Tuesday, April 6, 2010


I am a ticking timebomb of the boogie.

I have yet to master the art of meditation. I'm not a religious person. I'm done drowning my sorrows. I'm done with my sorrows. Sometimes when I'm finding it difficult to keep track of my marbles, I dance around like an idiot, and I feel better. It grounds me somehow.

I suffer from an attention deficit disorder. I have been diagnosed by professionals. Because of a previous chemical dependency, I have opted to forego treatment. Dancing is the great equalizer when it comes to the attention span, as there are so many dances. If a person has a limited attention span, it stands to reason that he or she could slay on the dance floor, at least from the party starting perspective. For instance, if someone is a Cha-Cha purist, it may be a little intimidating to someone who is a Cha-Cha novice. No matter how good or even charismatic Pope Cha-Cha is, odds are good that his bag is not going to be as inviting as an incorperation of say, the Cha-Cha, Mashed Potatoes, Peppermint Twist, Monkey Pox, Monkey Time, Monkey, Funky Broadway, Humpty Dance, Harlem Shuffle, Locomotion, Pogo, Shag, Walk, Swim, Fish and Curl; performed by some shiny lady who never had a lesson.

Dude. THERE ARE SO MANY DANCES. Ever see Bring It On?

Then there's the music. Man, if a beat grabs, get ready. You gotta move. Am I wrong? My hips, my ass, my shoulder, my legs--don't even listen to the words. It's the rhythm that makes 'em go. Which in this context, is pretty ironic. According to stereotypes: We whites ain't got no rhythm.

Allow me to digress, as I need to paint a complete picture of my woe.

Has this ever happened to you, oh dancing fool? I don't know, nor do I care, where you are, or in what company (although it's easy enough to narrow down) when, you know, nothing's happening. It's like, you could take it or you could leave it. Bop. But then, this song comes on and it's really good and you start feeling it. It starts for me with a head or a shoulder (from in a groove to in a trance--who can be sure?) So you're dancing and you're happy. You're like, "This is great!" and you're about to inquire: Who is this?

Then, you realize who it is. And, like a deer in headlights, you are at a loss for where to go.

It's Screwdriver.

I know I can't be the only person that this has happened to. I mean, dammit. Come the fuck on. I do not support their political views; as they are not my own. But as a musical unit, they are so good. There. I said it. Screwdriver is amazing, and if they weren't white power they'd be as big as Guns 'N Roses. It sucks!!! (By the way, I usually don't even use exclaimation points. I feel as though they are the writing equivalent of the high-five, of which I am not a fan, and I just used three. Mister: this is heavy.) OK. I gather my bearings and, as if guided by a tiny angel on my shoulder, I figure: So be it. I won't dance to this. I'm going to let my brain overrule my other body parts. So. Be. It.

But the song is long enough to still be going strong when the little devil on my opposing shoulder makes a valid point: What if it's Screwdriver covering Black Sabbath? I mean, I love me some Sabbath, but I can't really dance to it. When Screwdriver covers it, however, I can really shake 'em down. Sabbath isn't racist. So I can dance to that one cover, right? No. I'm supposed to boycott the band straight across the board or more appropriately: the bored. Should I play the Well-I'm-Irish-Catholic-and-bla-bla-British-...my-great-grandfather's-deathbed-bla-bla-...and-numb-nuts-fuck-with-the-I.R.A.-and-he's-a-dead-man-so-...bla-bla-...guess-we're-even-bl-...wanna-dance-..bla-bla-driver-card? No? Outa gas.

Anyone who's going to be able to say, with conviction, that Screwdriver isn't good is probably also going to be able to say, with the same conviction, that Neil Young is. I fucking hate Neil Young. Oh Screwdriver, this time you put a wrench in my plan to make dancing my Calgon.

After much thought and moral contemplation, I have come to a decision.

This is what I have to do: I must dance to the Screwdriver. But if anyone mistakes my antics for an invitation to spew some wordy commentary of any subject; be it racial issues, politics, social responsibility or even Screwdriver itself while I am dancing around to the Screwdriver, I will be forced to declare:


I never meant to offend anyone. I just like to dance is all.