

Two nights ago I sat on the curbside of Tabernacle and Main outside the Electric Theatre. It was 11:37 at night and my big-kid persona plopped itself on the cracked cement, while the bass of some song by an artist known as Ke$ha pounded behind me. In the Electric Theatre that night a joint-birthday party was being held for two dear friends who shall be called The Raging Royal, and Meredith Millville.

It was a momentous occasion for the two of them as they cut cake, drank Rockstars, and boogied down on the neon-light flashed dance floor below. The term "boogie" will be the subject of today's post. And no I am not referring to what little kids think they get when they pick their noses. I am talking about "getting down", "cutting the rug", "shaking one's tailfeather", "busting a move", and "getting funky like a monkey".

Amidst all of the booty-shaking, I sat at the bar of the Electric Theatre nursing back an Arrowhead water bottle while watching recaps of the 14-inning Boston Red Sox marathon victory on ESPNEWS. What can I say, I have to keep up with one of the 162 games on the schedule this season don't I? I was having the "time of my life", as they call it. Every 7 1/2 minutes however, the following dialogue would occur with another empathetic sweaty person.

John or Jane Doe: "Brock, why aren't you out there dancing?"

Me: "That's easy, I don't like dancing, and I'm not good at it."

John or Jane Doe: "What? Whatever! I'm sure you're a great dancer."

Me: "No, the reason that I know I am a bad dancer is because I have two things working against me. 1. I'm a guy. 2. I'm a white guy. Hence, I will never be able to dance."

This was followed by scoffs and attempts to drag me on to the neon dance floor. They were all futile though, because if there is one thing that I am certain of, is that I suck at dancing. Plain and simple.

I think this stems from my physical appearance, which in my book is a logical explanation for not being able to re-enact "Saturday Night Fever". Being a tall 6'5" creature such as myself make my lanky/awkward arms and legs look even more lanky/awkward. I can't help it. Add to the fact that there are dance "moves" that make no sense to me. The "sprinkler"? A move in which one grabs the back of their head, sticks their other arm out straightforward, and moves in a rotating movement to the sound of the beat. That's supposed to be cool?

Or what about the infamous dance move to which I shall call the "smorgasbord of confusion", in which one grabs the ankle of one of their legs, meanwhile dropping their head down to their waste, and their knee up to to their face, followed by an expansion of this gesture, which is repeated in rhythmic sync to the bass-beat of whatever techno song your ear drums are being brutally exposed to. You know what I'm talking about. Why don't you try and mimic these dance moves while reading this and see if you get laughed at like Elaine did from Seinfeld. Go on, do it!

These are some of the goofiest motions that I have ever seen, and it is moves like these, combined with my race and gender which make me a part of the anti-dance movement of America, or as we are also called, "So I Don't Think I Can Dance". Of course I was criticized for not joining in the Ke$ha/Gomorrah dance party with a slew of "grinding", and "bumping", and "booty-shaking" with people prodding, "Come on, Brock! You just have to feel the music and the beat to fully appreciate this!"

No. No I don't.

Somewhere I think the Raging Royal, Meredith Millville, and the Hairy Trojan are shaking their heads at my refusal to rhumba.